The Glass Arrow(55)

Maybe he’s following the hunters into the mountains with extra supplies. Maybe he’s just going back to the city. I don’t care. All I know is that there is room in that back compartment for me to hide and if I get there quick enough, I’m going with him.

I move for the door, but stop short as a few men in lavish embroidered coats enter the room through the sliding doors from outside. Magnates, like the hunter who captured me in the wild.

A Pip rushes to their assistance.

“Come with me,” says one of the cleaners, grabbing my elbow. “You aren’t supposed to be down here.” His little mouth is drawn in a tight frown.

I am dragged from the entryway, away from the carriage, into a shiny silver kitchen manned by Pips who prepare food—real food. Savory-smelling meats and soups that make my stomach grumble. Distracted by their tasks, they barely glance up at me, much like the serving Pips from the preparation room upstairs. I feel panic swelling in my chest. I hadn’t counted on this moment to escape, but now that it’s passing, I can’t help feeling as though I’ve let something crucial slip away.

The cleaning Pip backs me into a corner and tells me to stay out of the way. When he leaves, he shuts the door behind him. I want to scream. I tell myself to focus—Amir is still looking for me. I need to think, plan my next move.

On the far side of the kitchen is a sliver of gray light, and my panic turns to steel. There’s a slider door on the other side of this room. It must open to the outside, behind the house.

All that stands between me and the outside are the Pips, who chop strange-looking vegetables and arrange decorative morsels on serving trays. There are at least ten weapons nearby. Knives. Forks. Even that steaming basin on the stove can be used to my advantage. If I can get my hands on something, I might be able to force my way through, but too much of a stir will surely bring more Pips, and maybe even one of those Watchers guarding the gate.

I step forward and my ears register a buzzing from above as the scanner eye on the ceiling shifts positions.

The Pips are still focused on their duties.

One deep breath in, and I start to walk. I keep my head down, but my eyes moving and my hands ready. I make it past the first Pip, who hardly gives me a sideways glance. Another two give me dirty looks, but don’t stop what they’re doing. Maybe they think I’m too stupid to try to escape. Another scanner buzzes as it points my direction. My heartbeat is thumping in my ears.

I tell myself to slow down, but I can’t. I walk faster, and when a Pip makes a sudden turn away from his station, we collide. Small yellow pastries fly off of his tray across the floor, and in his anger, he throws the metal sheet at me.

I block my face, but before I can lower my arms, he’s got me by the wrist and is dragging me outside.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he says, following up with the longest stream of pips I’ve ever heard. I trip over the threshold of the door, but catch myself before I fall. When I look up, I see gray sky and wish I’d decided to grab a weapon.

I don’t need it. I can take one single Pip on my own. I have to.

He winds back to hit me in the face, but stops short. He’s looking at something over my shoulder, and when I glance back I’m sure I’m going to see either the kid or a Watcher. But it’s neither. It’s a tall, thin man in a black velvet coat and a maroon scarf wrapped around his head.

He stops a little ways away and gives a curt nod to the Pip, who seems to take this as a dismissal and reenters the kitchen. There are no scanners back here, no eyes watching me. We are blocked from the front of the building, between the perimeter wall and a trash incinerator. Alone.

The dread rises up and crashes over me.

“You didn’t get to go?” I ask, unable to hide the tremor in my voice. He’s changed since I saw him just moments ago; his coat must not have been suitable for the mayor’s Magnate friends.

He stares at me. Just stares. His hands are rubbing down his chest—the drink must be starting to wear off. After a moment, one hand lifts to the side of his face as if he’s going to take off the scarf, and though I’ve seen what lies beneath it, I’m petrified for him to do this.

Before he can speak, I lower and try to run past him.

Quick as a flash, one hand shoots forward and his strong fingers wrap around my forearm. He pulls me towards him.

I lock my knees. My feet slide over the walkway. I try to pry his hand open and see that his knuckles are smeared black with polish of some kind. His mayor brother must be pretty upset if Greer can’t even find someone to shine his shoes.

Without thinking, I attack. My fist wheels around and knocks him in the jaw. One of his hands flies to his face while the other slides down around my wrist. I wriggle free and try to kick him, but he grabs my leg, yanks it, and I slam to my back on the ground.

I will not let him better me.

My legs are flailing and I’m trying to push him back, but he’s on me now, pinning me down with his body weight.

“No!” But the word is no louder than a breath. I struggle, harder than I ever have, and he releases me suddenly. His hand has flown back to his face, to the wrap, which is beginning to sag. I must have hit him hard.

“Stop, stop!” he hisses. I freeze. This voice isn’t low and graveled. It’s sharp, and warped by an accent I’ve never heard.

This isn’t Mr. Greer.

I swipe at the scarf and jerk it down. Suntanned skin, smeared with dirt across the jaw. Lips drawn tight. And here, up close, those eyes I would recognize anywhere.