Against her better judgment, she sat back down. He placed the cat in her lap and it began to purr, settling there.
“Macak.” She tested out the name.
The cat butted his head into her hand.
“He likes you,” Garrett observed.
She relaxed a little, calmed by his pleasant tone, but when she met his brown eyes, the feverish gleam still lit them. She stared at the cat and stroked him, listening while they drank and talked of other things. When they finally broke up to go to sleep, Garrett insisted, to Heldie’s obvious irritation and Ash’s apparent displeasure, that “the rat” sleep in the kitchen with them. They shoved the table over against one wall and laid out sleeping rolls. Heldie found an extra blanket and tossed it down for Maeko. She stretched out under it with much misgiving.
It wasn’t that she didn’t relish the lingering warmth from the ovens and the chance to sleep under a relatively clean blanket, but when things were going this well, chances were they were going too well. Macak, less concerned, licked her on the nose once, then pushed in next to her and purred himself to sleep. Outside the door, she heard Barman and Heldie speaking in hushed voices.
“We should contact the Lits,” Heldie insisted.
“Why, so they can take the girl and turn her into another brainwashed minion? Let her stay the night. We’ll send her off first thing tomorrow with a full stomach.”
Even stuffed as she was, her mouth watered at the suggestion of another meal. One night here wouldn’t hurt anything so long as she stayed awake.
Garrett lay on the nearest bedroll. She didn’t think he had time to fall asleep yet.
“Captain Garrett,” she whispered, hoping Ash, laying on his opposite side, wouldn’t hear.
Confirming her suspicions, he rolled over to face her. “Yes?”
“Do you have a daughter?”
“Two boys.” He smiled then. “You’re not implying that there’s a young lady under all that grime, are you?” His eyes drifted to Macak and the smile faded. “Go to sleep, Rat.” He turned over again, putting his back to her.
With a full meal weighing her down and the cat’s warmth pressed against her, unwanted sleep overwhelmed her.
Rough hands grabbed her sometime in the night, jarring her awake. The last thing she saw before a black bag came down over her head was that the musicians, their sleeping rolls, and the cat were gone.
Chapter Three
Cool night air nipped at her skin through the holes in her trousers when her captors dragged her outside. The pungent stench of rotting waste from the dumped ashbin told her they were in the back alley. She struggled with the ferocity of a rabid dog, but superior strength and size worked in their favor. They twisted her arms around behind her and banded them with metal cuffs.
A worse fight went on inside her, a fierce battle against the welling despair that made her want to give up and let them take her. She’d been betrayed. How could she have been such a duffer? She let Captain Garrett lull her with his musician’s charm and false caring. Probably the moment she drifted off, he and his group had taken the cat and left, reporting her to the first Literati officers they saw. She’d seen others wrestled into submission by the Lits, and this was how they always did it. They threw a black bag over your head, then secured you with tight cuffs that cut into the skin and dragged you away.
She struggled, but she didn’t scream. No one would help, and years spent learning the value of silence weren’t abandoned so easily.
A back kick connected and a hoarse cry rang out behind her. One set of hands vanished. Before she could take advantage of the moment, something struck the side of her head and she staggered, reeling with the impact. Her knees hit down on the hard-packed dirt and her stomach turned, her recent meal making an abrupt evacuation into the bag.
“Get the bloody bag off!” The voice was familiar, tight with fresh pain and thick with loathing.
If that was Tagmet, then the other, who still gripped her arm with one hand while fussing with the tie on the bag, must be his younger partner.
She hung her head, trying to keep vomit away from her face while the young man loosened the bag and pulled it off, tossing it to one side. Her head continued spinning in the sudden rush of fresh air and she retched again, the last vestiges of a delicious meal discarded in the dirt. Something warm trickled down in front of her left ear.
“Hellfire! Did you have to hit her?”
