The Secret City by C.J. Daugherty & Carina Rozenfeld

Author:C.J. Daugherty & Carina Rozenfeld
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781786811059
Publisher: Bookouture

Nineteen

Sacha was driving too fast, but he didn’t want to slow down. The motorcycle roared beneath him, Taylor’s hands were warm against his waist, and a long, straight French highway stretched out in front of them.

He was free of that college. Free of Oxford. Free, for the moment, of Mortimer.

They’d been on the road for hours now. They’d caught the ferry without incident, and had been driving back roads ever since, without any sign of Dark energy around them. Louisa and Alastair were out there somewhere, taking a different route. Taylor checked in periodically to make sure all was well.

So far, the plan was working perfectly. The only problem was a very basic human weakness – Sacha was exhausted.

The road kept blurring in front of his eyes, and he found the handlebars harder to hold on to.

He hadn’t slept at all the night before and it was now late afternoon.

‘You OK?’ Taylor called, shouting to be heard above the wind.

Keeping his eyes on the road, Sacha nodded. He was fine.

Absolutely fine.

He had to be.

They passed another road sign for Paris. One hundred and seventy-five kilometres – no distance at all. He could be home in two hours, sitting on the couch with his mother and Laura, telling them about the professors at St Wilfred’s – making it all sound funny.

Paris was like a homing beacon, calling to him.

What if he did die? What if he never saw his family again?

The edges of the road blurred again, and he blinked hard to clear his vision.

He needed to stop thinking, but he was just so tired.

Lost in his troubled thoughts, he barely noticed they’d entered a small village until a red light loomed in front of him, and he slammed the brakes, narrowly avoiding a car crossing in front of them.

Taylor was thrown against him. Sacha dropped his foot to brace the motorcycle, which threatened to topple.

‘Sorry,’ he said, turning to look at her.

Worried green eyes peered back at him through her visor.

‘You look really tired, Sacha.’

‘I am tired,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘Maybe we should take a break.’

Her helmet bobbed in agreement.

‘What do you think?’ He gestured at the town. ‘Is it safe?’

The lone street light hung at a crossroads in what appeared to be a typical French village. All the houses were built of the same pale yellow stone. Bright roses hung over old walls. A church with a tall steeple sat squarely in the middle.

She pulled off her helmet, sending a tangle of blonde curls tumbling around her shoulders. Her cheeks were pink. A velvety sheen of perspiration covered the bridge of her nose.

They both looked around at the diminutive village square, its trees shivering in the summer breeze.

‘Looks safe to me,’ she said after a second. ‘No bad guys.’

Sacha parked the bike on a narrow lane at the edge of the square. When he cut off the engine the silence was deafening. Gradually, though, as his ears adjusted he could hear the breeze blowing through the trees, and the birds complaining overhead.

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