The Spirit War(75)

She was about to make her traditional demand to be set free when she noticed something was wrong. The man’s scowling face was off, somehow, his dark eyes unfocused and glossy. That was all she saw before he fell forward.

Miranda danced back with an undignified squeal. The Shaper landed face-first on the floor with a hollow thump, his arms flopping beside him in a way that made her stomach twist. She stared at him for several seconds before an infuriating, familiar voice brought her eyes back up.

“Well, well. Still alive?”

Sparrow was leaning on the door to her cell, a smug smile on his thin lips.

Miranda took a step back. “You!”

“Your gallant hero,” he said, spreading his arms with a flourish.

Miranda took another step back, keeping her distance as Sparrow stepped into the cell. He was dressed in the same dull brown he’d worn to chase Eli, and though the color should have stood out like a stain against the pure white walls, she was having a hard time focusing on him. Slowly, subtly, she hid her hands in her pockets and began to wake her spirits, just in case.

“Why are you here?”

“To rescue you, of course,” Sparrow said, his voice all sincerity.

Miranda didn’t buy it for a moment. “If you think I believe that you snuck in here and killed a man to rescue me out of the goodness of your heart—”

“Perish the thought,” Sparrow said. “I’m here because Sara wants you alive and useable, which means not locked up. And I didn’t kill anyone, for your information.” He kicked the downed man with his boot. “It’s a paralytic poison. He’ll wake up in an hour with pins and needles like he’s never felt, but otherwise unharmed. Not to crush your ego, but Sara doesn’t care enough about your rescue to risk angering the mountain by killing a Shaper.”

“But freeing a prisoner is fine?”

Sparrow gave her a withering look. “My patience is very thin today, Spiritualist. If you would rather not be rescued, I can leave you here.”

“No, no,” Miranda said quickly, her shoulders slumping. “I’m in your debt, Sparrow.”

“You don’t know the half of it, dear,” he said, walking farther into the cell. “Shall we be off?”

“No,” Miranda said, shaking her head. “Gin and Slorn are still prisoners. I can’t leave without them.”

“Way ahead of you,” Sparrow said. “I knew you wouldn’t turn down an offer of escape, so I took the liberty of freeing the dog first. As for Slorn, he’s decided to remain in the mountain, so we’ll just have to make do without his sterling company.”

Miranda gave an incredulous snort. “You actually think I believe that?”

“I don’t much care what you believe,” Sparrow said. “But understand that Slorn is worth a lot more to Sara than you are. I would gladly trade you for him if I could, but the bear man said he had unfinished business with the mountain.”

“So you left him?” Miranda said, horrified. “Just like that?”

“Just. Like. That,” Sparrow answered. “I have many jobs, Miss Lyonette. Bear wrestler isn’t one of them. We came to an arrangement of mutual benefit to the reasonable satisfaction of both parties. Let’s leave it at that. Now, we should be going before the Shapers miss our friend here.” He tapped the prone man with his boot again. “Or before your overprotective dog gets nervous and decides to come find you himself.”

Miranda paled. She wouldn’t put it past Gin. “Fine,” she said. “How are we getting out?”

Sparrow smiled and slipped his hand into his pocket. “The Shapers must not think too much of you,” he said, pulling out something small, flat, and dark. “This cell is right up against the mountain’s outer wall, so that’s the way we’re going to go.”

“What?” Miranda said. “Through the wall?”

“A bit flashy, I’ll grant you,” Sparrow said, tossing the small, black object with one hand and catching it in the other. “But thanks to your overly inquisitive and suspicious nature, we don’t exactly have the luxury of time.”

Miranda’s eyes darted to the thing he was tossing between his hands. It was shaped like a teardrop, smooth, dark, and slightly wrinkled, like a peach pit. “What’s that?”

“One of Sara’s experiments,” Sparrow said, bending over and tucking the thing into the crook where the wall met the floor. “You may want to step back.”

Miranda’s eyes widened, but she obeyed, stepping back to the door to her cell while carefully avoiding the paralyzed guard. Sparrow followed a moment later. In the hall was the small cart that the guard had been pushing before Sparrow had interrupted him. It was loaded with plates of cold prison rations, which Miranda recognized far too well, and a stone pitcher of water, which Sparrow grabbed.