The younger man took her chin and turned her face. He dabbed at her head with the corner of a dirty rag. It took a moment to recognize the tattered fabric as one sleeve of her shirt that had ripped the rest of the way off in the struggle. No great loss, it had only been hanging on by a few threads.
“Bloody rats!” Tagmet took hold of one of her arms in a viselike grip, hauling her to her feet. “Why are the quiet ones always so much blasted trouble?”
The younger man, a clean cut brunette who looked dapper in his sleek black Literati uniform, gave Tagmet a sour look and resumed dabbing away the blood.
Maeko twisted her wrists, trying to get blood flowing through the pinching cuffs. Her hands felt like they were in danger of exploding. The image of them puffing up like red balloons forced a hysterical giggle through her lips.
“Stop squirming!”
Tagmet shook her and the other man grabbed her shoulder to keep her from falling before the onslaught. She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes, the humor gone, leaving only looming despair in its wake.
The man turned her, moving her out of Tagmet’s hands, and began fiddling with the over-tight cuffs. “They shouldn’t allow you to handle kids. You’ve no compassion.”
The cuffs loosened a little. Was this the right time to try fighting again? She didn’t feel very steady on her feet.
“They’re just rats, Wells. They don’t respond to kindness.”
Tagmet grabbed her shoulders and turned her, shoving her toward the waiting Literati steamcoach. She dug in her heels. Unimpressed by her effort, he shoved her again with enough force to send her sprawling. She turned her face, her ear and cheek smacking down on the hard packed dirt. Garrett’s smile flashed through her mind with the burst of pain and her throat tightened, tears stinging her eyes.
How could she have been so gullible? He had taken Macak. He had taken her freedom.
If I ever see him again…
Two sets of hands grabbed her arms, lifting her from the ground. They shoved her into the back of the coach. Wells avoided her eyes when he locked the door, perhaps feeling guilt for the rough handling. She considered spitting on him for his cowardice, but thought better of it. No reason to invite additional abuse. She’d had more than enough of that for now.
The coach wheezed and rumbled to life. Street signs and familiar landmarks passed by beyond the barred windows and she turned her mind to the task of using them to determine their destination. It was too late to drop her off at an orphanage or reformatory tonight. It would be a holding cell for the night, probably at London Juvenile and Adult Holding Facility, otherwise known as JAHF.
Doing her best to get comfortable with her hands bound behind her, she curled up and closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of the steam engine at work. The heat of the boiler warmed her back and the coach rocked when it moved onto newer, better-maintained streets. Her lips moved, repeating the address etched inside the cat’s leg while she waited for the opportunity to escape. Sooner or later they would make a mistake. They always made mistakes.
The coach jerked to a stop and Tagmet came around to drag her out of the back. Her shin smacked the edge of the door as she struggled to keep up, a fresh blast of pain. With his crushing grip and her throbbing shin keeping her alert, she marched into the building. Wells followed close behind, muttering complaints about unnecessary force without once attempting to intervene. They took her to a white room with a table in the center and pushed her down into the chair behind it. Bright electric light made her head hurt more, so she squinted her eyes to filter it o
ut. How did the Lits afford that kind of newfangled technology when they complained rather publicly of a shortage of officers and insufficient funds for recruiting?
Shifty blighters.
Tagmet walked to a desk tucked to one side and grabbed a clipboard and pen. Against the opposite wall, a floor-to-ceiling shelf unit held bundles of tagged items. Personal belongings and perhaps some evidence waiting for transfer with the appropriate prisoner.
Wells sat down across from her. “What’s your name?”
His gentle pitying tone made her want to smack him. With her hands bound, she settled for glaring at him, clinging to the security of her silence.
“How old are you?”
She shifted her glare to Tagmet, giving him his share of her hatred.
Tagmet wrinkled his crooked nose and scratched something out on the tablet. He cleared his throat and read what he had written aloud. “Cell C1. Female street rat of Asian or part Asian descent. About 15 or 16.” He jotted a quick note. “Maybe 17.”
