Page 5 of Queen of Rebels (Shifters of Sherwood #3)

Sherwood County Jail hunches against the night sky, a two-story brick afterthought beside the newer sheriff's department.

From our position in the tree line, I can see why they built it here, forty-some years ago when the county was more forest than people. Far enough from town to keep trouble contained, close enough for deputies to make their shifts. The most excitement this place usually sees is drunk drivers and weekend brawlers.

Not shapeshifters. Not whatever Rob has become in the three days since they took him.

“It’s hardly Fort Knox,” Tuck whispers. I smirk, but LJ is too lost in thought to react at all. And we’re still waiting on Will.

“Regardless,” I whisper back. “We can’t take chances.”

Zayn came back. Gave us the rundown, which we all had to commit to memory, and we formulated a plan. Now we’re here, not able to waste any more time. The jail isn’t too far from the middle of the forest on foot, located outside of Nottingham proper and right at the fringes of the woods, and moving at night made it easy enough not to be seen.

Chain link fence surrounds the compound, rust spots blooming where water probably pools in the corners when it rains. I watch Tuck's pale eyes drift from the building to track the power lines overhead, following their arc toward the jail's sodium lights.

“There,” he says, tracing the line through the air and over to where a a transformer looms against stars. His voice barely disturbs the air. "The main feed seems to split at that junction. And the generator—”

“Around back,” Will confirms, striding back to join us. He stands close enough that I feel the heat rising from his skin, dragon stirring beneath the surface. “Padlocked, though.”

“Really?” Tuck sounds crestfallen. Will just shrugs, studies his fingernails.

“Shame they used such worn-out chains, though.” He flares his fingers wide, arches his hand into a claw. “Cut right through. And the connecting line in, too. Someone on maintenance duty must’ve been careless.”

I grin in spite of myself. LJ rolls his eyes. “Can we get a move on?”

I nod. “Yes, let’s.”

Beyond the fence, the sheriff's new Tahoe gleams in the parking lot, black paint reflecting orange in perfect curves. Beside it, twelve patrol cars wait in neat rows, metal and glass arranged like pieces on a chess board we're about to throw off a table and scatter.

Quietly, heel-to-toe, we slip to the base of the pole. Tuck's hand brushes the transformer's housing, gentle as a wolf testing snow. "One surge here cascades through the whole grid. Takes out everything east of Marion Street." His throat bobs. "Including the jail's primary power."

“Say no more,” Will says, stepping forward and cracking his knuckles in the air in front of him. “We all know what we’re doing?”

I nod, heart hammering. So does Tuck.

Will nudges LJ, who’s silent. “You ready, my ursine friend?”

LJ doesn’t acknowledge, just moves.

He jogs toward the jail, his massive frame already beginning to blur at the edges, and the change comes over him like a wave—smooth, inevitable. The man vanishes and reforms as a bear that fills the space between shadows, rolling its shoulders in a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache.

“Well, that’s one way to answer.”

Will steps forward, and the air shimmers around him, heat rippling reality's edges. Silver scales bloom across his skin, and the dragon unfolds in near-silence, crouching at the base of the power line pole.

I close my eyes. One breath. Two.

“You should go, Maren,” Tuck urges. “You’re not going to have much time.”

I nod, but my steps are slow, hesitant, as I skirt around the edge of the asphalt. Something prickles at the edges of my consciousness—nerves, most likely, but ones that feel more than just anxiety.

Like we’re setting ourselves up for disaster.

Then dragon-fire paints the night in brief, brilliant gold as Will unleashes on the transformer. Metal groans, warps, surrenders, and in a shower of sparks, the area sinks into darkness. The streetlights fizz out and don’t come back. So do the yellow rectangles of the front offices, the side rooms. In the sudden black, I hear boots on pavement, agitated voices.

I jolt back to awareness, forgetting I need to move. I scramble for the corner of the building, hiding just out of sight of the parking lot, but unable to resist a glance backward. LJ's bear-form moves with surprising grace, each step placed with deliberate care until he reaches the parking lot's edge. And then, he becomes chaos incarnate. He bellows and swipes, his broad, blunt claws finding purchase in the Tahoe's hood. Glass shatters with the sound of winter breaking, and I watch as deputies spill from the building's front entrance. Each one moves exactly as Zayn predicted: weapons drawn but held low, voices pitched to carry commands about animal control, backup, containment. Resources spreading thin. Creating gaps.

From the other side of the lot, beyond the fence, the shining dragon form has already collapsed back to human, the two of them just shadows you’d barely mark as people if you weren’t looking for them there.

