Boom.
A long scraping noise fills the air. Like a giant metal fingernail sliding across the cobblestones.
The debris is shifting. There’s no way to tell how much longer it will take for the army to create a hole big enough to use, but we’re leaving soon. Hopefully it won’t matter.
Before I turn to tell Logan about the battering ram’s progress, I take one more look at Baalboden. My eyes seek out the street where I was raised, just a little north of Lower Market. Splintered beams and solitary brick chimneys stretch toward the sky, but there’s nothing else. No rooftops. No homes. Nothing but ashes and memories.
Boom. Scrape. Slide.
I wait for the loss of my father’s laughter to hurt me. For the memory of Oliver’s sticky buns and fairy tales to cut me to pieces, but I’m hollowed out inside.
Boom.
Turning away, I decide it’s better this way. Easier. I can walk away from this if I don’t let myself grieve for what I’m leaving behind.
The sense that something is wrong comes quietly. A tiny finger of fear skating over my skin. A whisper that I’ve missed something important. I stop chewing, strain to see deep into the fog-drenched ruins, and listen.
Silence.
The battering ram has fallen quiet.
I see flashes of red moving quickly through the foggy streets and swear.
The army is coming.
Racing up the steps, I slam the front door behind me. Pushing the metal bars into place, I lock the door and hope Carrington wastes plenty of time hunting through the rest of the city before they come so far north.
“Jeremiah, get out of there. The army is coming.” I smack my fist against the closed door of his office as I race past.
At the end of the hall, I nearly collide with Willow as she leaps from the tiny stairway that leads up to the watchtower.
“Carrington—”
“They’re coming straight for us,” Willow says. “Not even bothering to search anywhere else. It’s like your leader knew right where we’d be.”
My pulse pounds, and my skin feels too tight. “Let’s go.”
Logan is helping Elias and Sylph roll up the last of the canvas shelters. He takes one look at my face and leaps to his feet, already shouting for quiet.
I take a deep breath and try to sound calm. We need these people to move down to the basement and into the tunnel without hysteria or panic. “Carrington is through the gate.” I meet Logan’s eyes and try to convey with my expression that there’s more to the situation, but I needn’t have bothered.
Willow says, “They’re coming straight for the compound. Better get into that tunnel if you don’t feel like being skewered by a sword.”
Chaos erupts. People scream, shout, and scramble for the doorway, sometimes knocking each other down in the process. I glare at Willow. “Do you ever not say exactly what you’re thinking?”
She shrugs as Quinn, Logan, Drake, Frankie, Nola, and Ian hurry up to us. Logan starts spitting out orders the second he arrives.
“Ian, run ahead into the tunnel and tell Thom what’s going on. Make sure they’ve surfaced. If they haven’t, switch the angle of the machine and get it done. Nola, take Jodi, Sylph, and Smithson and get the injured into the medical wagon and then go.”
As they leave, he looks at Drake. “Get these people organized into two lines and move them down the stairs and into the tunnel. Make sure they understand that they must be absolutely quiet. I’ll be there in a minute with the device so we can keep the Cursed One at bay. Frankie, grab a few helpers, blindfold the animals, and lead them through.”
“What can I do to help?” Quinn asks.
“I need to know that we got everybody out. Can you check the compound and send any stragglers to the basement? You’ll have to move fast. Once the army reaches the compound, I want you in the tunnel.”
Quinn nods, and Willow immediately says, “I’ll go with him. It’ll be faster with two people searching.”
“Someone needs to know what’s happening outside the basement while you get our people far enough into the tunnel to safely detonate the explosives,” I say.
“I’m not leaving anyone outside the basement door. It would be a death sentence.” Logan glares at me.
“Just until Quinn and Willow get back. And I’m not asking permission. I’m telling you where I’ll be.”
He grabs me and pulls me against him. “The second you see them, get to the tunnel.” His kiss is rough and a little desperate. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. Now go.”
As soon as he’s down the stairs, I race into the main hall. Maybe I can move some furniture and block the door. Buy us more time. Maybe I can give us more information on the enemy.
Maybe the Commander will lead the charge, and I’ll get my chance to shoot him in the face.
I hurry into the room closest to the front door and glance out of the lone rectangle of glass beside me. The Carrington army is now pressed against the fence—a mass of red uniforms and sword hilts that flash beneath the sunlight in brilliant sparks of gold.
Four soldiers crank a chain on something that vaguely resembles an elongated catapult built to stand waist high on the average man. A thick log of metal, about the same diameter as a mature oak trunk, lies in the catapult’s cradle. The log inches back with every rotation of the chain, and beneath the log, a spring coils tightly. In seconds, the soldiers have the log pulled as far back as it can go. One of them yells, and the two closest to the spring pull a metal pin out of each side of the frame, releasing the tension. The log swings forward with terrible speed and slams into the solid iron fence surrounding the compound.
The fence bends, and the shriek of metal tearing asunder fills the air. Another two or three assaults with the battering ram, and that section of the fence will collapse.
The Commander is nowhere in sight.
Forget barricading the door or gaining information. Those soldiers will be inside the building in minutes.
I run down the length of the hallway until I come to the banquet hall. Only a handful of people remain. Willow is ushering them toward the basement stairs.
“Do we have everyone?” I ask.
“Quinn is doing one last check. I’ll find him before I go down.”
“Don’t take long,” I say as a tremendous thud shakes the walls.
The army is at the door. I draw my knife and back toward the basement stairs, keeping my eyes on the far end of the hall as the front door begins to splinter. The metal reinforcement rods bow inward as the battering ram slams into it again.
“Hurry!” I yell as I hear Quinn’s and Willow’s footsteps pounding toward me. Any second now, that door will give, and we need to be hidden inside the basement before that happens.
A door about halfway down the hall cracks open, and Jeremiah steps out. He clutches a sheaf of paper in his arthritic fingers.
He’s as good as dead.
“Run!” I scream as the main door flies off its hinges and careens down the hall.
Chapter Eleven
RACHEL
Jeremiah shuffles back, his eyes locked on the soldiers pouring through the entrance. I run toward him, holding my knife, blade out.
“Rachel!” someone yells behind me, but I don’t look back. I can’t.
Jeremiah presses his back to the wall and holds the papers against his chest like he can somehow protect them from the soldiers who race forward, swords drawn.