Neverseen (Keeper of the Lost Cities, #4)(50)

“Is everyone ready?” Mr. Forkle asked.

Keefe flipped up his hood. “Bring it on.”

Their plan was simple: pretend to break into the chamber, and hope Gethen believed he was being rescued. Mr. Forkle had already alerted the guards so they’d know to play along.

“There it is,” Mr. Forkle whispered as a round door came into view. It looked like a giant abalone shell with swirling blotches of blue, green, and silver.

Keefe moved to the lead.

“Remember, if at any point you need to abort, cry swan song and our guards will get us out,” Mr. Forkle told him.

“I can handle it,” Keefe promised.

Sophie hoped that was true. The warning Mr. Forkle had given Keefe a few days earlier kept echoing through her head.

One should never rely on their enemies to give them hope.

“Here goes nothing,” Keefe whispered, then shouted “NOW!” and rammed his shoulder against the abalone shell, slamming the door open.

The next few minutes were filled with more screams and bangs and crashes than a summer blockbuster movie. The dwarven guards made an excellent show of resisting before collapsing to the ground with defeated groans. Keefe shouted orders in his mother’s voice and threw open another abalone door, revealing a thick net of dried kelp.

Sophie backed away as Mr. Forkle shattered his balefire crystal against the crackly leaves. Blue sparks showered the kindling, filling the cavern with thick, salty smoke. The fire burned hot and fast, and then it was gone. As the smoke cleared, Sophie got her first glimpse of Gethen hunched against the wall, bound, gagged, and blindfolded. His black Neverseen cloak was gone, revealing a wrinkled shirt and military-style vest. Yet he still bore the Neverseen symbol on a wide black band tied around his bicep.

“Gethen, wake up!” Keefe-as-Lady-Gisela shouted. “Time to go—someone untie him.”

This was the trickiest part—the moment where everything could unravel.

Gethen had likely been trained to wait for some sort of code word in case of traps like this. And they were hoping all the excitement would have him thinking about the word. Sophie and Keefe needed to amp up the charade while Mr. Forkle plucked the code word from his mind.

Keefe shouted more commands in his mother’s voice, and Sophie set to work removing Gethen’s gag. The fabric was soaked with drool, and Sophie felt her stomach lurch as the slimy moisture coated her fingers. She wiped them on his wrist bonds as she removed those next, her eyes fixating on the crescent-shaped scar on Gethen’s hand. The mark had been a present from the dog Gethen used the first time he tried to kidnap her, and it had faded since the last time Sophie saw it.

Why did he get to heal, when the hurt he’d caused would never go away?

She was so focused on the scar, she hadn’t noticed that Keefe had come up beside her. So she jumped when he shouted, in Lady Gisela’s voice, “Polaris!”

Mr. Forkle nodded at Sophie, confirming that was a word he’d found in Gethen’s mind.

“Polaris,” Keefe repeated. When Gethen didn’t stir, he slapped Gethen’s face. “Didn’t you hear me? I said Polaris!”

Keefe went to hit Gethen again, but Sophie grabbed his wrist and pointed to Gethen’s hand, where two fingers had begun to twitch.

“That’s right,” Keefe said in his mother’s voice. “Wake up, we have to get out of here.”

Gethen moaned and thrashed, knocking off his blindfold.

Sophie had about three seconds to celebrate their victory. Then Gethen’s lips cracked with a smile as his eyes settled on her. “Sophie Foster. Just who I wanted to see.”





TWENTY-TWO


YOU DIDN’T HONESTLY think you could fool me, did you?” Gethen asked, laughing as Mr. Forkle scrambled to pull Sophie away from him. “Apparently you did. That’s hilarious.”

He tossed his blond hair out of his face, revealing a black eye from where Sophie had Sucker Punched him during his capture. His nose also looked swollen and crooked. Sophie hoped it was broken.

Her fingers curled into a fist—ready to pummel him again—when he told her, “Thank you for untying my hands. I probably should’ve waited until you’d untied my feet, too.”

“There’s no way you can escape,” Mr. Forkle said, motioning to the fire-scarred doorway. Half a dozen dwarves stood in a tight line with melders trained on Gethen’s head.

“Do I look like I’m trying to leave?” Gethen asked. “I honestly haven’t minded my visit here. I do my best thinking when I can tuck my consciousness away. I only came back because I couldn’t pass up a chance to chat with Miss Foster. Plus, I couldn’t take another second of your charade.” He turned to Keefe. “Your mother will laugh when she hears about your performance just now—though clearly some of her preparation has taken hold.”

“Preparation for what?” Sophie demanded.

Gethen’s smile dripped with ice. “Can’t ruin the surprise. He’ll find out soon enough.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I will, seeing as how my mom is dead.”

Sophie was stunned at how calmly Keefe delivered the news—almost as stunned as Gethen was to hear it.

“Another part of the trick?” Gethen asked.

Keefe leaned closer. “You tell me. Some gnomes saw her all cut up and bleeding and being dragged into the mountains near the Lake of Blood. We’re assuming the ogres had her killed because she let you get captured.”