Page 75 of Heir of Illusion

I find Remy exactly where I left him, still arguing with the impatient sailors.

Not bothering to acknowledge them, I grab the captain’s arm and spin him toward me.

“Who reported seeing Darby here?” I ask, my chest heaving.

His brows furrow at my strange behavior, but he answers without question. “Branson. Why?”

Letting Remy go, I scan the nearby area until I find the dark-haired guard exiting one of the ships behind us. Barely old enough to become a solider, the young mortal has only been on the job for a few months.

“Branson!” I shout.

His ears turn red at the sound of his name, and he immediately jogs over, his gaze flitting back and forth between me and Remy.

“You’re the one who reported seeing Darby, correct?”

“Y-yes,wraith,” he stutters, his gaze dropping as he shift back and forth on the balls of his feet.

My eyes narrow. “What exactly did you see?”

A bead of sweat drips down the side of his head, either from the heat or his nerves. His hand runs nervously through his dark curls. “Well, I wasn’t the one who actually saw him. Just the one who reported it.”

“What are you saying, soldier?” Remy says, his tone hard as granite.

“Another guard was the one who saw him,” Branson admits. “He told me, and I alerted everyone else.”

The captain steps closer, crowding the man. “Who was the other guard?”

While Remy has always been gentle with me, those under his command know a different side of him. In these moments, he always appears larger than life. I can’t imagine any of his men defying an order from their captain.

“I-I don’t know his name.” Branson shakes his head as his face pales. “He was wearing a uniform, but I’d never seen him before. Young guy. Mortal.”

I turn back to the crowd, scanning the faces for someone who matches that vague description.

“Anything else you recall?” Remy presses him.

Strawberry-blond hair catches my attention as a young man moves through the mass of people. Only his back is visible as he pushes toward an alley that leads between two buildings, but something about his lanky frame pulls at a memory.

“He was a ginger,” Branson announces right as the man turns his head, offering me a glimpse of his profile.

“Kipps,” I whisper.

“What did you say?” Remy snaps in my direction.

His eyes meet mine through the crowd, holding my gaze for less than a second before he darts down the alley and disappears.

“It was Kipps!” I shout.

Wasting no time, I sprint after the guard from the tunnels. Thorne’s boots pound against cobblestones behind me, followed closely by Remy and his soldiers. Pedestrians block my path, forcing me to push them aside to clear a way forward.

“Go around!” I shout to the others as I squeeze through a gap in the crowd. “We need to cut him off!”

With no time to glance back, I pray that they do as I ask. We can’t afford to let Kipps get away, not when he’s our only lead. Using my elbows to force people out of my way, I finally reach the mouth of the alley. Several yards ahead, I spot a flash of red hair darting around the back of the building. Pushing my legs as fast as they’ll go, I race after him. I’ve never been so thankful to be high fae and blessed with speed mortals could only dream of.

Turning the corner, I spot Kipps only fifteen feet ahead of me. My determination blazes as I realize I’m gaining on him. I’ve almost closed the gap when I notice a woman step out the back door of one of the buildings ahead of us. She’s carrying a broken milk jar toward a trash bin, completely oblivious to the danger she’s in.

By the time her features twist with horror, it’s too late. Kipps grabs her by the hair and brings a knife to her throat. I slam to a halt, my body nearly tipping forward before I right myself. Only a few feet separate us, but it might as well be a mile. With her back pressed against his chest, he uses her body as a shield.

“Mama?” a child’s voice calls from inside the open door.

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