Forged(11)

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Charlie says.

“It was annoying.”

“So think twice before interrupting a reader.” Charlie grapples with something on the wall of the bookshelf behind him, and an entire section of the bookcase swings inward to reveal a hidden room. “Badger’s in the back.”

“Some rumors about Badger and his work have made it to the Order,” Adam explains to us. “If spies come ’round asking for him, he’s good and hidden. Charlie doesn’t let anyone past the storefront unless they’re on first-name terms with Nick and know the Expat slogan and salute.”

Adam raises a hinged section of the counter, and we all skirt through to the back room. It’s loaded with jugs of water: on shelves, on the floor, in crates piled on top of one another. The bookcase closes behind us with a heavy shwack, and at the far end of the room, a man jumps. He’s small and scrawny, sitting in a leather chair that practically swallows him. Maps and ledgers litter his desk.

“Nick,” Adam says in greeting.

They shake hands vigorously and mutter about clientele numbers they can’t keep up with. The rest of us stand there, a bit confused, until Adam finally introduces us.

Nick has skittish eyes, beady and eager looking, and seems to start at the smallest noises. Bree sneezes and I swear he almost falls over. I remember something Isaac said about the man being “shifty,” and I see it now, the animalistic edge to him, like he’s trying to sniff out danger. His alias is certainly fitting.

“So this is the team?” he says, taking us in. “The girl’s perfect—right age, small, spry, can probably get in and out of tight places—but I don’t know about the rest of you.”

“I’m flexible,” Sammy says, looking highly offended at being told he is not spry.

“Is being small important?” I ask. “We weren’t warned about that. Probably would have picked the team differently if we’d known.”

“It’s not a necessity,” Badger says. “Just a preference.”

“Well, in that case, we’re all coming and that’s the end of it.”

Badger’s hand goes to the gun at his hip. He doesn’t draw it, but I can see the defensive nature of his stance. It’s odd that someone so twitchy could be a spy. Or maybe that’s a casualty of the job—always on edge, never fully trusting.

“He’s okay, Nick,” Adam insists, putting an arm on Badger’s shoulder. “They’re good, all of them. I promise you.”

“What would be good is knowing the plan,” I say. “When do we go over details?”

“I’ve got to follow up with one of my crew this evening,” Badger says. He checks the ammunition in his gun. Pulls a second from the back waistband of his pants, checks that one, too. Satisfied he has enough rounds, Badger opens the bookshelf door. “I’ll brief you all tomorrow, and we’ll hit the water the morning following.”

Then he exits the bookshop, bell chiming in his wake.

“Well, I sure feel great putting our lives in his hands,” Bree deadpans.

“No kidding,” Sammy says.

“He’s one of the sharpest men I know,” Adam says. “He has his reasons for ducking out. Badger never does anything without a plan.”

“So y’all want to see where you’re crashing for the night?” Charlie sticks his head into Badger’s office. Now that he’s not absorbed in a book there’s a lot more life to his face. He seems happy we’re here, rather than inconvenienced by our presence.

We follow him out of the hidden room and back into the bookshop. He motions to a spiral staircase I hadn’t noticed before, and we head up to a spacious second-floor apartment. A small bedroom and bathroom sit off to the right, but otherwise, the floor plan is open, with the kitchen and sitting areas overlapping. A fire burns in a woodstove. This seems downright dangerous given the number of brittle pages below our feet.

“I sleep in the loft,” Charlie says, pointing to another spiral staircase that leads up to a third level overlooking the common rooms. “You guys can fight over my sister’s room ’til she gets back.” Sammy and Clipper immediately bolt for the bedroom. “Everyone else is going to have to crash on the couches or floor. Should be cozy given the extra guests that are coming.”

“Guests?” Sammy echoes, pausing enough to give Clipper the advantage. The boy slips into the private bedroom, whooping triumphantly.

“I need to play catch-up while in town,” Adam explains, “and that starts here. Tonight.”

Downstairs, we hear the bookshop’s door chime. A moment later there are feet pounding against the stairs. A flash of copper tears into the room, a small boy trailing after.

“Rusty!” he shouts. “Calm down, boy!”


September appears next, grinning at the sight of us. She has such harsh features that something about the expression looks wicked.

I haven’t seen either of them since our mission to Burg and I’m so shocked at the sight of them—here, in Pine Ridge—that I can barely get my mouth to work.

“I thought you were supposed to be finding him a home?” I point at Aiden, who is still chasing Rusty through the apartment, hands outstretched as the dog’s nose explores every last floorboard.