Maren, Tuck mouths urgently. Go!

I don’t wait. I sprint around the corner, follow the fence until I come to the alcove.

Above me, the razor wire gleams like polished fangs. Zayn was right: the fence is wildly warped here where the dirty gets bumpy - bad surveying, built on soft ground, a shoddy job that no one bothered to fix. Like everything else in Sherwood, they figured "good enough" was good enough.

My fingers find the metal, cold against my palms, and the fence rattles slightly as I pull myself up.

I swallow hard, even though I’ve already willed myself to do this.

You’ll be fine, I tell myself. You’ll make yourself fine.

But that doesn’t mean it’s not going to hurt.

I haven’t climbed chain-link since elementary school, and the skill has definitely gotten as rusty as this fence. Being barefoot doesn’t help much either, nor does the swaying that sets in as soon as I’m more than three feet up.

I breathe in hard, in and out, through my nose.

Don't rush. Don't make noise , I tell myself. Just keep going.

I reach again, clawing my way up, until finally I’ve summited. It’s wobbly at the top, not designed to hold anything more than the loops of razor wire, and I can’t keep my balance, can’t figure out the best way to actually get over the damn thing.

As I’m debating, I lose purchase with one foot. I veer right, plunging, but manage to catch myself.

Except the razor wire catches me too.

Pain blazes across my forearm as the serrated edges tear through cloth and skin. Blood wells immediately, hot and slick on my fingers. For a moment, the urge to heal is overwhelming, the warm power rising in my chest like a reflex.

But I push it down.

Later. Later. Keep moving.

The pain sharpens my focus as I ease over the top, like it’s almost easier now that I’ve broken the seal. More cuts open across my palms as I hoist myself up, across my thighs as I slip down to the other side, but I barely feel them. All that matters is getting inside.

My feet hit concrete, sending jolts through my knees. I glance down at myself and wish I hadn’t: blood is dripping steadily from my arm, but there's no time to even wrap it. The service entrance waits in a shallow alcove ahead, metal door unmarked except for fading yellow paint that reads "DELIVERIES."

Everything about the county jail is like this - functional, institutional, depressing. Even the security feels half-hearted back here, like they figured anyone who made it past the razor wire and cameras wouldn't bother with the kitchen door.

Well, I would , I think humorlessly.

I stumble forward and find the electronic keypad lock, the ancient county budget model that defaults to unlocked. Only when it loses power , Zayn had said, which normally isn’t an issue with the back up generator. But if it’s off...

The keys are dark, not lit up green, and when I my fingers find the handle, it twists easily in my hand, the latch disengaging like it was waiting for me.

The door swings open with a squeal of hinges that feels impossibly loud. Stale air hits my face - bleach and fryer oil and that uniquely depressing institutional smell that makes my skin crawl.

But I can't focus on that. Can't think about anything except getting to Rob.

Zayn's directions unfold in my mind like a map: Left at the mop sink. Through the kitchen. Past the staff break room. Don't look at the cameras - they're dead, but the guards watching them won’t be. Each step takes me deeper into the belly of the beast and sends fresh pain scissoring up my limbs from the cuts, but I force myself to ignore it.

Somewhere ahead, Rob is waiting. And I'm going to get him out if I have to tear this place apart with my bare, bleeding hands.

The kitchen passes in a blur of industrial steel and shadows. My feet pad against the linoleum as I count doorways - three, then right, like Zayn said. I catch the smell of too-strong coffee from somewhere nearby, probably in the break room where second shift deputies are grumbling about the power outage.

The hallway beyond feels endless, institutional beige melting into more beige that I can barely make out in the darkness. Signs mark distances with small plastic placards that have seen better days. INTAKE. BOOKING. HOLDING CELLS.

CELL BLOCK A.

My heart kicks against my ribs. That's where they're keeping him, mixed in with the usual weekend drunks and small-time offenders—locked down in this sad excuse for a jail that usually processes more parking tickets than actual criminals.

The door to the cell block has an ancient push-bar that creaks when I press it. Beyond that, everything changes. The air gets thicker, darker, stale with too many bodies in too little space. I can barely catch glimpses of the occupied cells - men shifting restlessly in the dark, a few complaints about the power being out, someone snoring loudly despite it all.

My hands shake slightly, aggravating the cuts. Focus, Maren. Rob's in here somewhere, probably going crazy.

Footsteps echo from somewhere ahead - a deputy doing rounds by flashlight, probably more worried about keeping the peace than actual security. I press myself into a doorway, breath held, until the sound fades.

