Page 40 of Break Out the Girl

Well, hello. That’s handy.

The house is quiet as a mouse, and lickety-split, we are in the main hallway which has the fancy stairs from my memory.

Ground floor, first floor, second floor.

Or third floor.

The corridor of doom opens up before us, looking exactly like it did when I was sixteen. An endless line of heavy oak doors with little brass numbers tacked onto them.

My number had been nine, but was attached improperly, so would swivel around and become a six every time the door got slammed shut. And the doors were always shut, and locked.

But not today. Today is opposite day. Open house day. Open door day.

And no one is shouting.

No one is crying. No shouting. No crying.

Huh.

“No kids here,” I whisper.

“No kids?” Kitten breathes, her eyes darting around the empty hallway as her sweet forehead wrinkles into a furious frown. “Where are they then?”

Before I tell her the truth, that I sadly don’t know where they are, a muffled, cross voice sounds from the end of the corridor.

It’s followed by a crash. Shane pushes me and Kitten into one of the empty rooms. “Stay here,” he hisses.

I don’t mind doing that, because honestly, my brain is having a hard time being here, and in fact, my whole body is having a hard time being here too.

The muffled voice starts up again, and this time it’s a little clearer.

“Let me out of this fucking cage, you piece-of-shit bastards! The second I get out, I'm going to find the nearest bottle and smash it and shove it right up your…”

Oof, the person throwing the wobbler is fuming, with a capital Fu.

And definitely not one of the bad guys.

We sprint down the hall and find the one locked door that the ranting is coming from.

“Kitten, your safety pin please.”

She nods, and takes out the pin that’s been holding up her jeggings.

The world record for most locks picked in one minute is fifteen. I only have one to do, and it takes nothing but three and a bit of those long rivers.

Sitting inside, on a bare mattress, is a boy who looks like he’s not even a teenager yet.

He’s got a mop of dark hair and a face covered in dirt and pure, unadulterated rage. He’s chained to the bedpost by a heavy iron cuff around his ankle, but he isn't crying. Not even a bit. He’s actively trying to use a loose piece of radiator pipe to smash the lock to pieces.

When his eyes hit Shane’s shivers, and my velvet horns, he doesn't flinch.

He just hoists the pipe like a bat, his chest heaving under a ripped linen shirt. “Who the fuck are you?” the kid spits in a high piping voice, his eyes flashing like a Belisha beacon.

“If you're here to drag me down to the docks, you better be ready to lose an eye, you dickheads.”

I’m about to put his mind at ease and explain we’re escaped convicts, but Kitten beats me to it. “We’re here to get you out and away to safety. London, pick the lock.”

The kid lets out a laugh that doesn’t sound very happy. “Sure, weirdos. Whatever you say, but I’m going to gouge the eyes out of the first person who touches me wrong.”