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Del blinked. Her nostrils flared, and she pursed her lips. “Go,” she whispered. “Get our son back.”
With a brusque nod, I let go of her hand, and together, Callon and I darted toward the only headstones exposed in the cemetery—a tall pillar and a life-size, crumbling angel.
That close, we could see the wagons more clearly. They were rudimentary, which I’d hoped for, and the metal cages on top of them were rusted in places from being out in the elements. Old and rusted meant there would be weak areas should we have to break into them.
With no movement, save for the people in the cages, Callon and I locked eyes, a silent plan forming. On three, we would separate. He would look for devices on the other wagons, and I would get to our people. With a nod toward the captives, Callon and I crouched down and ran for them.
I pressed my finger to my lips as I drew closer to Zion’s and Hills’s gaping, relieved faces, hoping the Ferals would stay quiet. I’d seen evidence they could be clever and organized, but I couldn’t be certain it wasn’t a secluded incident, that we hadn’t gotten very, very lucky before.
“Fin,” Hills whispered. Her face was smudged with dust, but she looked okay, and Liam stirred in her arms, his dirty, sock-covered feet curled under him. When his eyes opened, his lethargy from the lingering gas effects seemed to vanish, and he straightened. The green depths of his eyes welled with tears, and though I wanted nothing more than to go to him, I pressed my finger to my lips again, willing him to be strong and to remain quiet.
Liam’s chin trembled, but he nodded and let Hills pull him back into her arms.
I met Farris and Saira’s cloudy but relieved gazes, nodding a promise that I would get them out as soon as I could. Farris’s eyes leveled on me, and he nodded toward the perimeter where I knew the slaver guards paced, as if he was promising he’d keep an eye out for them. I nodded in thanks.
“Fin.” Lyra hissed my name as she sat up, blinking her eyes to focus. Like Hills and Liam, she looked sweaty and tousled, likely from being dragged or falling from the gas, but she was not beaten or harmed in any other way I could see. “The device,” she started, her voice hoarse as she beckoned me closer.
She nodded to the driver’s bench of the other wagon, caging Saira and Farris. “It’s under the seat,” she whispered. Her lips were chapped, and I could tell the gas and sun were taking their toll.
“There’s only one?” I asked.
“That we saw.”
I nodded and took a step toward the other wagon.
“Fin.”
My eyes snapped to Lyra.
“There’s about thirty of them now,” she warned, swallowing thickly. “They’re eating in there.” She glanced at the crumbling church. “But they’ll be out soon. They said they had to be at Charlotte Lake before nightfall.”
Flashing her a look of grateful understanding, I hurried to the front of the second wagon. The horses craned their necks to look at me, and what I wouldn’t have given to have been able to communicate with them right then. To tell them to flee with our friends.
I could hear the distant rumble of slaver voices inside the church but pushed the distraction away as I bent to look under the driver’s seat, finding a small wooden box. My pulse leapt as I pulled it out, praying the contraption was inside and that I was not going to fuck this up.
Lifting the lid, I stared at an electronic gadget from another era, and before I could consider anything else, I pulled the folded mylar blanket out from under my shirt. The thin, silvery fabric rustled as I slowly, carefully unfolded it, but when Farris forced a cough so loudly the Ferals stirred, I knew we were out of time.
34
Del
“Hurry up, Fin,” I muttered, crouching with Ada behind the ruins of the mausoleum. “Hurry . . . ”
Fin paused beside the wagon containing Liam, Hills, Lyra, and Zion to exchange hushed words with our people. Beyond the cluster of cages on wheels, Callon searched the supply crates stacked along the pitted stone wall of what had once been an old-world church but now appeared to be some sort of outpost for a collective of slavers.
Fin snuck along the side of the wagon and crossed to the other, the cage containing Saira and Farris, but he didn’t pause to speak with them at all. He headed straight to the front of the wagon and searched under the driving bench.
“Del!” Ada hissed, gripping my forearm. “Look!” She pointed toward the line of horses at the far side of the churchyard clearing, beyond the cluster of wagon cages, our stolen mounts among them.
Alarm widened my eyes. One of the slavers who had been standing guard around the perimeter of the wagons was approaching Fin’s location. The guy was big all over, with arms like tree trunks, and he carried a shotgun, a strap loaded with extra shells draped over his shoulder and strung across his body.
I quickly scanned the area for the other two guards. They still meandered along the outskirts of the churchyard, their attention focused outward on the woods and hillside. But the third guard was closing in on Fin. He had reached the back end of the neighboring wagon—one filled with at least a dozen unexpectedly quiet Ferals.
Panic rising, I glanced at Fin. A moment later, he pulled out the mylar blanket and carefully started to unfold the crinkly fabric. Hemusthave found the device, but he was moving too slowly. The guard was going to find Fin before he could finish his task and escape.
My heart lurched, already preparing to grieve another person. The formidable guard was going to find Fin and capture him, too. Or worse, kill him.
Fin must have heard the slaver’s approaching footsteps because he froze, the mylar blanket partially unfolded.
