The light turned green, and Poppy turned. Just as the car rounded the corner, Lola lunged forward, reaching over Poppy’s lap. Poppy screamed and tried to push Lola off. The car swerved with a sickening lurch and a loud screech. Lola’s fingers grazed the cool metal of the handle—
Crash!
Lola was knocked sideways, her side smacking against the shift handle with a loud and painfulcrack.
After a few moments of dizziness, she opened her eyes and slowly straightened, the movement excruciating. The car had collided with a light post, its hood crunched like an accordion, wrapped around the metal. Poppy had smacked her head on the steering wheel, and she now sat slumped in her seat, unconscious, blood trickling down her forehead.
“Muck,” Lola muttered. She hadn’t meant to crash the car. What if Poppy was dead?
Before she checked, she first reached over her lap and removed the pistol. She hated to touch one, but she couldn’t chance Poppy using it against her. Then Lola—gritting her teeth, she’d definitely broken a rib—reached into the backseat and grabbed Poppy’s purse. She fished inside and found the key to her handcuffs.
Once she’d freed her wrist, she shook Poppy’s shoulder. The heiress’s eyes fluttered open, and she squinted at Lola. “What happened?” she asked.
Lola let out a sigh of relief.
Then she handcuffed Poppy to the steering wheel.
“What are you—” Poppy started.
“It’s not that late. Someone will find you,” Lola told her. “Try not to fall asleep. You probably have a concussion.”
“Wait! Lola, don’t—”
But Lola had already climbed out and slammed the door behind her.
She ran as fast as she could manage, clutching her side with one hand and the gun with the other. Every breath hurt, like the broken bone was digging into her lung. A balloon, ready to pop.
Taking in her surroundings, she realized she was in the southernmost part of the South Side, near the university campus. Poppy’s traveling friend was probably a student.
Lola tossed the gun into a trash can and hobbled two blocks to the closest yellow phone booth. With relief, she realized that when Enne had stripped Lola of her scalpel after she’d drugged her, she’d left her orbs. Lola fed two volts into the machine and phoned her apartment.
It took three rings for her brother to answer. She’d almost thought he wouldn’t.
“’Lo?” he said.
“Justin, it’s me. I’m at the corner of Hellebore and Fifteenth. I need you to get me.”
“I don’t even know where the muck that is.” He sounded groggy, like he’d been asleep.
“It’s on the South Side,” she growled. “Just use a map.”
“You know I could be arrested for going out, right? With my hair?” Lola drummed her fingers against the window glass, frowning at her useless brother, a brother who didn’t even want to help her. And muck, she was in so much pain. But she couldn’t go to the hospital. She needed to save Arabella. She needed to stop Enne. “Are you hurt?”
That was the most considerate thing he’d said to her since they’d reunited. Lola’s eyes widened in surprise. “A little,” she admitted.
“Don’t—don’t move. I’m coming.” He hung up.
Lola slumped to the ground of the phone booth. Maybe she wasn’t as alone in this city as she’d first thought.
XVII
THE MOON
“‘If the brutal task must fall to someone, then let it fall to us,’ he said, but when I asked him whether he was referring to the Revolution, he answered, ‘No. Of course, I am referring to the game.’”
Ventriloquist. “An Interview with the Phoenix Club.”
The Journey of Reynes
