The Iron Thorn - Caitlin Kittredge [32]
“I don’t smoke,” I said.
“You want to tell me the truth on this one, Miss Aoife. If it’s trouble that can get me beat up or buried six feet under, and you don’t fess up, your guide might be disinclined to pull your fat out of said trouble. Catch my meaning?” Dean’s face looked like it had when he’d confronted Dorlock—perfectly pleasant, except in his eyes. They were hard like stone and my chest went tight in response. I didn’t want Dean looking at me like that.
“There’s no trouble,” I said, and even managed a smile. Up until Conrad’s birthday, I’d never made a habit of lying. My mother babbled endlessly about things that weren’t there and couldn’t exist. I preferred to keep on solid ground. After Conrad came at me with the knife, I lied out of necessity, to keep the eyes of the school and the Proctors turned away from me.
Those had all been small lies, more voids of truth than falsehoods. I looked Dean in the eye. “I’m not in trouble,” I repeated. “Not yet, anyway.”
He loosed a small chuckle. “All right, miss. That’s all I wanted to know.”
“Now I should get to ask you something,” I said. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets.
“I don’t know about that, sweetness. I think you’re much smarter than I am.”
Behind us, Cal gave a snort. “Isn’t that the truth.”
“Why do you do this sort of thing?” I said, before Cal could get a nose full of Dean’s fist. “Smuggling people in and out of Lovecraft, I mean. It seems, well … dangerous, for starters.”
“About the only thing I’m suited for,” Dean said. “My old man wore out his bones as a gear monkey in the Rustworks, and my brother got himself killed in Korea a few years back. Got no money, got no family. Nothing but this talent of mine to get folks where they need to be. It’s a rambling life, but it’s mine.”
“What about your mother?” Cal said. “Surely even you have one.”
Dean fixed Cal with his hard stare. “Don’t bring up my mother unless you want me to talk some crap about yours.”
There was a sentiment I could take to heart, and shame over interrogating Dean heated my cheeks. “I didn’t mean to pry,” I told him. “I just wanted to know a little bit about you, seeing as you’re taking us so far and—”
His head whipped skyward. “Button your lip, Miss Aoife.”
I followed the finger he touched to his mouth, up and up through the black bones of the Night Bridge. We were in the darkness between the embankments of Lovecraft and the glow and burn of the foundry beyond. Wind whipped my hair into a fury of knots; over the wind, the whirr of wings carried on frozen air.
“Raven patrol,” Dean said. “Flying out from Ravenhouse.”
“They’ll see us,” Cal hissed, instantly panicked. “The Proctors will take us into custody and lock us up in the Catacombs and—”
“Is there any shelter on the bridge?” I demanded in the loudest whisper I could manage. The hum grew louder, filled the air and drowned out the ice.
“Not unless you’re gonna swing down among the pilings like a river rat,” Dean murmured.
“What are we supposed to do?” Cal shoved his hands through his hair. “We’re sitting ducks. We’re totally exposed!”
I started when Dean grabbed my hand. “We hoof it.” He tugged and I stumbled. “Run!” he elaborated when Cal stood, wavering between us and the way back to Lovecraft.
“Move it, Cal!” I shouted, silence forgotten. Avoiding capture mattered more than detection. Besides, nothing escaped the notice of the ravens.
Dean’s loping stride easily outmatched mine, and sharp pain shot up my arm as he dragged me along, our feet pounding on the span.
They could not drown out the sound of wings.
I knew that I shouldn’t look back, that I should tuck in and run like my life depended on it, because it did, but I couldn’t help turning my head to see what was coming.
The raven’s feathers gleamed liquid black in the cold starlight.