Tracked by Terror by Brad Strickland Page B

as he could. He hit the pier and sprawled flat, then scrambled to his feet and clutched at the Grimoire, still safe inside his shirt. Betsy was running away already, and he stumbled after her, hearing the man up on the ship’s deck curse him and bark out, “Keep an eye out for wharf rats, men! These beggar children will get aboard and steal us blind.”
    One of the crew, already standing on the pier, lashed out with the end of a rope as Jarvey raced past. The man missed, but Jarvey heard the rope hiss through the dark air and even felt the breeze of it on his cheek. He caught up with Betsy a second later. They passed the prow of the ship, and then pelted down the long pier and onto a cobbled street. There Betsy stopped short, gasping for air, and Jarvey blundered right into her. “What now?”
    â€œGet our bearin’s,” she said. “Get some food. Get some clothes.” She sniffed. “Get a bath, if we can. You need one.
    â€œSo do you,” he growled.
    They were in a town of low one-story buildings, hushed and quiet in the hour before sunrise. Betsy’s keen nose led them to a place where someone was cooking something. Jarvey’s mouth started to water at a scent like bananas and fresh-baked bread. It seemed to be a simple kind of restaurant, with a long counter along the front and a few people inside bending over stoves and opening ovens. They walked past it, and then Betsy said, “Wait,” and slipped away. Jarvey stood in a darkened doorway as she melted off into the twilight.
    The sky had begun to show streaks of dawn by the time she returned a few minutes later. “Here,” she said, thrusting something warm into his hand. “Eat this.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œDunno, but it’s loads better than ship’s biscuit!”
    Jarvey bit into it. It was a sweet banana bread, still warm from the oven, and he ate it voraciously. “Where’d you get it?”
    â€œSlenked it from a little shop,” Betsy said shortly. “They’ve got shelves full of it, never miss a couple of pieces. C’mon, we’ll find a place to hole up until we can tell where we are and whether your parents are here.”
    That was something else Betsy was good at, finding hideouts. Back in Lunnon she and her gang had existed like rats, finding a way to live right under the feet of the masters of the place, and they had never been caught. By the time the sun was well up and people were stirring, Betsy had found a possible hiding place. It was just a neglected and dusty ten-by-ten-foot structure of splintered gray wood, some kind of abandoned storage building, standing right up against a fence. The door creaked open and they slipped inside.
    Jarvey’s nose twitched. They had disturbed years of dust. No one had used this hut for anything for ages. Three empty wooden crates had been tossed in carelessly, but even they wore a fuzzy coat of ancient dust. Betsy tugged one of these into place so it blocked the door. “How will we get out?” Jarvey asked.
    â€œThis way.” Betsy tugged and pried at the rotten boards in the back, breaking them off until she had made an escape hatch big enough for them to scramble through on all fours. The fence was right up against the back of the hut, and Jarvey pointed that out. “We can’t squeeze into there. I doubt a mouse could do it.”
    â€œWe’re not getting between the house and the fence. We’re going through the fence,” Betsy retorted. Then she kicked at one of the fence boards until it creaked loose at the bottom. Finally she pushed the board aside and took a quick look.
    â€œLovely. Just a narrow, dark alley behind here, so we can get in and out without having to sneak by a watch-man or anything. We’re set. Now all we have to do is find out where we are, and what the rules are.” She thought for a moment and then said, “Maybe we’d better hide the