She continued to glare, doing her best to hide surprise at the accuracy of his assessment.
Wells gave his partner an incredulous look. “She’s not more than 13.”
Tagmet responded with a rude snort. “She’s older than she looks.” He resumed reading. “Long black hair. Dark eyes. Pale skin. About,” he gave her a long scrutinizing look, “5 foot. Needs processing and transfer.” He threw the clipboard and pen back on the desk. The pen rolled across the top and off, bouncing from the chair to settle on the floor under the desk. Tagmet sneered at it and left it there. “Come on. Let’s lock her up and get out of here.”
Wells retrieved the pen and put it back on the desk then urged her to her feet with a light touch. Tagmet grabbed an odd shaped key from a hook on the wall. He led the way through another door into a corridor full of iron barred cells and the stench of sweat and urine. After removing her cuffs, Tagmet pushed her into the first cell, locked the door, and left.
Wells hesitated in the doorway until she glared at him. With a resigned shake of his head, the young officer in his fitted black uniform, a pistol and club hanging from his belt, turned and left. She doubted he had the nerve to draw either weapon.
After the door shut behind them, she stood inside the bars and looked around. The few occupied cells held adult prisoners. Anyone under the age of eighteen was transferred as soon as possible to an orphanage for assessment, which took about a week. From there, most kids five years and older went to one of the Literati workhouses or reform schools for re-education. That meant placement in training for a trade based upon your social status and skills, something that didn’t bode well for the illegitimate child of a toffer skilled at picking locks and pockets.
She glanced at the lock mechanism on the door. A unique style of lock that required a special key, manufactured by none other than Clockwork Enterprises, specifically made to thwart prisoners with her skills.
The other prisoners slept or pretended to sleep, all except for the hatchet-faced man in the cell next to her. He lay on his back with his head turned to the side staring at her, pale eyes unmoving under a rough stubble of light blond hair. His hardship-worn face bore numerous scars, a theme that continued down his chest where his tattered shirt hung open. He lay still as death for several seconds, then a slow grin curved his thin lips. A gap showed in his upper teeth where several were missing.
She had seen a leering grin like that more than once in her time on the streets, a clear warning not to go anywhere alone with this bloke.
Feel fear. Don’t show it. Another essential rule for surviving on the streets.
Doing her best to ignore his disquieting stare, she sat on the camp bed and proceeded to pick at a hole in her trousers. She had almost managed to put the man out of her mind when he got up and walked to the bars separating their cells. He stood there and continued to stare. She resisted the urge to slide over to the far corner of the camp bed to maximize the distance.
He grinned again. “Yer a right slip of a bird.” He had a soft, gritty voice, perhaps because of the long scar running across his neck just under his jaw.
She narrowed her eyes at him.
He squatted down and beckoned her with one hand. If he thought making himself shorter made him any less terrifying, he must not have looked in a mirror lately, if ever. With the bars separating them, however, it might be safe to indulge him, just to find out what he had in mind. She stood and approached, stopping inches out of his reach.
“Turn to the side.” He made a rotating motion with his crooked index finger.
With a wary eye on him, she turned and his smile spread showing another missing tooth farther back on the top left.
“Come here.” He beckoned with the crooked finger this time, his rasping voice dropping to a whisper.
She shook her head.
“You wanna get out?”
She nodded.
He beckoned again and she took a few reluctant steps closer. One filth-stained hand reached through the bars, calloused fingers touching her arm. His pale eyes picked up an excited gleam. She fought the urge to jerk away, hoping compliance would encourage him to disclose his escape plan. It worked.
“The waifs they bring in here is always so terrified. They cower in the corner like kicked puppies.” Staring into his face, she could believe he knew exactly what a kicked puppy looked like. “Not you, though, little bird,” he crooned. “I can see you’re brave. A fighter like me.” His tone made her tremble, but she stood her ground. “I think you can squeeze between them bars and get the key from the next room.”
