Page 103 of Bittersweet & Strange

Lucien steps outside.

Boone goes rigid beside me. He’s afraid of him.

I put one hand over his before he can move. His fingers tremble under my palm as Lucien descends the steps and says something to one of the men stationed outside. I can’t hear the words from this distance. The guard nods, then follows him down the street, leaving only one man at the entrance.

Even better.

I watch Lucien until darkness swallows him between the buildings, then turn to Boone.

“We go in through the back, find your father and get him out without anyone realizing he’s gone.”

“And Lucien?”

I glance toward the street where he disappeared. Getting Boone’s father out is the reason we are here. Lucien is no longer necessary for that.

It changes nothing.

“We get your father first.”

Boone studies my face. “And then?”

I reach under my coat and rest my hand against the revolver holstered at my side, my eyes returning to the magistrate’s hall.

“Then I’ll deal with Lucien.”

38

Rhys

The bakery and the narrow alley beside it conceal us almost completely from the magistrate’s hall, its rear wall rising only a short distance away through the darkness. Whatever light reaches this side of the building comes from a single lantern hanging above the back entrance, and even that is weak enough for the surrounding buildings to swallow most of it before it reaches us.

Boone leads me through the narrow space between the bakery and the building beside it, moving carefully despite his obvious desire to run straight for the magistrate’s hall. I keep one hand against the middle of his back, close enough to stop him if necessary, and watch the windows above us for movement.

The rear door is exactly where Boone said it would be.

I test the handle.

Unlocked.

“That was easy,” Boone whispers.

“It’s a prison,” I say dismissively, easing the door open enough to look into the dark corridor beyond. “Getting in is always easy. The problems will come when we want to get out.”

Boone swallows.

I enter first.

The corridor smells of damp stone, old wood and something unpleasant drifting up from below. Boone closes the door carefully behind us, then points toward a narrow staircase at the opposite end.

“There.”

I nod and start toward it, keeping Boone directly behind me. We make it halfway across the corridor when voices drift through an open doorway ahead, followed by the unmistakable scrape of a chair against the floor.

I stop so abruptly that Boone walks into me.

Two men.

Possibly three.