Hatchet-face rose behind him, a lethal shadow. Before the guard could utter a sound, the gap-toothed prisoner wrapped an arm around his neck and squeezed. Backing up against the far wall, she watched in horror while the guard struggled. Hatchet-face held on and the guard’s face slowly turned purple, his struggles weakening as the color deepened. She looked away and bit her lip to keep from crying out when his body slumped to the floor like a marionette with cut strings.
She’d seen death, usually from illness or exposure. You couldn’t miss it living on the streets, but watching someone die like this was different. It had a horrifying intimacy about it that made her feel ill.
Hatchet-face held a hand out to her and she hesitated. This man was far more dangerous than she first realized. This, however, wasn’t the place to try to fight her way free of him. Drawing the attention of more guards would only get her dumped back in the cell.
A snake of terror coiled in her throat, tightening so it was hard to breathe. She walked around the table, stepped gingerly over the guard’s body, and placed her hand in his. Grinning, he closed his fingers, his large hand making hers look small and frail.
“Good bird.” He mussed her hair with the other hand the way Captain Garrett, another bloke she’d misjudged, had. Then he grabbed the club from the guard’s belt and pushed the door open.
London JAHF wasn’t well staffed at this time of night. The hall beyond the door held only silence. She chewed at her lip, fighting the urge to run from him regardless of the consequences, and hoped it would stay quiet long enough for them to get out. Hatchet-face was dangerous, he killed like he’d done it a thousand times before, but if he got her out of here, she could cope beyond that.
The slack look of the guard when he’d fallen haunted her as Hatchet-face moved them forward, his stance low, his steps uncannily quiet. The dead man’s image hovered in the back of her mind like a ghost. She glanced over her shoulder. No one followed them, at least not that she could see, but she didn’t suppose she would see a ghost. Or would she? Would the officer haunt her if he became a ghost or would he know that her vile companion alone made the decision to kill him?
She tripped over Hatchet-face’s foot, surprised to find he had stopped moving. His hand tightened on hers as he yanked it back and up to keeping her from falling into the crossing hallway. This time, when she bit her lip to keep from crying out with the pain, she tasted blood. He scowled at her and she noticed with a remote amusement that the set of scars on his forehead resembled the shape of a duck when he furrowed his brow. She bit her lip harder to counter the hysterical giggle that bubbled up into her throat and his eyes narrowed as if he could see it trying to escape.
This is serious.
Looking into those pale eyes, she remembered how serious it was. Not only did they have to get out of this place, but the cold and calculating look in his eyes brought to mind the next problem she faced. His was the confident, fierce look of a man who could easily kill another full-grown man his size with his bare hands. A girl her size wasn’t much of a threat to him. She would never overpower him. That meant she had to be on her toes. The first opportunity for escape could be her last if she let it slip away.
Burglary indeed.
With a sober nod, she turned away his anger. The glimmer of cold cruelty that crept to the surface in its place sent a shudder of fear through her. She managed to hold his gaze and he faced forward again.
In front of them, a hallway crossed the one they had come down, which continued on the other side in a mirror image of the hall behind them. She could only hope her unsavory companion knew which way to go. They all looked the same to her.
Hatchet-face remained still and silent, barely breathing. She mimicked him, waiting and listening while he did. She didn’t hear anything. He leaned forward, slow and cautious, peering out into the crossing hallway. She mirrored the movement, learning what little she could from him.
His hand squeezed hers, more of a reflexive twitch than something meant to convey meaning. He led her on, pulling her into the hallway and down it on the left.
Every closed door they moved past presented a possible threat. The hall itself, dimly lit with occasional wall sconces, provided them with a few shadows to lurk in. Not that it would truly hide them if anyone came, but she found the darkest places between lights comforting.
Stay quiet, lurk in shadows and don’t draw attention. That was how you survived the nighttime streets and avoided the Literati. And don’t trust anyone.
How could she have forgotten that lesson with Garrett? Although she still remembered that key bit of information that might work in her favor. She remembered the address engraved inside the cat’s clockwork armor. If she went there, she could tell Mr. Folesworth who had taken his cat. Perhaps he would be grateful for the news, grateful enough to reward her and maybe, just maybe, he would let her visit the cat when he got him back. Then Captain Garrett would learn not to mess with her. But that was all irrelevant until she got out of this.
A set of double doors closed off the hallway ahead of them. Hatchet-face stopped, putting his ear to the crack between the doors. He rested one palm on the door as if he might feel the presence of someone beyond as he would hear them. She watched with keen interest. For all that he terrified her, he had notable skills in the art of stealth that were worth studying for the brief time she planned to be in his company.
He pulled her close and she forced herself to meet his frigid eyes. With a jerk of his head, he gestured to the doors and nodded, letting go of her hand. The separation was like a storm cloud lifting.
Did he want her to go through?
She lifted one finger and pointed at the doors, raising her eyebrows in question.
He nodded.
Her mouth tasted like chalk and the sound of someone moving beyond the doors made a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck. What was she supposed to do? She couldn’t overpower a guard.
He nodded again and she gave a tiny nod in response.