She turned, moving her arm away from his hand, and considered the space between the front bars. He was probably right. It would be a tight fit, but not impossible. Then there would be the door. She looked beyond the bars at the next barrier and he chuckled.
“Good. Yer thinking it through. The big bludger down the way kicked that door open when they brought him in. The lock’s busted. You get the key and let me out. I’ll handle the rest.”
Seeing the excitement in his eyes, she knew she couldn’t trust him. She couldn’t trust the Literati either. If he could get her out of the building, then all she had to do was get away from one man. That didn’t seem so hard.
She walked to the front bars, then cocked her head toward the door and listened.
Trust your ears to find what your eyes might miss.
Who had told her that? A plethora of pickpockets and other wily survivors she’d met since taking to the streets skittered through her mind. The Literati had captured so many of them over the years, but their advice remained. They’d all taught her something useful about surviving in the streets. She was just better at it than they were.
Satisfied by what she hadn’t heard, she turned sideways and slipped one leg and arm between the bars. Then she tucked her face through. The bars caught on her ears so she shoved hard, bracing her outside palm against a bar for extra force. The ear that had hit the dirt when Tagmet pushed her earlier felt tender, stinging as she pushed it through, but it worked. Now for the rest of her.
How awkward would it be to become stuck half through like this? She almost giggled at the image, but the reality of the situation sobered her.
Behind her, the hatchet-faced man began to breathe faster, excited. She did her best to ignore him, pushing air out of her lungs and pressing into the narrow space. It wasn’t as hard as she expected. Some pressure on her ribs, not even enough to be painful, and then she was through. Turning to face the empty cell, she grinned at her achievement, until she noticed Hatchet-face again. Sweat beaded on his scarred brow, the eager gleam in his eyes and his gap-toothed grin giving him a maniacal look.
Turning away, she went to the door and tried it. It wasn’t locked. She nudged it open just a crack. The room stood empty and the one odd key hung by the door on its hook. She reached up, grabbing the key. Ducking back into the cellblock, she stood and considered him. Did she need him? She was out now. Couldn’t she just run?
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br /> “The next door’s locked from outside and there’s a guard beyond that,” he said, interpreting her look. “You won’t get past that guard without me.”
The door lock she could pick. The guard was a different problem.
“He’ll kill you, when he’s done toying with you.”
She glanced at the shadowed figure lying back on the camp bed in the cell beyond Hatchet-face. The figure there didn’t move and didn’t speak again. Hatchet-face ignored him.
She hesitated. “Why are you in here?”
Hatchet-face lowered his voice, likely to keep someone else from calling his bluff. “Burglary. Same as you I bet.”
He was right, though she couldn’t believe that was all he’d done. “Breaking out will give you a longer sentence.”
“I’ve a job to finish. We’re wastin’ time.”
Swallowing dread, she walked to the cell that had been hers and unlocked it. Then she went to the next cell. Hatchet-face hovered by the door, hands reaching as if he wanted to grab the key from her and trembling with the effort of restraint. He didn’t want to frighten her too much, not yet.
“Hurry, before someone notices,” he whispered.
She put the key in and turned it. The lock clicked free. Hatchet-face surged out. He crouched and grabbed her arms, his face close enough that she gagged on his sour breath.
“In the next room, I’ll hide by the door and knock. You stand in the middle so the guard sees you. Understand, little bird?”
She nodded. She would do anything if it would get his hands off her. He released her and led the way back into the room. She hung the key up, then let him position her on the opposite side of the desk in full view of the next door. He crouched alongside the door and gave it a light rap.
A man’s voice came from the hallway beyond. “What the hell?”
Moments later, a view panel set high in the door slid open and the man looked into the room. His small blue eyes, framed within the little rectangle, settled on her.
“How did…” He shook his head and the panel closed. She heard the sound of a key turning in the lock and the door swung in. He strode into the room, not worried about handling one girl. “How the hell did you get out?”
The Girl and the Clockwork Cat (Entangled Teen) Page 3