Talon had been the Eagle Clan’s scrounger ever since the Domestic Authority snared Beak. Beak grew big early—six feet tall by age thirteen—and the High Aerie kept him a scrounger despite their wisdom. At fifteen and five-foot-two, Talon didn’t think height would hurt him (his parents barely reached five-foot-four). But his shoes....
“He’s entering the Sears off Haycroft.” The message came through clearly on the walkie-talkie Talon had filched from a Dome-Auth officer two weeks earlier. “Approach via northeast.”
Talon considered his position. He suspected the Night Patrol knew he used the store as a shortcut home, which made a northeastern approach foolishness. “They know you have a radio,” Talon whispered. Something skittered under a scrap of cardboard when he spoke.
A southeastern approach made more sense, and as Talon considered this, flashlight beams strobed from that direction. He left the way he’d entered, as noisily as possible.
“He’s seen us,” blurted the radio.
The Night Patrol followed Talon eastward to a new construction site. Like a Will-o’-the-Wisp, his sneakers led them up three flights, across a plywood floor to a stairwell. His pursuers didn’t make it. Weighing more than Talon’s ninety-five pounds, they fell through portions of flooring Talon had previously weakened, into the thicket of rebar below.
“Prime scroungings,” Talon said, and wink-stepped down the stairs.
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