Page 2 of Break Out the Girl

“Bad kitty-cat.”

“We’re going back for Tally and François,” I tell him, trying to put as much Drakeward authority into my words as I can.

London cocks his head on one side. “That’s the opposite of keeping you safe, Kitten. And that’s my number one mission.”

I blow out a breath. I have the feeling London is not going to be easy to argue with. “Listen, Tally and François have been the ones keeping me safe in Quo. If you want me to be…secure…then I need them. If I have all three of you, then I’ll be safe.”

He swivels his head around, then focuses back on me. “Do you know what a Jack-in-the-box is?”

What? I blink then nod.

London’s expression is strangely solemn. “The tension grows as you crank the handle, round and round the mulberry bush, then…” He takes a deep breath. “Then… Pop! Goes the weasel. I feel a little like Jack at the minute, not going to lie.”

Pushing myself to my feet, I pat London on the shoulder—not surprised he’s so discombobulated—and look around. There are absolutely no clues to which direction the others could be in.

“Urgh. My innards feel like they’re going to explode out of my outtards,” London groans, suddenly bending double and holding his stomach. “Need some more of Shane’s shiveries.” He backs away from me, coming to a dead stop against a rotten tree stump as he starts tearing at his skin. “Itchy.”

The clouds must have a break, because suddenly the muddy clearing is bathed in moonlight. London looks awful, shaking and convulsing.

“Pop goes the weasel,” he groans. “Pop goes the weasel.”

What the fuck?

London’s skin is pulsating. His face looks different. His clothes are…

Evaporating.

I blink a million times. Am I concussed?

No.

I know.

He’s shifting.

He kneels on the floor looking up at me, his eyes filled with wonder. “Kitten,” he croaks.

I freeze.

Two small, velvety horns are peeking through the mass of warm chestnut hair that falls across his brow.

Below his now-naked torso, his skin gives way to a dense, coarse russet fur. His legs are bulging with muscle and…bent backwards?

And his feet are two sharp, cloven hooves that gleam like polished obsidian.

“Uh, London?”

He giggles, because of course he does, and gives a grin that is wide and delighted, showing white teeth that look just a little too sharp. “Kitten?”

“You’ve shifted?”

He leaps up with a fluid, unnatural grace, then holds a hand out to me. I grab it and he pulls me into his chest. He’s noticeably taller.

“Are you a satyr?” I ask, looking up at where his ears have elongated into points at the tip.

He pauses, giving one of his horns a stroke, then raising both eyebrows. “Satyr? I don’t think so. My inside voice claims I’m actually, one hundred percent faun.” Still holding me, he gives a playful skip, hooves click-clacking against a boulder.

I push against his furry chest and step backwards, out of his embrace. I need to think and this whole faun transformation is completely messing with my head. “Where is Tally, London? And François?”