The shouting settled back into the buzz of overlapping conversations.
Marlow watched Theo, unease knitting the frown back in place. These were good people, and their fight was something worthwhile. But a resistance this size couldn’t stand up to a force like the ministry. Theo deserved a chance to live a normal life.
“I just don’t think he should be getting involved in any of this.”
“He’s a wielder,” Felix said grimly. “He’s already involved. We all are.”
Theo was dead. The thought kept replaying in Felix’s mind, digging deeper with each repetition.
When had it happened? How? He tried to remember how long it had been since the last time he’d seen any of them. Since Gideon had helped the others flee Bedwyck. Half a year? Less? They’d planned to gather numbers, build the resistance, but the dilapidated house in front of him was incredibly discouraging.
Gideon was still alive, at least. Theo had assured August as much. He hoped that meant the others were, too.
Felix pushed the heavy door, and its hinges squealed loudly as it swung inward. The last of the fading daylight carved a dim pillar down the centre of the dark room, catching the dust thrown up by their intrusion.
He waited for any sign of movement, any sounds within.
Nothing.
“Wait here,” he whispered as he moved inside.
Each step coaxed a loud creak from the old floorboards. On the fifth one, a hand clamped onto his arm and hurled him to the ground, kicking up a fresh cloud of dust.
Felix reacted on instinct, the metal of his prosthetic crashing into the attacker’s shin and dropping them with a heavy thud. He could pick out the vague shape of a bearded face through the shadows and thought of Ashcroft. He’d found them. Tracked them somehow. Or, more likely, he’d sent his thugs because Ashcroft was a coward who didn’t fight his own fights.
The man groaned, pushing himself up from the ground, but before he could stand, Felix landed a punch, knocking him back down. Magic flared, and he narrowed his gaze, ready to use it.
“Woah woah woah, hang on now!”
He froze at the familiar voice. “Gideon?”
“Shit, kid. You’ve gotten quicker.”
Felix sat back, legs sprawled, and willed his pulse to settle. “Nah, I think you’ve gotten slower, old man.”
Gideon struggled to his feet, a shadow barely visible in the darkness. “It’s not safe up here. Come on.”
Felix cast a quick look over his shoulder at Marlow and August watching from the doorway. His leg felt like it was on fire, and he was desperate to loosen the straps and rest. “You heard the man.”
Marlow clasped his hand and helped him to his feet, then Gideon led them through the house to a cellar door. As they descended the stairs, the murmur of voices rose from below. Felix paused at the bottom to take in the large room. Cots and hammocks crowded the walls, and an old wooden table stood ringed by mismatched chairs. He counted eleven people spread through the room, lost in a heated conversation.
Gideon cleared his throat, a sharp, deliberate sound, and the room fell silent. “Way to keep your guards up,” he chided as heads turned to face him.
“Youwere the one on watch,” said a withered man with a receding hairline. He shoved up from his spot at the table and adjusted his round glasses. “What’s all this? I thought we agreedno new recruits.” Recognition dawned, and his eyes went round. “Well, would ya look at that!”
“Benjamin!” Felix called. “Thought you’d be sick of Gideon by now.”
“Ah, I’m plenty sick of him.” His gaze jumped to Gideon, who was mopping his bloody nose. “What happened to you?”
“I had to remind him who’s the better fighter,” Felix teased.
“You landed one hit,” muttered Gideon. “Don’t be gettin’ notions.” He dropped into a creaky chair as someone tossed him a rag.
Felix found Lark and Niall then, and his relief was bright and sudden. He’d missed them something fierce.
Lark rushed forward, wrapping her arms first around him, then around Marlow. She was more beautiful than he remembered, with warm cinnamon hair tumbling over her shoulders, her rose-ivory features carrying the refined look of nobility, which, of course, she was. Lark Tiernaigh was the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Bedwyck. A noble fighting with the resistance, which Felix had never fully understood.
Niall was next, pulling him into a hug so tight, Felix was sure his ribs would crack. He was beautiful, too—all muscle and sinew, with dark twists of hair that hung to his jaw, and skin the shade of deep mahogany. Though he was built like a brawler, Niall was in truth a hopeless romantic with a generous heart and a knack for solving puzzles.
