low, he crept up the stairs. The sounds reminded him of the arena back home, when his brother faced a queue of fighters and wouldn’t be allowed to rest until the clock ran out. As a kid, Omen had closed his eyes to most of it, but the sounds had got into his head. Grunts. Cries. Knuckles striking flesh. Bodies going down.
He came level with the top of the stairs, watched Temper fight Razzia. Temper was tired, and she was playing with him. Omen didn’t know what magical discipline Temper had studied, but, if he didn’t use his magic now, he wasn’t going to last much longer. Lethe circled them both, watching. Nero was there, too, standing with his back to Omen, calling out the occasional bit of advice that Razzia would ignore. Nero wasn’t wearing his jacket, which meant the knife, sheathed on his belt, was plainly visible.
There was no other choice. The realisation hit Omen like a slap and his guts turned cold and plummeted somewhere deep and dark, leaving a hollow space where only shivers lived. No other choice but to do something stupid. It was this or never escape. This or die here.
Omen scuttled up the last few steps, counted to three and burst forward.
He slammed into Nero and they went tumbling over each other, Omen going for the knife, his fingertips finding the handle and then losing it again. With his other hand, he kept a tight grip of Nero’s shirt. He couldn’t let go. If he let go and Nero teleported away, he was lost.
They came to a stop. The knife was in Omen’s hand, the blade jammed against Nero’s throat.
“Sloppy,” said Lethe, but he didn’t run in to haul Omen off. He didn’t move. Razzia didn’t move, either. Temper collapsed.
Omen badly needed some water. His throat was parched and his lips were dry. His tongue felt too heavy to form words.
From beneath him, Nero said calmly, “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Anger flashed and Omen came up to one knee, digging the knife in a little deeper. He could talk fine now. “You’re going to let us go,” he said, with a hell of a lot more confidence than he felt. “If anyone tries anything, I’ll kill him.”
Lethe folded his arms. “You will? Really? I don’t know. Razzia, what do you think? He look like a killer to you?”
Razzia jumped up and down. “Ooh, I hope so! Do it! Do it, kid! It’s only Nero! If he carks it, we can grow another one!”
Lethe looked at her. “Actually, we can’t.”
Razzia stopped jumping. “We didn’t grow him in a tube? Strewth, I thought he was one of those genetic experiments I keep hearing about. With the hair and all.” She shrugged. “Kill him anyway, kid. Cut his throat and join the club.”
“Hey,” Nero said loudly. “Hey! Come on! Let’s not antagonise the kid, all right? Let’s all be cool here.”
“Of course,” Lethe said, sauntering forward. “You’re right, Nero. Of course you are. Let’s be cool.”
“Stop walking,” said Omen.
Lethe ignored him. “We’ll all be cool. Nobody has to hurt anybody. Let’s just shake hands and part as friends, what do you say?”
Temper groaned, and rolled on to all fours. “He takes another step, you start cutting, you hear me?”
“The boy’s not going to cut,” said Lethe. “He’s not a killer. He’s not a murderer.”
“I’m scared and I’m trapped and you’re gonna kill me,” Omen countered. “I will do whatever I have to.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” Nero said quickly, “because Lethe is going to stop walking right goddamn now. Aren’t you, Lethe? Lethe?”
Lethe’s saunter, as calm and unhurried as any saunter Omen had ever seen, came to a slow and reluctant stop. He sighed. “Fine. Look at me. Look at how still I’m standing.”
“Temper, come over here,” Omen said. He was sweating. Perspiration ran down his face, down the back of his collar. He could feel how damp his armpits were. The knife. The knife was slippery; he wasn’t sure that it’d stay in his hand if he had to stab, but he dared not adjust his grip.
Temper got up and limped over. It was like he was being slow on purpose. Omen had to bite back harsh words. He could feel the panic beneath his skin. It jittered and bubbled and boiled.
Finally – finally – Temper was crouching beside him, one hand on Omen’s shoulder, one hand on Nero’s arm. “All right then,” he said, taking control of the situation, “Nero here is going to teleport us back to Roarhaven. You hear that, Nero? Right into the middle of Meritorious Square. If you try something stupid, like dumping us off the edge of a volcano, Omen here will kill you as his final act, won’t you, Omen?”
“Yes, I will,” Omen said, trembling so badly that the blade nicked Nero’s skin. If the shakes got any worse, the knife was liable to fly out of his hand before he got a chance to use it.
“Meritorious Square,” Nero repeated. “All right. Just say when.”
“None of this means anything,” Lethe said. “So you escape – so what? You’ve already told us everything you know, which was a paltry amount to begin with. At this stage, you’re worthless to us. This escape means nothing.”
“First you hurt my body,” Temper said. “Then you hurt my feelings. I know which will leave the deeper scar. Nero? Mush.”
Bright sun glared from a blue sky with no clouds and the sudden rush of cold air and the noise of Roarhaven all around them and Omen flinched and Nero shoved him away, twisting from Temper’s grip and vanishing.
People were glancing at them. Two Cleavers were running over.
“You did good, slick,” Temper said, lying on his back and looking up at the sky. “You did good.”
Omen looked at the knife for a moment, then dropped it and managed a smile.
His first rescue mission.
“This is not my first rescue mission,” Sebastian whispered to Bennet as they crouched around the corner from the tiny house. “Let me go in first. I’ll clear the room of hostiles. When I give you the all-clear, you come in. Understand?”
Bennet nodded. He was visibly shaking. A quick peek through the dirty window had shown them Odetta sitting at a table, a Hollow Man standing right behind her. They had no idea how many other Hollow Men might be in there with them.
Sebastian patted Bennet on the shoulder. He felt an urge to repeat his instructions, but decided against it. Bennet was a grown man, not a child.
Keeping low, Sebastian jogged to the front door. He took a deep breath to steady himself and then kicked, the wood splintering beneath his boot, the door crashing open, and then Bennet lunged past him, pulling his gun