When she pressed a hand to the door, he coiled back into the shadows and nodded once more, smiling what she suspected was supposed to be encouragement. On his face, the expression mostly made her want to run screaming.
Taking a deep breath, she bit the inside of her lip hard enough to bring tears and the coppery taste of more blood then pushed the door open. The heavyset man in the room, sitting facing the outer door, turned and stood, his dark eyes popping wide, the whites showing like a startled horse. He reached for the club at his belt and she stumbled forward, swaying while tears ran down her cheeks.
The man hesitated a second before taking his hand away from the club and stepping forward to catch her.
“Blast it! How did you get in here? What happened to you? Are you supposed to be out here?”
She leaned into him, making him shift his weight and turn away from the door in order to keep her upright. The man’s hands held on to her, soft and gentle, not like most officers. They felt like comfort, like the touch of a loving home with soft blankets and warm food. Then a wet crunching sound broke the brief spell of his touch and his hands tightened in spasm before releasing her. Something warm and wet spattered her face and she cringed away from it, glancing up at Hatchet-face, his pale countenance and the club in his hand also painted in spatters of red. The man slumped to the ground at his feet, his mouth hanging open in a posthumous mask of surprise.
For an instant, she couldn’t breathe. The face staring up at her changed, becoming her face, her dead eyes, staring into an eternity of emptiness.
Then the face became that of the heavy man with the gentle hands again and she wanted to scream at Hatchet-face for what he had done. Her eyes tracked to the Literati badge on the man’s coat front. No, this man wasn’t trustworthy. This man wasn’t safety or comfort. He was death, a slow death that would strip her of everything she was.
But did he deserve to die for that?
She swallowed hard and looked up at Hatchet-face. The deliberate, ca
lculating smile he gave her before he turned away made her shudder again.
He moved to the next set of doors and she felt the cool of night air seeping under them. This was it, the way out! Excitement charged her, readying her to run. Then he held a hand back to her and she recoiled, retreating from it. When her hand didn’t enter his, he looked back at her, the peculiar duck shape reforming on his forehead as he frowned. The hand jabbed out with more force, demanding her acceptance this time. He stood between her and her goal, a lethal threat she couldn’t hope to escape in this place.
Don’t make him angry.
She held out her hand, forcing it forward, though every fiber of her being warned her away. The leering smile returned when his sinewy hand closed around hers with the ominous finality of Literati shackles.
Maeko met his eyes. I will escape you, she promised, letting him draw her after him as he turned and pushed the door open.
Chapter Four
The welcome smells of the night air—soot, coal dust, and manure—greeted them when they slipped out the front doors. They emerged at the top of a run of shallow steps rising up from the street that Maeko remembered from when the officers brought her in. At the foot of the steps, a Literati officer stood chatting with someone in a coach pulled by a set of white horses. The animals matched in everything from the set of their fine heads to the thin layer of soot on their coats that turned them a greasy pale gray.
No one noticed their exit in the darkness. The officer laughed at something.
Might this be the opportunity she needed? A quick shout to draw attention, then she could make a run for freedom and give the officer a chance to accost Hatchet-face. His recapture had to take priority over that of a common street rat. He hadn’t accumulated all those scars through a life of petty mischief.
But after years of training to avoid the Lits, when she opened her mouth to shout at the officer the sound stuck in her throat. What would come from getting the help of a Lit? At best, her recapture. At worst, his death. Her hesitation gave Hatchet-face time to pull her far enough away that the officer wouldn’t have much hope of catching up.
Was that my one chance? Did I miss it?
Like it or not, she was on her own.
Hatchet-face turned a corner and yanked her along through the shadows with the speed and stealth of an accomplished predator, running down streets she knew well enough from years spent hiding out, lurking in the darkest corners and surviving, learning about the value of silence and dirty clothes in dark shadows. She did her best to keep track of the turns, but by the time he finally slowed, she stumbled along behind having long lost track of the streets and the details of the buildings. Despite all her time spent fleeing capture, his stamina put her to the test and his firm grip on her hand never loosened.
He pulled her into a narrow alley and stopped. She ran into him and sprang back, jerking to get her hand free. He held fast.
“I got you out. Go do your job.”
“We’re creatures of the street, you and I.” Hatchet-face grinned, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “We do what we got to do to survive and we need tin for that, right little bird?”
She stopped pulling. His idea of survival went to dark places she’d never considered. He was a cold murderer. She would never go there, no matter how desperate. She did need tin though. He was right about that.
His grin stretched wide. “I knew you were my kind.” He moved closer, still holding her hand, and lowered his voice. “This job, there’s a pile of tin in it. I owe you for helping me out of there. You watch my back on the job and I’ll give you thirty percent of the cut, plus full price for any goods you nick.”
The wild in his eyes spiked her adrenaline and his words made her wary. Wasn’t nicking goods the point of a job? Still, there might be opportunity here to make up for the failed clock shop job and stash something toward paying her mother’s debt. “What’s the job?”
“We need to break into a suite on the tenth floor of the Airship Tower.” He rattled off the address.
Time stopped. The address was the same as the one etched in Macak’s leg down to the flat number. Macak lived in the Airship Tower.
