Page 130 of The Last Hope

Stork gasps. “No kidding.” He already knew Fast-Trackers and Babes aren’t formally educated.

I wear a crooked smile, and before we head down the rope ladder, we glance over at one another—we’re both smiling the same kind of humored smile.

And he nods to me. “You know, I was never going to spar you for the sword. I couldn’t be sure how badly it’d hurt them if I hurt you.” He’s referring to the lifeblood link. Court.

Franny.

We’ve all sparred enough that there’s no harm, but now I know he thought about their well-being. It meant more to him than his blade.

I’m liking my baby brother more and more. “I would’ve won anyway.”

He laughs. “Yeah right.” As we descend the ladder, he mentions how he had me pinned the first time we met.

I’m explaining how I was underweight, and I’ve wrestled creatures three times his size to the ground. We drop down on the rickety dock, the sailing ship about twelve feet high beside us.

I sniff. Sewage stench bombarding my nostrils.

Hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Court, Franny—both are in the sewer tunnels. I’m sensing them more strongly.

“What’s wrong?” Stork rounds back when he notices I’m not budging.

“I dunno…” My breath cuts short—Court.

He’s holding his breath, and a fiery growl tickles Franny’s throat.

Stork watches me with a keen eye. “Is it Court and Franny?”

I nod. Concentrating on them, I taste bitter iron.Blood.Franny’s nose is bleeding. I sense a prick of fear, but I’m unsure about the origin.

Is the nosebleed frightening her?

“How bad is it?” Stork asks, concern cinching his brows.

I dunno.Frustrated, I expel a harsh breath between my sunburnt lips. “We gotta go find ’em—”

“You two.” A lady interrupts us. “Come here.” She peers over the railing of a pristine two-masted boat, vessel polished and sails proudly displayed with the painted words: TOSS ASIDE YOUR TRICKERY!GIVE BLESSINGS TOVICTORY!

The dock dead-ends to our left, and her sailboat is tied up about four vessels to the right of the orphanage. We left our dinghy somewhere farther down that pathway, and to return to it, we’ll have to be passing this lady.

Getting our tiny boat had been our luckiest deed. A man with a pint wanted us to cheer with him about the God of Victory. We sang a few songs and he let us borrow his dinghy.

“Let’s act like we didn’t hear her,” Stork whispers as we head down the rickety dock.

Wood creaks beneath our tough strides.

“You two,” she coos, her jeweled ring glinting in the sun. Sheholds on to a hat shaped like a boat, a yellow feather sticking out of the corner. More feathers are sewn onto the hem of her dress, and seashells curve along her neckline.

Two more steps, and her sailboat with the nameThe Montbay Majestyis next to us—and someone suddenly heaves their body off the damned thing.

A hefty boy of twenty-some years drops down.

Creeaaak.

A board breaks under his weight, and the dock quakes. He has about two-hundred-odd pounds on me.

Instantly, I extend my arm over Stork’s chest. Pushing my baby brother back.

He won’t let me.