Third row back, second cell on the right, Zayn had said. Each cell I pass feels like another weight on my chest. Halfway there. Almost. Then—

"Maren!"

The whisper catches like a hook beneath my ribs. Rob's fingers curl around cell bars, knuckles white with tension.

"Hey pretty lady," he says softly, and my heart breaks at how rough his voice sounds. "Took you long enough."

Three days of captivity hang in the shadows under his eyes, in the careful way he holds himself. The uniform they've put him in hangs loose, hiding the wound I know lies beneath.

But it’s him. It’s Rob.

My hands find his through the bars. His skin feels cool, too cool, and something in my chest constricts. "I need to—" The words tangle. “You’re—we’re going to—”

"Shh." His grip tightens, a warning pressed into my palm. In the cells around us, shapes move in darkness. Other inmates, other ears. But he pulls back, startled, and stares at his hand, sticky with my blood.

“Maren, you’re—”

“I’m fine,” I bite out. “I’ll get to it. I just—let me heal you. Then you can shift, and we—"

A rustle of movement from the next cell. "Ain't nothing to worry about here." The voice carries a drawl thick as honey, belonging to a face I can barely make out in the dim light. "I ain't a snitch, miz. And Carrot Top here is a real one."

Rob's exhale brushes my wrist. One small tension released.

My hands find the hem of his shirt, lifting. The bandage beneath is stark white against skin, professional and precise. Municipal medical care, doing just enough to keep him alive. The wound underneath looks angry, edges puckered like it's trying to hold something in.

"Familiar territory." Rob's whisper carries the ghost of a smile. "Think you can manage another miracle?"

The memory rises unbidden—another night, another wound, the first time I discovered what my hands could do. My fingers settle against his skin, and I feel the power inside me rise like a tide.

Gentle now, gentle.

The darkness wraps around us as I let the healing flow between my hands, rewriting damage into wholeness one cell at a time.

Rob's skin warms beneath my hands as the last traces of injury fade. The shift ripples through him before I can step back—red fur blooming like sunrise, human angles turned into animal grace and muscle. His eyes catch amber light, a familiar gleam in a different face.

“Didn’t need telling twice,” I mutter, smiling. “Now get the fuck out of here!”

He cocks his head.

“Right.” He doesn’t know the plan. “There’s a hideout," I whisper. "Will and Tuck outside—they’ll show you."

His tail brushes my ankle once, a gesture that carries three days of unspoken words, before he melts into shadow.

“Keep it down in there!”

I freeze, then remember: I’ve got to get myself the fuck out of here, too.

My feet carry me back the way I came, whipping around hallways this time, bursting out the back door like I’d been holding my breath. I suck in an inhale and brace myself, then throw my body at the chain link and scramble upward, ready for the pain this time, and then land.

Then I run. For the parking lot. For LJ. My ride home, my protector. The razor-slices sting as I start to sweat, but I ignore them. I’ll heal them later, once it’s safe, once we have time to breathe.

In front of the jail, it’s pandemonium. The bear's massive form moves between overturned vehicles, playing his part with deadly precision. Pride and fear tangle in my throat as I watch him, wondering when he’ll see me, how he’ll get us out—

The whisper of compressed air barely registers.

LJ's roar cuts off mid-breath. His massive frame staggers, one paw lifting to swat at something I can't quite see in the darkness. Then his outline begins to blur, fur receding like tide, leaving bare skin in its wake, as he falls to the ground—human.

Hurt.

"Direct hit." A deputy's voice carries across the lot, satisfaction with no hint of professionalism. “Stuck that bastard good.”

“Where’d it go?”

“Running for the trees, I think. Over there?”

“Dumbass. That’s the wind. He’s gotta...”

My pulse drowns out their following words. LJ lies crumpled between two cruisers, nothing bearlike remaining except the strength of his unconscious frame. The darkness is pressing in from every side even as it shields me—they can't see what I see, can't understand what they've done.

Asphalt scrapes my skin as I run, staying low, staying quiet even as I want to scream in anguish, in pain.

Is he...he’s not...

But LJ's chest rises and falls with steady rhythm, and that simple motion becomes my world's axis.

Thank God.

Something’s stuck to his forehead: a dull silver, gleaming in the faint moonlight. At first, I think it’s something from one of the cruisers: a shard of broken side mirror, a sheared-off handle.

But then LJ rolls and moans, and I see what it really is:

A tranquilizer dart, buried deep in his right eye.