Crash! The pursuers ran right into it.
“Aarrghhh!” Bodies fell in a writhing tangle.
“Goodness me,” Beth murmured.
They raced on, coming eventually to a wide door that opened on the hotel’s delivery yard. Devon shut and barred it behind them, then indicated a narrow alley.
“We’ll cut through there and head for the South Kensington train station as fast as we can.”
“All right,” Beth agreed.
They crossed the yard, Devon glancing at Beth sidelong. “You don’t seem surprised that I’m here.”
“I knew you’d come—”
“For Birder of the Year?” he said, finishing her sentence. His voice sounded like it had its hands in its pockets and its gaze focused on the middle distance: not at all upset about her response, entirely nonchalant.
“For me,” she corrected him.
He stopped abruptly, halfway along the narrow alley, caught by her words. Smiling, he cupped a hand to one side of her face more gently than he would hold the most precious and rare bird.
“I will always come for you, Beth. You are my sunlight.”
She would have swooned, were it not for the present circumstances. Leaning into the warmth and comfort of his hand, she smiled at him in return. “You are my wild wind.”
They gazed at each other with a longing that felt like it could defy time—or that had simply forgotten half a dozen rival ornithologists were after them. The grim alley began to glow with soft, golden spangles, as though their hearts were emanating love as a radiant magic…
Oh, Beth thought, blinking away from Devon to stare up at the light. Damn.
—
As Beth shifted her gaze, Devon went on helplessly gazing at her, transfixed. He’d thought she was pretty from the first moment he saw her, and she’d become truly gorgeous in his eyes the more he learned about her; but now he could think of no adjective sufficient for this woman. She was beyond description. She was something for which he needed a language of heartbeats and deep, satisfied sighs.
She reached out to touch one long, serene coil of light, and as it slid across her hand she seemed to light with another kind of magic. A very specific, beautiful Beth magic, Devon thought, one that unfurled from her soul in response to ornithology. “Such a comprehensive and elaborately luminescent manifestation of thaumaturgic energy is extraordinary for a juvenile bird,” she said.
And even if he hadn’t already decided on it, Devon would have known in that moment he needed to marry her, just so he could listen to her talk like that for the rest of his life. But then he realized she was frowning, and he frowned too, abruptly remembering the circumstances in which they found themselves.
“This cannot be good,” she said. Holding up the birdcage, she lifted its cover warily.
“Shit,” Devon said, magic turning to ash in his throat.
Pip, the caladrius responded. It hunched lopsidedly on its perch, feathers dull and gray, tail bobbing, as it squinted wearily at its glimmering enchantment.
“It needs to fly,” Beth said, lowering the cover again, “but we can’t just release it here, in a London alley.” Her tone was brisk, her manner entirely professional despite the anguish on her face. “We need water. And fruit. Mashed banana, applesauce.”
“We need to run,” Devon corrected her.
She nodded, and without further discussion they ran along the alley, trailing golden magic. Turning down one street, then another, they headed south—
“Hey!”
In the center of road ahead stood a man, waving his arms furiously. In one hand he held a pistol, and before Devon even processed the sight, a shot rang out.
Devon immediately leaped in front of Beth, causing her to collide with him. The caladrius cheeped in fright, wings fluttering against its cage bars. Pedestrians screamed and ran. But the man was focused entirely on Beth and Devon. With the gun pointed skyward, and a thin cigarette hanging limp from between his lips, he shouted rather dubiously, “I’m not going to hurt you!”
“Schreib!” Devon said like a curse.
“Quick!” Beth tugged on his arm. “This way!”
They veered onto a leafy avenue and raced past the Imperial Institute construction site, breath burning in their lungs. Schreib followed, demanding that they stop. Coming to Exhibition Road, they turned south again toward the train station.
“Hey!” came another roar.
“Damn!” Devon swore as Cholmbaumgh rushed for them, waving a cricket bat. Forced to retreat, they ran north, weaving through a crowd of pedestrians and inciting outraged comments and much clicking of tongues as they went. Schreib and Cholmbaumgh trailed them relentlessly.
“What are we going to do?” Beth asked with increasing panic. “The caladrius won’t survive this for long.”
“We’ll have to take it to the Albert Aviary,” Devon said.
“The place that agent of PRESS suggested?”
Devon pointed to the lush trees of Kensington Gardens, visible at the end of the road. “It’s just up ahead.”
He took her hand and they increased their pace even more, the birdcage swinging wildly in Beth’s grip. Glancing back at Schreib and Cholmbaumgh, she felt a sudden, uncomfortable sympathy for all the birds she had chased. The men were jogging steadily, appearing almost unhurried, as if they were not trying to catch their prey but herd them. It was a common birding tactic, and she looked away rather queasily—just in time to see Hippolyta and Oberhufter appear as if from nowhere, a few yards ahead.
“Halt!” Oberhufter roared.
“Halt!” Hippolyta added in English.
