François lets go, his eyes narrowing at Aurora. “This is the man you insisted would be of assistance,ma petite? Perhaps it would be better if he were left in his confinement.”
“London is with us,” Aurora says firmly, though she looks a bit dizzy. “I want him on the team.”
“Aww, Kitten.”
“Then let us conclude this farce,” François scoffs, already turning toward the exit. “We have a schedule to keep.”
Yeah, one problem at a time.
The most pressing of which is getting the fuck out of here.
London waves at me. “Hello, Burly Bert. Did you know your backpack is a boy?”
Fucking idiot.
We move back toward the main corridor. I’m breathing hard now, the exertion of carrying Imran and the remnants of François’s toxin in my blood making my vision swim. Imran’s head is lolling on my shoulder, his breathing coming in shallow, terrifying hitches.
But nothing stops us.
We’re getting close to the wards now. Their magic tang brings bile to my throat.
"Stop," François hisses, raising a hand.
Rory nearly walks into my back, her breath hitching. London is humming something that sounds like a funeral march.
A red light begins to pulse from the ceiling panels—not the siren, but a silent alarm. Then I hear the distant, heavythud-thud-thudof a Rapid Response Team hitting the floor above us.
“They know,” I growl, pulling my shiv and backing into the wall, shielding Imran with my own body. “We’re going to get fucking trapped down here.”
39. AURORA
Thud, thud, thud.
Footsteps sound close.
We’re nearly at the exit, but so are they. The rapid response team, whatever that means. I can hear the rhythmic tread of tactical boots on the floor above and the crackle of their radios.
London is crouched beside me, balanced on the balls of his bare feet like a gargoyle.
His head is constantly cocking to the side, nostrils flaring as if he can “taste” the air.
Beside us, Tally has his back bowed under the weight of Imran. The boy is a skeletal ghost, his breathing a wet, terrifying rattle that seems loud enough to bring the ceiling down on us. François and Tally are both frozen, eyes locked as they calculate our next move.
I feel completely fucking useless, and reliant on the men around me.
Tally raises a hand as the footsteps above retreat. “They’re moving to a different section. We need to move.”
“What kind of move?” London asks, suddenly springing to his full height with fluid grace. “A chess move? A dance move? Please say it’s a dance move.”
He leans in close to my face, his green eyes swirling like whirlpools. “Can I have the honor of this dance, Kitten?”
“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” Tally hisses, as at the same time François snaps, “Quiet!”
I think about what Peek told us. “The infirmary annex.”
But as we reach a gate at the end of the corridor, the key card we took will no longer register. A red light blinks a stubborn, electronicno.
“System’s on lockdown,” Tally announces, his frustration radiating off him in hot waves. “Can you do anything, de Vaux?”
