Kildare stood at the corner of the street in what little shadow he could find, clutching the dark-glassed, empty liquor bottle in one hand. With the other, he double-checked the knife hidden in a holster under his arm, then tugged at the coat collar that hid the metal choker around his neck. With any luck, he’d just look like a drunk sailor who had wandered too far from the port.

He looked down at the street and closed his eyes. He hated this part. This was why he’d had Snitch and Mock. They both excelled at being the distraction part of the plan. But they weren’t here. Fir couldn’t do it, because he had to encourage that stupid vine into breaking through the window casing for them. And even though Serene had volunteered, he couldn’t let her do something like this. Couldn’t let her take the risk that it was.

She’d argued. In the end he’d begged her to just let him be protective for once, since so far it seemed like she’d been doing all the protecting. She’d backed down, rather graciously. Thankfully Fir had chosen that moment to make himself scarce.

The city guards appeared around the far corner of the building on their patrol.

Kildare desperately prayed that this wouldn’t be the last time he and Serene could be together. He let that fear push him forward, push him out into the brightly lit main street. He’d have to act better than he ever had before if he wanted to spend any more nights with Serene.

He let his limbs go loose and relaxed, stumbling down the middle of the cobbled street. Very deliberately, Kildare forced himself to not look at the city guardsmen. After a moment, he tipped the bottle up to his mouth, then grunted and shook it. He sighed and stumbled a few more steps, then began half-muttering, half-singing an off-key sailor’s shanty. He kept stumbling closer to the prison, kept raising his voice until he was almost bellowing the shanty.

“Sir?”

He ignored the guards and spun, putting his back to them and swinging his arms to the rhythm of the song. Kildare felt his neck burning—he hated this so much—but he kept going until the guard’s voice sounded again, louder and closer.

“Sir!”

Kildare let his heel catch on a cobble, and he stumbled. A hand caught his arm, just barely keeping him upright. Kildare swung around, squinting.

The two guards had stepped into the street. One still held his spear, looking around in suspicion at the street. The other had dropped his spear into the crook of his arm in order to catch Kildare.

“My thanks,” Kildare grunted, straightening. He stood upright and adjusted his coat, now holding himself too stiff, as if over-compensating for being drunk.

The guard looked him over, eyes catching on the worn sailor’s coat. “You’re a long way from the docks, friend,” he said.

Kildare blinked and looked around. “Say where? How did I—”

The other guard bent down, retrieving the bottle, and sniffed it. His face crinkled in disgust. “Ughh. How is he still walking? He’s had an entire bottle of kvass.”

“I know how to hold m’self, thank you very much,” Kildare growled.

“Clearly you don’t,” the first guard said. He gave Kildare’s arm a shove. “Get back to the docks before you’re reported to your captain as a deserter.”

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“Ain’t military.” Kildare’s mind swirled as the two men rolled their eyes and turned back toward the building. It hadn’t been long enough, not nearly. Fir had told him it would probably take ten minutes at the very least. He had to hold them off.

“Hey,” he growled. “Hey, gimme back m’ bottle.”

The guard holding the kvass bottle turned, holding it up. “I’ll dispose of it for you. Can’t have you dropping it again—next time it might break, and then someone’ll cut their foot on it. Can’t have that.”

Kildare’s heart lurched in his chest. “It’s good glass. I know a guy who’ll pay me f’r it. Gimme that.” He lunged.

The first guard stuck out the butt of his spear, planting it on the cobbles in front of Kildare’s foot.

On instinct, Kildare dodged to the side, avoiding the spear. Quick as he’d been, the guard was quicker, and he grabbed a fistful of Kildare’s coat, yanking him to a stop.

“You seem a little nimble there for a drunk man, my friend,” the guard growled.

Kildare’s blood froze. He tried to wrench free, but the man’s grip was firm. He twisted, trying to pull his arms from the jacket sleeves, but the second guard caught his other arm, digging his fingers into the nerve just below Kildare’s bicep. He gasped, his knees slightly buckling with the pain.

The first guard muttered under his breath and grabbed the coat collar, pulling it to the side. He grinned and flicked the metal ring. “Runaway shifter, hey?”

Kildare gritted his teeth. Stupid. He’d been so incredibly stupid.

“Why would a runaway come past here acting drunk?” the second guard asked. “What kind of idiot would draw attention to himself?”

“Maybe he was just thinking to pass us by, that we wouldn’t look twice at a drunk sailor.” The first guard shook Kildare. “Eh?”

Kildare tried to pull away again. “I’m not a runaway.”

“Sure you’re not.”

“Look, you can ask my master, Basalt. I’m not trying to run away.”

The guards paused, eyeing each other. Slowly, the first said, “You’re one of Basalt’s slaves?”

Kildare nodded frantically.

The two guards exchanged a glance.

“What should we do with him?” the younger one muttered, his grip tightening on Kildare’s arm. “If he’s one of Basalt’s...”

“He could be lying.”

“I don’t want to meddle in Basalt’s business.” The younger one released Kildare’s arm and stepped back. “If you want to imprison him, that’s your business, but I’m not going to have anything to do with it.”

Panic flared in Kildare’s chest. If he stayed outside, the guard might resume his patrol. Fir and Serene... He jerked back, kicking at the older guard’s knee as hard as he could. The man yelped and staggered. Kildare flailed, trying to make it look as if he was trying to pull free. The younger guard shouted and sprang back to his side. One hand grabbed his arm. The other squeezed the back of Kildare’s neck, making him wince.

As the older guard got to his feet, Kildare let them drag him up the prison steps. They slammed the door open. The interior of the prison was cold and uninviting, with a few lanterns hanging from the stone walls. A few desks were scattered around the large, open space, with offices on either side and a staircase and several doors at the back. They marched him past the desks and to the door beside the staircase. It was barred from this side and locked with two large padlocks.

Kildare felt sweat gathering on his forehead and back. Fir, you guys better get in here quickly...

The door opened onto a set of stairs leading down. The older guard grabbed a lantern from the wall and headed down, while the younger pushed Kildare after him, his hand still squeezing Kildare’s neck tight.

At the bottom of the stairs, another door opened in a dark room broken into open, barred cells. Beside the lantern, the only light in the room came from two small windows. Kildare caught a flicker of movement from the window on the left and froze. Please don’t let them see that. He tried to reach out, to send a message to Serene, but there was no breeze down here for him to use.

The guard shoved him forward, through a cell door. Kildare staggered, heard the cell clang shut behind him. He turned. “You’re making a mistake!” he said. “I’m telling you, Basalt—”

“If Basalt’s your master, then he’ll send someone to fetch you in the morning,” the older guard snapped.

“The morning! I can’t wait until the morning. Do you know what he’ll do to me if—”

“That’s none of my business.” The guards left, enclosing the room in darkness once again.

Kildare slumped against the stone wall of the back of his cell and ran his fingers through his hair.

A low, familiar chuckle came from the cell on his right.

Kildare groaned. “Hi, Snitch.”