The Master and The Marionette (The Pawn and The Puppet series Book 2)

As we duck our heads through the hidden door in the asylum basement, a crisp morning breeze greets us, along with an early morning sunset. We rush to uncover the motorcycle from its shelter of branches, weeds, and vines.

“We need to get out of these clothes when we find somewhere safe to stop,” I tell him. My white patient’s gown is thin and nearly see-through.

“Our packs are—”

The engine starts. But that isn’t what stops him from speaking.

Another engine starts. Behind us.

We turn around to see another motorcycle. A man rolling up slowly behind us. Black leather pants and jacket. Black helmet. No face.

“Hold on,” Dessin orders.

I hook my arms around his waist and cling tightly. We’re moving. He must be pressing down on the gas enough to dig a hole beneath us, because we’re now flying as fast as DaiSzek runs through the trees. The faceless man is following behind us. I should be more worried than I am. But it’s Dessin. The same man who could unarm, and cripple all of the guards that tried to restrain him on more than one occasion at the asylum. The same man that wiped out soldiers in the North Saphrine Forest. This one man on a motorcycle isn’t a match. I know it. Dessin knows it. But does Faceless know it?

Dessin takes sharp cuts around trees and over large roots to throw off our tail. It doesn’t work. But I can practically feel the engines working harder and faster in his brain. He’s got something. I sense the smile peeling over his mouth.

“Skylenna?” he calls out. I tap the muscles over his stomach to let him know I hear him.

“Yes?”

“Whatever you do… don’t let go!” he roars and a grin is sharpening his voice like a new blade. I nod against his back. Oh, god.

Dessin jerks the bike to the left in one forceful movement. I clamp down on my teeth to brace myself. The tail end of our bike grinds against the dirt, spinning around, mud and leaves and pine cones fly up around us in a wave. We take off in the faceless man’s direction.

Twenty miles per hour. Forty. Seventy.

We are moments away from meeting with the other bike in a nasty collision of metal and blood. But Dessin veers slightly to the right, swinging his right leg over the bike to meet his left leg. His hands remain on the handles, but his legs fly out to the left and kick the faceless man off of his motorcycle.

The force is a tremor in the earth. A blast from a bomb.

Faceless is ejected like bread from a toaster. He hits a tree, back first, no grunt or cry. He only lies there.

Dessin maneuvers back onto the bike and speeds off.

I can’t see his face, but oh, how that smile suits him.