Pete peers up at me with glassy eyes before he drops his gaze back down to the brackish water below him. He takes the lead, not acknowledging me as he continues ahead. My heart snaps in two, but I press my lips together. I won’t let him, any of them, see me cry.
We travel for half an hour in an uncomfortable silence. The only sound is the sloshing of our feet as we travel through the water. A ladder attached to a brick wall appears ahead of us.
“This is it,” Pickpocket says.
One by one, we climb through the manhole. Pete takes my hand as I reach street level. As his fingers touch mine, relief washes over me, but it is only brief.
“Welcome back to Everland,” Pete says, frowning.
The city is nothing like I remember. The street is littered with debris and broken concrete, evidence of the magnificent structures that once stood here. Thick cracks weave through the fragmented street of St. Paul’s churchyard like a web with rubble from nearby buildings caught in its snare. Wagons lie in tangled heaps on their sides.
St. Paul’s Cathedral looms a short distance away, its domed roof now a crown of charcoal-colored, jagged spikes. Hurrying up the street, the Lost Boys, Pete, and I pass by the remains of the church’s majestic columns and parapet. I avert my gaze as we walk past the severed head of the saint’s statue, which had stood on top of the building.
Mole sniffs the air and shakes his head. “Bella was here, but the rain has washed away most of her scent. It’s going to be tough to find her.”
“Bella has a scent?” I ask, curious what she might smell like. Or what I might smell like, for that matter. Having not bathed in weeks, I can only imagine it isn’t anything pleasant.
“Sure,” Pete replies. “We all do. Why do you think I brought Mole along?”
“Mole says I smell like the forest,” Jack says. “Pickpocket smells like grease, Doc smells like ammonia, and Pete smells like …”
“A rooster,” Mole interjects, wrinkling his nose.
“That’s gross, but it explains the cock-a-doodle-doo you do,” I say, elbowing Pete.
Pete gives a lopsided grin. “If the stink fits.”
“Shh,” Mole whispers with a wave, “we’re not alone. What is that sound?”
In the distance, the faint sound of machines, metal scraping against metal, fills the early evening air. The ground vibrates as the noise draws closer, shaking loose debris from the structures around us.
“Watch out!” Pete tackles me as concrete stones break off the face of the building and plummet to the ground. We fall hard onto the pavement. Pete shelters me from the falling rock, his hands wrapped tightly over his own dark hair. His breath is hot and rapid against my cheek. When the spray of pebbles stops, he lifts his head, watching me with worry. Bright sunlight shimmers in my vision. I blink and shield my eyes from the sun. When I look back at him, the only light that remains is the one that sparkles in his eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his lips close to mine.
I struggle to find words, but they catch in my throat. Instead I nod.
Pete rolls off me and extends a hand, helping me to my feet.
Doc stands from his crouched position, coughing. “Is anyone hurt?”
The rest of the boys mumble as they shake the dust off. The ground trembles again, shaking loose more debris.
“Come on,” Pete says. “We need to find cover.”
“What is that?” Jack asks, steadying himself.
The color in Mole’s face drains. “We need to hide! Now!”
Pete brushes dust from his green coat. “What do you smell?” he asks urgently.
“It smells like a graveyard. Death,” Mole squeaks. “It’s Marauders, and a lot of them. I’d say at least a few dozen, maybe more.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Pickpocket says.
Pete sprints into a nearby building. We follow, climbing through the empty windows of the ground-floor shop of the now five-and-a-half-story building. The other half lies in pieces on the street, along with most of the face of the structure. We push aside the toppled café tables and chairs while broken panes of glass crunch beneath our boots. Pete helps me climb over the counter. The other Lost Boys follow behind, knocking a stack of Café Rouge menus to the floor.
Hiding, we listen as the high shrill of rusty gears pierces through the hammering of something heavy on the street. As the noise draws nearer, the building shudders violently, showering us with ceiling tiles as the ground quakes. Pete peeks over the counter. His mouth drops open. “I’ve never seen so many soldiers in one place.”
I glance through the vacant windows. A dozen machines held together with bronze-colored bolts, cogs, and wheels crawl down the street like an army of spiders. Spirals of steam rise from pipes on the back of the vehicles like wisps of phantom energy. Marauders flank either side of the tanks, searching the buildings through goggled face masks and scoped weapons, their guns engaged in ready position. Some soldiers enter the other buildings, breaking windows and tossing pieces of furniture as if they were made of children’s blocks.
“This isn’t good,” Pickpocket says. “What are we going to do?”