Free Shrike (Book 2): Rampant by Emmie Mears

once.
    The first name on the list is Timothy Strand. He's a Tory who lives in Morningside, according to Macy's spreadsheet. The notes say he's an historian and a hacker, but that's it. Scanning down the list, it looks like a lot of these folks are one of those things or both. It makes me wonder how any of them stumbled upon Britannia in the first place. 
    A few, like Sarah MacKay, Esther Smith, and Wally Campbell seem to be off the grid, all living outside cities but in locations that still have decent broadband. I'm not convinced that some of the names aren't aliases.
    My phone buzzes just as I'm about to climb out my window to go to Taog's. Trevor.
    "Where'd you get that list?" He asks without preamble.
    "Someone went through a good amount of trouble to find me. She went by the name of Macy, but there's no way that's her real name."
    "Gu Bràth?" 
    "I reckon not. Just someone not too keen on landing on the pointy end of Granger's knives."
    Trevor falls silent. "You said she put them in order of priority as best she could. Do you trust that?"
    "I don't know what else to do, Trevor."
    "Very well. I'll put surveillance on the first few names, see if they catch any wind of Granger."
    "Tell them to stay out of sight. Granger's not exactly unfamiliar with espionage. I'd bet she can spot a tail before you pin it on her."
    "I'm not an idiot, Shrike."
    "Bloody hell. Just covering our arses. You're welcome for the intel, Sergeant." I feel a surge of heat in my chest and tamp it down. 
    I hear Trevor's deep, slow breath. "You're right. I'm sorry. We're on it."
    The click tells me he's hung up, and I sit back on the edge of my bed until my blood pressure returns to normal. 
     
     
    Crawling in bed with Taog brings more comfort than I'd like to admit. When I climb through his window, the muscles in his face relax, and his chest falls with the sigh that escapes him. I've already changed this time, and my trousers are just slightly damp from the spots of rain that fell on them between my window and his. Taog doesn't seem to mind when he folds back the duvet for me.
    His arms seek me out, and I nestle into the crook of his shoulder once more. At first I worry that the sleep we both found last night was just a fluke, that tonight we'll both of us be too worked up to sleep again, too fearful of nightmares and starting awake in the wee hours with sweat dripping down our backs and adrenaline pumping tin into our blood.
    But with Taog's arms around me and mine bent across his chest, my hand stroking his collarbone, his breathing slows to match mine, and within minutes, he's asleep. I crane my head and gently kiss his cheek before allowing sleep to take me.
    When morning comes on Friday, Taog and I stare at each other, our hands and arms still clinging to one another's bodies like we've tasted the good stuff of sleep and are afraid the next fix will never come.
    And yet, we pry ourselves out from under the duvet for work.
    My job is enough to distract me during the day, and I don't hear a peep from Trevor about the surveillance, which means it hasn't gotten exciting. 
    That night, with the Friday crowds in the city centre, I decide I need to see for myself.
    Timothy Strand's flat in Morningside is in a nice building surrounded by dormant hydrangeas that likely paint the crescent with colour in the spring. For now, mid-winter, they hibernate with the sun.
    I approach on the rooftops, and even my still-undertrained eye catches the two bobbies in unmarked cars that flank Strand's building from a hundred yards away. Harrumph . Trevor himself might not be daft, but if I can see the two coppers' silhouettes in the dark, I've no doubt Granger can as well.
    The sky is inky black above my head, stained only with sickly yellow from the city's light pollution. No rain falls now, though the mist from the firth leaves the air moist and chills my face.
    Strand's flat is on the second floor, and I can't see anything through the curtains. Black-out