Free Cloaked by Alex Flinn Page A

go. The rat scurries off, and I lean, frozen, feeling the ache in my thighs but unable to take a single step. I’m hot and pained and dead. Deaddeaddeaddead. The footsteps come closer, closer.
    I wait a minute, then two, to see if they come back.
    Finally Harry whispers, “I think he’s gone.” The first words he’s said since we got here.
    “Yeah,” I whisper back. “That was close. We should go.” I have the information I need, even though it sounds impossible. Sally’s. A fox named Todd. Cornelius sent me.
    Since Harry’s behind me, he moves out first, and I follow. But as I get close enough to see the lights from Seaboard Marine, I hear a familiar roar. A motorcycle! I feel a whoosh of air, then hear a boom and see a flash of white light. A gunshot! Harry’s on the ground behind me.
    “Harry!” I can’t stop myself from screaming his name. I dive to the ground beside him.
    “Got him!” a voice says.
    Then, a second voice. A woman. “ Nein. There is someone with him.”
    Oh no. I know what I have to do. I unzip my backpack and pull out the cloak. “Stay with me, Harry,” I whisper.
    “No,” the swan whispers. “It is time for my swan song. Save yourself. Run!”
    The motorcycle’s wheels shriek in a circle. I fumble with the cloak, finally wrapping it around both of us. “Hang in there, boy! Don’t start singing yet!” I clutch at the swan, feeling the smoothness of its white feathers, the warm stickiness of blood. I hear the motorcycle roar again, coming toward me in the same whoosh of air.
    I wish I was back at the hotel, I think.
    And then, there’s a flash.

Chapter 15
    I recognize sounds first. Car horns. People yelling. Crashing waves from the beach. The crackle of neon. I’m on South Beach. In a cloak. Holding a bleeding once-human swan.
    I lift my head to see if anyone’s watching us, but no. It’s the usual South Beach oblivion, people zombified by lights and the liquor. Still, I unwrap the bloody cloak and hide it inside my backpack, then look down at Harry.
    He blinks at me. “How . . . how are we here?”
    “Shh.” I glance at the stain spreading across his snow-white breast. “We’re here. I’ll get someone to help.”
    “But . . .” He moves his beak, but no sound comes out.
    “Hold that thought,” I say. “Don’t die on me.”
    Zipping my backpack as I go, I run into the empty lobby. I can’t handle the idea that this guy might die as a swan. I’m even more worried that he might turn human after death.
    The night clerk is gone, and I glance first left, then right, seeing no one.
    “Help!” I yell. “Outside! Someone’s shot a swan!”
    I run back toward my shop, meaning to use the phone, to call 911, and tell them . . . I don’t know what. I expect to see no one, but instead, I find Meg. She takes in my panting face and bloodied shirt. “What is it?”
    “Outside on Collins. Someone’s shot a swan!” I can’t explain to her that it’s not a swan, but a man. “Call nine-one-one.”
    I start back to the lobby, confident she’ll do it. But Meg stops me with a hand on my arm. “You call. I’ll go to him . . . it. I’m calmer.” She pushes me aside and darts past me.
    I’m alone, alone and faced with the impossible knowledge that someone shot at me. Someone knew I was at the port and why. Someone wants to stop me from finding Prince Philippe, maybe enough to kill over it.
    When I return to the lobby, the swans are awake, staring out the windows. They see me and swarm around, all speaking at once. I push through them and out the door. Meg cradles Harry in her arms, and for an instant, I’m sure he’s dead. But then, he raises his head and stares at me. Meg is applying pressure with a dish towel, though red still pools on the street. I hear a siren. It winds to a stop. Then, running steps.
    “Where’s the victim?” It’s a paramedic.
    I gesture toward Harry. The guy looks at Meg. “You hurt, miss?”
    “Not her,” I say. “The