The Lost Boys watch Jack in wonder, whispering between themselves. I consider my brother, his rage boiling behind his dark eyes. I could release Jack to the Lost Kids and, with a little encouragement, his punishment would be crueler, more brutal than anything he experienced at Lohr Castle. Perhaps, though, Jack could still be useful.
“Pirate has such a nasty connotation,” I interject between the accusations. “We are Marauders, not pirates. We pillage, steal, kidnap, and murder at the pleasure of the Bloodred Queen.” I nod to a group of Marauders, their rifles trained on the boys. “Take them to the palace, but keep Mikey close. I think we’ll need him to coax his sister from hiding.”
Justice kicks another stone at me. This time, I don’t duck quite fast enough and it connects with my forehead. I reach to touch the lump I can already feel growing on my head and pull my hand away. Blood shimmers on the fingertips of my black gloves beneath the lamplight.
“Nice shot, but you will regret that, Lost Boy.” I snatch my pistol from its holster. The sound of a single gunshot drowns out the collective gasps of the boys. Justice’s eyes grow wide as he reaches for his chest. A crimson stain blooms on his waistcoat. He stumbles back, falling against a rock wall before slumping to the floor. His lifeless eyes stare coldly at me.
“Bloody pirate, I’ll kill you!” Gabs says, throwing weak punches at me.
I flip the pistol in my hand, gripping the barrel, and smack him across the head with the butt of the gun. He flies to the floor in a crumpled heap. Blood bursts from a gash on his cheek. I stoop over him and smile.
“Time to go to Everland, Lost Boys.”
The tunnel curves to the left, and after traveling for a while, we reach a gilded door covered in mismatched metal gadgets. Lily spins gears, switches levers, and tugs on wheels in an elaborate sequence. The door clicks. She pushes the door and steps into a dimly lit space. A faint antiseptic scent of alcohol tingles my nose. Sheets partition the space, creating three makeshift rooms. Cotton balls, bottles of alcohol and hydrogen peroxide, bandages, and other first aid supplies fill an open cabinet over a stainless steel sink. When we enter the room, Lily shuts the door behind us. A series of metallic grinding and clicks emanates from the other side of the door, securing us into the small room.
“Come on,” Lily says, reaching a delicate hand out to Pete, “let’s fix you up.”
Pete takes her hand and gives her a lopsided smile as she guides him to a partition and pulls the sheet aside. Something new stirs within me, and I suddenly feel protective of Pete as I glance at her gloved hand in his.
“It’s only a scratch. I’m fine,” he says.
“Sit,” she says, nodding to Pete. He settles on the bed, the bandage on his arm soaked through with blood. “I’ll at least clean it and apply a fresh bandage before the Professor arrives.”
Pete removes his dark green coat. He winces as he pulls off his shirt. I catch myself staring at his shirtless torso, noticing that the canvas of tattoos continues over his defined chest muscles and cut abs. The black and brown inks scrawl across his body in a network of pictures that look as if his flesh has been peeled back and his insides are made of the inner parts of a clock. Wheels and gears ink across his chest in place of a heart, lungs, and stomach. In the faint glow of candlelight, his body appears to be more machine than human.
Noticing my stare, Pete looks at his chest. “I always thought the world couldn’t hurt me if I was machine, not flesh,” he says, covering the tattoos with his arms. “I know. It’s a silly boy’s dream.”
I force my attention away from the inked wheels, cogs, and bolts on his chest and to his eyes, which sparkle like green sea glass. My cheeks grow warm. “It’s beautiful,” I say, hearing the surprise in my own voice. He gives me a tired smile.
Pickpocket clears his throat, reminding me of the audience around me, and I feel heat crawl up my neck, face, and ears. Mortified, I berate myself. I’ve been brave in the face of danger, dodged bombs and bullets, eluded soldiers, fought others for supplies, but a shirtless boy makes my legs feel weak.
“How do you know the Professor will come?” Mole asks.
Lily pulls supplies from the cabinet and places them on a metal cart. “She comes nightly after the soldiers make their final rounds of the palace. Once they know she’s secured in the lab, she tends to her patients here.”
“And who are her patients?” I ask, settling down on the end of Pete’s cot.
“Other orphans. I search the streets for abandoned children and bring them here for treatment before they are sent from Everland to safer territory,” Lily says.
Pete’s mouth turns up in a crooked smile. “Sounds like a familiar story,” he says.
Lily’s brows rise in a curious expression, but then she returns his smile. “As I’m sure you know by now, everyone is infected by the virus even if they aren’t showing symptoms. Inevitably we all will be sickened by the Horologia virus. Without her treatment, we will all die. Especially the girls.”