Page 75 of Crown of Tides and Fury

“Free food,” she said, and rushed in the direction the arrow pointed. We hurried after her, ignoring the strange looks our little group inspired along the way.

Somewhere close, an explosion. I stopped in my tracks, covered my head, and tried to decide which way to run. But the rest of my crew hurried on, ignoring it. Kitch noticed I’d stopped and backtracked, grabbed my hand, and pulled me along behind him. Steady and sure. No hesitation.

This man had been under fire before. Maybe they all had. Maybe I was just a wimp.

Bailey Ann Rosier. She was the goal. Nothing else mattered.

Another bright sign pointed left, but we were already headed that way, following the woman with the knitted white hat. She ducked into a building that immediately made me think of Pop-Tarts—a single Pop-Tart, broken in half. A jagged, diagonal line was left where half the building had been blown away. The interior walls, still visible in the waning evening light, were red—like strawberry filling.

I prayed it was paint.

Once inside, our progress was stopped by a long line of people waiting. They watched a crew in black t-shirts as they unpacked crates and set boxes on a line of tables. The logo on their shirts matched the signs. The meals were boxed and ready to go. This was no night-long soup kitchen.

Wickham waved us to him, and we moved to a red wall twenty feet away. “Wait here. I’ll see which one is our lass.” He ducked around the man holding the line at bay, ignoring the complaints we couldn’t understand. The line of volunteers didn’t slow, even when Wickham spoke. One paused long enough to point to the open bay door, where their delivery truck was parked, the back of it open and empty.

Wickham headed for the bay and waved for us to follow. He slowed at the corner, then suddenly stopped and backed against the wall. He shook his head and touched his nose.

Kitch grabbed Persi's hand and moved her against the wall as well, whispered something in her ear, and waited for her nod before joining Wickham. The rest of us drew our weapons quietly and waited. While the Ukrainians in line remained quiet for their own reasons, the room grew quieter still.

Wickham popped out. I heard a handful of gasps. Our bodies had blocked their view of him, but some of the mob had seen. There was nothing we could do about that. I wondered why Persi didn't use her camouflage and disappear, but I remembered what she’d said to Wickham, that Orion could see her even when she was invisible to the rest of us.

Wickham popped back. He motioned for us to follow again. The building was utterly silent. Even the kitchen help had stopped moving. They watched us closely as if our weapons had brought with them the threat of an air raid. As we filed out between the truck and the large doorway, they relaxed.

Outside, we found a familiar sight. Two men were crumpled on the ground, liquid red leaking from their slashed, still bodies, their eyes open and fixed.

The smell of blood mingled with the spilled oil and the acrid smoke from yesterday's bombs. But Ukrainian blood smelled like everyone else’s. If I closed my eyes, I could believe we were back in Muirsglen again.

"Bailey?" Wickham called out. "Bailey Rosier! Are ye here?"

Someone started screaming. I turned to find two women in black t-shirts standing beside the truck, staring at the bodies. One of them put her hand over the other's mouth and hushed her. Then she looked at me. "Where is Bailey?" Her accent was local.

"No clue. Are you sure she was out here?"

"Some woman came in, as you did. Asked if they could speak outside. We thought...perhaps she brought news from home." She gestured to the bodies. "These men were not with us."

Wickham suggested they go back inside, then told us to spread out. "Three streets, then come back here," he said.

We split up. Urban waved for me to go with him. Everly took Alwyn, Kitch took Brian—the well-trained with the barely trained. Persi and Flann followed after Wickham. We all called Bailey's name. If those dead men had distracted Orion's dogs, she might have gotten away, might be hiding nearby. She might have run halfway to Poland, but we had to try.

Buildings that looked perfectly intact from a distance looked polka dot up close. Little scars from shrapnel marked everything. Nothing had escaped it. A band of people sat in a courtyard. They passed around familiar meal boxes, pretending life was normal, that it was supper time. And for a moment, at least, there was nothing to fear.

An old man tipped his hat at us, then turned his back. He murmured something and the others turned away too. Scotsman, I heard. And something else.

"Bailey! Bailey Rosier," we called, over and over again. At the third street, we lingered, reluctant to give up. A young girl, maybe ten or twelve, inched out of a doorway. "You take Bailey with you? I...I am Bailey."

I shook my head. "Looking for our friend. I’m sorry."

She nodded like she understood, then inched backward to the dark doorway. It broke my heart not to scoop her up and take her with us. But this wasn’t Muirsglen, and there wouldn’t be monsters coming through her door and ripping her to pieces.

At least not the monsters we knew.

Urban passed me, marching her way. The girl stopped moving, her mouth fell open. The tall man reached into his sporran, pulled out his stash of meat pies, and offered them to her. With tears in her eyes, she took him by the wrists, kissed his hands, then took the pies and hurried into the shadows.

Urban stared after her for a long time, then he turned and growled at me to get moving. “Too long as it is,” he grumbled, then herded me back toward our rendezvous point.

We retraced our steps, called out for Bailey again, though we knew it was in vain. I would have turned down the wrong street if Urban hadn’t stopped me.

“I get nervous,” I admitted, “when it’s time to leave. I’m always afraid something will go wrong at the last second.”

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