Declan crossed himself once, fast. “May the saints forgive us,” he said.
Scar stepped toward me. “You look like shit.”
I laughed, though it hurt. “You want to swap places?”
He pressed a dagger into my right hand. “You’ll need this.”
My palm closed around it, muscle memory locking in before my brain could think to drop it. It felt heavier than it should. My body remembered the weight; it always did.
Declan looped my arm over his shoulder, his breath hot and ragged in my ear. “We have to move,” he said.
We shuffled to the door, Scar gliding ahead, silent on the stone. My boots skidded and caught in the blood, and I nearly took us both down, but Declan was stronger than he looked.
The corridor out was blacker than my cell. The air tasted of mold, and every footstep sent echoes running up the walls. Somewhere above, men screamed—English, then Irish, then just the animal noise of men getting killed in the dark.
We turned a corner and nearly collided with a guard coming up the stairs. He had a pistol, half-cocked, but Scar was faster; the knife flashed, catching the guard under the jaw, blade punching through the roof of his mouth with a wet, popping sound. The blood misted Scar’s hand, but he didn’t flinch. He pulled the dead man down, set him easy, and took the pistol. Passed it to me.
We kept moving. Each step sent a new fire up my arm. I could feel the blood trickling under my shirt, warm at first, then cold. I tried to focus on my feet, but my mind kept slamming back to Catherine—her face when I first returned, how she’d looked at me with hope and terror. I wanted that again, even if it meant limping home like a half-dead dog.
“Keep left,” I managed, breathless.
Declan pointed to an iron gate at the end of the hall. “The cells. Your people are in there.”
Scar fetched the keys from one of the corpses, flicked blood off his fingers.
We limped down the hall. My boots left a trail, red and wet. Scar unlocked the gate, and we slipped inside. The cell block was a cold, dripping tomb. Three heavy doors, all locked. Declan went to the nearest and called out, “Moab?”
“About fucking time,” Moab said.
Declan worked the lock, cursing the whole time. Scar kept watch at the end, sword ready.
The door swung open. Moab stood inside, shirtless, face bruised but grinning. “We were just about to have a picnic,” he said, then saw me, and the grin died.
I thought he’d run to me, pick me up, bear-hug style. Instead, he just stared, and the look in his eyes was like seeing a dog shot on the road.
“Who did this to you?” he asked.
I tried to laugh. “Long story.”
He stepped forward and caught me before I could fall. “You still with us, Toolie?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But it’s getting harder to fake.”
He gave me a look, old and full of history, then set me back on my feet.
Scar unlocked the next cell. Scarlette was in there, sitting with her back to the wall, one knee pulled up, hands laced behind her head. She blinked at the light, then smiled when she saw Scar, then me.
“You look like shit,” she said. It was starting to be a theme.
“Nice to see you too,” I said, but the words came out as a croak.
She ran to Moab and jumped into his arms.
The last cell held Mama Celeste. She was sitting on the floor, eyes closed, lips moving in a silent chant. Her hair was a wild streak of silver and black, the braid coiled like a snake across her lap. She looked up, saw me, and smiled.
“Thank you for not dying,” she said, and stood, dignity intact despite the blood at her temple.
Two guards barreled in from the far door, muskets up. Moab charged before they could fire. He took the first one by the throat, lifted him, and smashed his head into the cell bars. The skull split with a crack like a green branch, bone and blood spraying. The other guard dropped the musket, drew a knife, and tried to stab Moab in the gut.