Page 153 of The Last Hope
I move on.
Franny raps her knuckles on the other side. Opaque portholes are screwed to each sleek door, and sea glass clinks together above us, disturbing the baby.
She rustles a little more, and I let her grip my finger.
“We’re just trying to find our mat—friend,” Stork says with earnestness. My head swerves. Down the hall, Stork tries to stop an older man in a frilly-sleeved shirt and black vest from charging over to us.
The Influential glares. “If you’re not a guest, you can’t be up here.”
Gods be damned.
“Weareguests,” Stork says casually, walking backward. Distracting a hotel owner, he bides us time.
Hurrying, Franny and I skulk forward and knock on doors, listening for responses from sweepers.
The Influential tells Stork, “I need to see your identification right now.”
Stork flashes a half-smile and pats his frayed shorts and shirt. “Must have left it in my room.”
“If you’re a Stormcastle—”
Stork launches an elbow at the man’s windpipe. He chokes, grasping his throat, and then Stork head-butts him.
The man’s eyes roll back and then shut. Stork catches his limp body and lays him on the floor. His calculated movements look trained and militant. C-Jays must learn how to disarm Saltarians in hand-to-hand combat.
Franny frowns at me. “The Influential thought we were Stormcastles?”
Stormcastles are the Saltare-1 equivalent to Icecastles. Criminals who’ve served time in prison. If we appear that threatening, then we really have no time to waste. “Keep going,” I urge.
We knock on several more doors.
Franny bangs angrier on one beside me.
“Heya, I’m cleaning!” a boy shouts.
Stork hears and immediately runs over to us. He mouths,that’s him.He recognizes his voice.
“Riktor?!” Franny asks, her pulse thumping faster in my veins. Stork and I join her side.
“Yeah? Who’s asking?” he says.
I cut in, “Baxley sent us!”
“You chumps must be new! This floor ismine.I earned it! You can take the lower—”
“We’re not here to clean!” I shout. “A couple left you a tip, and Baxley wanted us to give it to you! He was too busy downstairs to do it himself—”
The door swings open, and immediately, Franny bangs Riktor’s chest with two palms. Pushing the buzzed-haired Fast-Tracker backward, she shouts, “Give us the pouch, you baby thief!”
Stork smiles at Franny as we slip in behind her, and I lock the door. The rich suite has nautical flair: all polished wood and golden boat décor. The bed comforter is downturned, mid- cleaning, and on the ceiling, more sea glass hangs in harmonic clusters.
“I’d have to take the fykking baby to be a baby thief,” Riktor retorts. Teal ink washes down his arms like waves. His eyes dart to the newborn braced to my chest, and then he laughs at Franny. “Seems to meyou’rethe baby thief—”
“Shut up,” I sneer, but Franny is still hurt by the comment.
Her nose flares, swallowing hard.
Riktor grins. “Not as feisty now, are you—”
