Page 8 of The Shadows Beyond
Or a map. But mostly a cigarette.
After over an hour of walking through silent residential streets, stomach empty and fingers starting to freeze, the first slivers of regret started to form. Surely this escape plan would have been easier in the daylight of tomorrow?
The clouds parted, and he tried to orientate himself using the moon. He spun until he was fairly sure he was facing west, the direction they’d landed in earlier. A thick layer of trees greeted him, a narrow winding path cutting through what appeared to be a grove. He stared into the darkness, supposing he could use his lighter as a torch, if it really came to that.
He tugged his headphones off his head, wrapping everything up neatly to put back in his bag. This was murder territory.
Indeed, the feeling of being watched pounced upon him as soon as he stepped into the dark thicket. Twice he spun around to check if the footsteps behind him were real or a product of paranoia. When the path widened, he picked up his pace, eager to find civilisation, even if it was just another housing estate.
He squinted through the darkness. The path opened out into a small, grassy clearing. And across it… was that an exit he could see between two brick walls, dimly illuminated by two sconces?
Shadows that had previously hugged the wall moved, blocking his view of the gate. Three silent figures—a woman and two taller men.
Clearly, they weren’t hanging out here for fun, but Cinn decided to press on and ignore them completely. He avoided eye contact, ducked his head, and tried to weave around to the left of them.
“Hey,” said one of the men, in a European accent Cinn couldn’t quite place. Tall, with blond hair falling in curated waves around a pale face. An annoyingly symmetrical face. “Where are you going?” He grabbed Cinn’s wrist.
Surprise froze Cinn still.
The auburn-haired girl beside him tutted. “That’s not how you greet someone, Julien,” she said, a subtle Scottish twang to her voice. The second man—a darker, lean-looking fellow with a lion’s mane of corkscrew-tight dark blond curls—laughed.
“None of your business. Unless you want to give me a lift to the train station, let go of my arm.” Cinn wrenched his limb free of the vice-like grip, rubbing it to soothe the bruise.
“You’re not allowed to leave,” the guy stated, in a manner that seemed so matter-of-fact, so absolutely true, Cinn laughed. The asshole was starting to remind him of a spoiled prince, with his pretty face and entitled attitude.
“Watch me.”
“I mean it,” the guy continued. Was that a trace of panic in his voice? Of fear? “You’re under strict instructions to stay within the boundary of this town. Take one more step, and we’ll have to restrain you by force.” He flashed Cinn a predatory smile.
Who were these people? Madame Sinclair’s guard dogs? Cinn almost stopped then, almost gave up. Then he heard the words clear as day, as if Tyler was right there, whispering in his ear:Don’t give them an inch, Cinn.
He was going to wipe the smile off of that infuriatingly perfect face if it was the last thing he did.
Cinn went to kick the man’s right knee, but he easily slid to the side. Changing tactics, Cinn lunged for the guy’s coat, planning to hold the cuff while he punched him in the face. To Cinn’s immense displeasure, his opponent had the audacity to laugh as he jumped back to dodge Cinn’s attack, then hooked his leg around Cinn’s ankle, sending him sprawling to the ground.
Damn.
The pretty boy could fight.
Cinn groaned, then blinked up at branches stretching across the night sky, a lattice of dark criss-crossing the stars. Something was painfully digging into his back.
Off to the side, the girl made a soft squeaking sound—of protest?—but there was no time to look that way. His attacker was aiming another foot at the soft part of his stomach.
Get up.
With energy he didn’t truly have, Cinn forced himself to leap up and throw himself at him, figuring a surprise attack was the only weapon available. He dove at the guy, ramming into his side to grab a fistful of his thick blond hair. Cinn pulled at it, hard, snapping his headbackwards—perhaps he could make himself perfectly clear if only the dickhead would listen for a moment.
Unbelievably, the fuckersmiled, revealing two perfectly symmetrical dimples. “Oh darling, how did you know I was into that?”
Cinn released him, shoved him with all the force he could muster, and followed it up with a punch that ended up connecting with his collarbone.
Before he could do anything else, a fist flew towards his face, hitting him square in the jaw. Cinn stumbled left, stunned. A gunshot-like ringing burst through his eardrums. Reaching new levels of fury, he launched himself at the man again, aimless this time, only intending to knock him to the ground.
Yet his opponent didn’t fall as expected—beneath the man’s slender frame was a surprising amount of strength.
“Just listen for one second,” he hissed, fisting Cinn’s shirt.
“Fuck you.” Cinn promptly spat in his face. He’d learntthatparticular trick on his very first day in prison.
