groaning noise—the distinctive sound of the heavy door to the hallway of cells. Was there trouble?
Margery lay down and pretended to be asleep.
Keys clanked. A door somewhere unlocked and opened. Someone whispered, “Into the hall. We’re getting out of here.”
What? That was Darcy’s voice.
Margery jumped off her bed.
Her friend was alive? Last September, she’d escaped. Like Margery, she’d been rail-thin, fading, dying. Margery had thought that was why Darcy had run—to taste freedom before her death. Soon after, the Director announced she’d been caught and killed.
Do dead people whisper?
Leaning against her cell door, Margery held her breath in hope—and listened.
Movement. More whispers.
Another door creaked open. Then the lock on her own cell turned. The door opened.
“Darcy.” Margery’s voice was almost inaudible because her friend stood there, healthy and strong. As joy filled Margery, she reached out.
Darcy squeezed her hand, tugged her out into the hall, and moved to unlock the next door.
When the last door was opened, the captives gathered—ages ranging from thirteen to twenty-four—silently crying and hugging.
“The Director said you were killed,” Idelle whispered.
Darcy snorted her opinion of the lie. “I escaped and found other shifters. We’re breaking you and our brothers out at the same time. You need to do what I say.” Fear and determination radiated from her.
Margery stared at her in disbelief. Darcy should’ve stayed safe, not set herself up for certain death. One person might make it out. All of them? Past armed guards, powerful spotlights, machine guns in the bunkers. Over ten-foot stone walls.
We’ll all die.
Yet hope rose within her like a painful, burning brand.
Darcy moved closer, her whisper barely audible. “Go to the ground floor, out the back door, and hide behind the building.”
Little Alice, barely thirteen, tangled hair falling over her cheeks, tugged at Darcy’s shirt. “What about the alarms? The floodlights? The guards? We’ll—”
“The lights will be gone; trust me.” Darcy held up a broken-off mop handle stained with blood. “I’ll handle the guards.”
But if we’re caught trying to escape… Terror froze Margery’s muscles. Fear fogged her vision at the memory of her worst beating. The tearing gut-wrenching pain as her arms and legs broke, then her ribs. The backhand across her face—the guard’s ring ripping her face open. Her blood hotter than fire. The huge boot crushing her ankle. Her screams…
The metallic taste of panic choked her as she fought her way out of the memory. She ran a finger down the long scar on her face to remind herself it was over. In the past.
Darcy’s eyes met hers. “Can you bring up the rear and make sure everyone stays together?”
No, no. The guards are out there. Will catch us. Hurt us.
The other females looked at Margery with hope, with fear. Waiting for her decision.
Her gaze fell on Gallia’s bruised face. There was…a chance. It would be worth any torture to get the younglings out of here.
Reaching deep, Margery found some courage. She lifted her chin. “I can.”
A few minutes later, she trailed the others down the narrow staircase. Every soft footstep echoed; every sharp breath sounded like a shout.
Each time the cubs turned to look at her, she nodded reassurance and held her finger to her lips.
Her heart thumped like a wild thing inside her ribs. Every nerve screamed for her to flee before the Scythe found them. The cold sweat of fear trickled down her back.
She kept her feet moving.
She wouldn’t fail the others.
At last, the stairs ended, and she followed the group out the back door into the dark night. Darcy motioned for them to hide behind the privet hedge at the rear of the building.
At yelling from the front, everyone dove into the bushes.
Huddling down, Margery peeked around the dense foliage. The compound’s floodlights were dark. Not even the generator-run emergency lights were on. Shouting, weapons out, guards ran past, and Margery cringed as her body remembered the brutal canes, the boots, the fists.
“Stay down.” Darcy stripped and shoved her clothes under a bush. The air around her shimmered…and she trawsfurred into a panther.
Oh, Goddess. Darcy had shifted. None of the imprisoned females had ever managed to trawsfur.
Margery held her breath as awe mingled with an instinctive longing so deep it was carved into her bones.
I want to shift, dance in the moonlight, feel the breeze in my fur.
Inside the building, gunshots snapped. Men yelled. The door burst open, and two panthers sprang out, blood streaking their golden fur.
One shifted to human. Even as Margery blinked at the sight of a naked male, he bent and