Macak is a moneyed cat.
How could that be? She needed to know more. Could he be after the cat? “Sounds brilliant. What are we after?”
“You watch my back and grab any valuables you can carry. I’ll take care of the family.”
It was hard to keep alarm from her voice. “Take care of them?”
“A wealthy toff hired me to drop them. Splendid payout when the job’s done.”
Drop them? Did he mean… Was he going to kill them? She saw the two officers he’d killed in her head and her gut squirmed. What had she done by letting this monster out? “You can’t keep killing people.”
His eyes narrowed, the grin fading. “What’s it matter? Ain’t like they’re family.”
She had to get away, but without upsetting him. “I can’t. I have to meet someone.”
He pulled, drawing her in. The rotting sour smell of his sweat wafted to her, making her gag. His arms were masses of ropey, scarred muscle, too much for her to escape on strength alone.
“That so? Here I thought we had a good thing going. Well, my employer tips his fine hat to you for your assistance.” He grinned, pleased with himself, and pulled her even closer. “I can’t let you go now. You know too much.”
She tried to dig her feet in, clawing at the fingers crushing her hand. “No. Let go.” It was almost a sob. She hated feeling weak and the look in his eyes said he didn’t intend to let her go anywhere alive.
No! This isn’t going to happen!
All men had a common weakness. Several weaknesses, in fact, but Chaff had taught her that one was more certain than most.
The dingy world narrowed down to the two of them. Her heart raced, panic threatening at the edge of a vital calm. She pretended a stagger, moving herself toward him and his hold relaxed a little. He trembled now, his breathing harsher than it had been when they first stopped running, a hideous smile curving his colorless lips, hungry for the kill. She swallowed the burn of bile rushing up into the back of her throat and, with all the power in her small body, rammed one boney knee into his groin.
The duck-shape of the intersecting scars on his forehead came out in sharp relief and his eyes bulged wide. He doubled over. She twisted away, breaking free. A blast of panic flared like lightning across her vision when his other hand clamped onto her upper arm. His fingers dug into the flesh, yanking her back and down as he curled around his pain. Tears sprang into her eyes.
Maeko spun, raking down his cheek with ragged fingernails. A swell of crimson rose in their wake. She kicked out at his groin again and he caught her leg with his other hand, jerking up so she fell onto the gritty dirt of the narrow street. She hit the ground with a small grunt and kicked out with her free leg, catching him in the nose as he bent over her. This time he let go, reeling back into the wall with a hoarse cry.
She didn’t dare waste the chance. If he caught her again, after what she had just done, he wasn’t going to be in the mood for a chinwag. She sprang to her feet, sprinted around the nearest corner, and down that street. All too fast, she heard the sound of heavy shoes slapping the wet street behind her as he gave chase. With little care for her destination, she darted around another corner. He was too close and gaining. She couldn’t escape him with speed alone. She needed to be clever.
Sprinting around another corner, her eyes homed in on an ashbin at the end of the alley. Memories of the stench and cockroaches from the last one twisted her face in a grimace as she pelted toward it. Various sized crates were stacked haphazardly near the ashbin and two doors opened into brick buildings on either side of a narrow street that intersected the alley on her right. This was it. This choice would decide her fate.
The pounding of her heart was so loud in her ears now that she could barely hear the slap of his feet on wet ground. She tried one door. Locked. The other off
ered no resistance to her cautious touch so she pushed it open a few inches then hurried back to the ashbin. Squeezing in behind the last one worked well enough, but it might be tempting fate to expect the same results again so soon. Instead, she lifted the lid, letting it slam closed. Then she crashed through the crates, scattering them before returning once more to the ashbin. She dropped to the ground next to it and pushed out her breath.
Forcing herself under was harder than squeezing between the bars at JAHF, but the buildup of grime beneath the bin provided some lubrication. Her feet still poked out the side when Hatchet-face charged into the alley. With a last desperate shove, digging worn toes of her shoes into the ground, she pushed herself the rest of the way under. She couldn’t suck back in the breath she had pushed out to get into the tight space and her head lay twisted to the side, making it impossible to track the movement of his heavy boots, the leather as scarred as his flesh. Winded from running, her lungs started to burn with lack of air. She closed her eyes, terror rising while she strained to breathe without wheezing.
“I know you’re here, gutter rat.”
His voice sounded strange, as though he had a bad cold. The kick to the face had done some damage. She might have felt good about that if panic weren’t welling up so strong around the edges of her thread-fine grip on rationality. The need to stay hidden started to fade before a rising fear that she would perish here, suffocated beneath an ashbin. Of the many ways she could imagine dying in this cruel city, this had to be one of the worst.
The lid opened and smashed closed, the jarring vibration piercing through her. She flinched. Something cold and moist touched her nose and her eyes snapped open. A large gray rat stared back at her, sniffing the tip of her nose. She stared into the small black beads of its eyes, focusing there.
“If you come out now, I won’t hurt you.” Hatchet-face kicked at the crates now, making enough racket in the alley that she dared to hope someone might come investigate. “I’ll find you! You know I’ll find you!”
The Girl and the Clockwork Cat (Entangled Teen) Page 4