“Who? The duke?” “Uh-huh,” she said, looking worried.  “Does that mean I’m a demon worshipper?”

“I’ll kill you when I find you, you little bastard!” Petro Marok sat in the shadows of his alley hiding place, nursing his bruised hand and sobbing. He was low to the ground, hidden behind the butcher’s shop, tucked out of sight and forgotten.

He ducked into the first shop he saw on the next street over and crouched behind a rack of hats. Less than twenty seconds later, the soldiers sprinted past the doorway and down the street, cursing.

Ten steps away from the crates, Gregory heard scrambling behind him. He had finally realized where Gregory was heading.

With a shrug, he shouldered his pack and began walking down the primary thoroughfare. He was confident in his decision to seek out the caravan, now that he had made it, and was glad that he’d managed to motivate himself.

After careful thought and much deliberation, Gregory Colton decided the days were too long in these northern countries.

Abdullah strode through the empty Command Deck, heart thumping in his chest. His stomach was doing flips and his legs felt like rubber; all he wanted to do was lie down.

“Words?” Haatim echoed after Frieda closed the connection. “Should I be concerned?” “Only if you enjoy living,” Abigail answered. “I only get that tone from her when she’s really pissed off. What did you do? How did you get them to give me more time?”

“We have to leave,” Abigail said. “They are about to burn the city to the ground.” Haatim stared at her, wondering if maybe he’d heard wrong. He had hit his head during the car crash, so maybe he had a concussion. He shook his head.