Page 139 of Hunted By Fae

“Trap?”

“If these humans are coming and we are sparse with time, I mean to make it as swift as possible.”

Dare throws an uneasy look into the darkness of the town. Then without a word, he pushes into step for the general at the peak of the camp.

Dare must move quick.

Despite their agreement and Fate’s lure, Samick is the last of his friends he trusts with the kinta.

THIRTY

TESNI

It’s a fucking maze of pipes, flooded with water up to my waist, and winter finds us down here.

My teeth are clenched too tight against the chill.

My bones quake beneath jolting muscles. The trembles aren’t a constant shudder, but rather a sudden violent force that strikes through me, head to toe.

For too long, we trudge through the tunnels with Bee’s nightlights leading us down our watery path.

Rats pass us on the way, skirting over the ledge-lined walls, or just swimming around us, and in the dusky gleam of nightlights, I find it hard to make out any changes in them, like with the cactus.

That shouldn’t be a thought on my mind, not right now, while we’re creating distance between ourselves and the fae warrior I shot under ice. I should only be thinking about other ways to get ahead, to hide our tracks and mask our scents.

But my mind is fractured—as it has been since the start of all this, a broken vase that has been poorly glued back together, cracks and lines splintering all over.

It’s hard to stay focused.

Doesn’t help that I’m on the fucking verge of hypothermia. The constant chattering of teeth is getting on my last damn nerve.

This watery trek is going kill me, kill us all, and I wonder if Bee is thinking the same—because not a moment after the thought takes root in my mind, she stops at a ladder.

The glow of her nightlights washes over the rusted metal bars. She lifts her arm above her head, and I can trace the crimson gleam up to a heavy metal slab.

A manhole cover.

The exhale that ribbons from me is quick to echo down the chamber. “Thank fuck for that.” I pull the rifle strap over my head. It crosses the chest of my parka. “I’ll go first. Keep the light on me.”

The gloves protect me from the ice burns, the ladder is so frosty, but I take extra care to grip firm before pulling myself up.

The light follows me to the cover—and below, Emily splashes through the water with a shout.

I throw a startled look down at her.

Her arms are raised overhead as she holds the shotgun out of the reach of the water, but she’s staggering in a frantic turn—trying to put distance between herself and the rat swimming by her waist.

A soft breath slumps me, and I turn back to the manhole before she can see the face I make at her expense.

People and rats, honestly, the way they react to rats digs into the core of my anger. Rats are darling, intelligent, cute, they areclean—I mean, they fucking laugh. They actually laugh, little pitched squeaks.

I had a rat once when I was young. Stole it from the kitchen pantry and my mum let me keep it.

The downside is they don’t live long.

“See if you can move it,” Bee whispers up at me, and it steals me back to now, latched onto the ladder, a manhole cover above my head.

Hooking a leg around a ladder rod, then my left arm around another, I anchor myself in place before I push upwards, my forearm pressing against the metal lid—and the strain tugs through me with a guttural groan.