The first shot cut the hall in two. Then another. Metal screeched, glass shattered. The rain outside didn't swallow the echo—it carried it, multiplied it, transformed it into a pounding that competed with my heartbeat.
"Go!" Alaric grabbed my hand, pulled me through the narrow passage behind the workbench. His fingers were cold and strong, but I felt the trembling underneath. The cloth at his side was dark again. Too dark.
We yanked open the back door. Cold. Wet concrete. The dull smell of old pipes, oil, mold. On the left, a narrow courtyard; on the right, a narrow stairway leading down into the earth.
"Downstairs," he gasped.
"Your wound—"
"Later."
Steps. Slippery, slimy. I kept my hand against the wall, feeling cold, wet masonry. Behind us: voices. Men. Not shouting, precise. "Seal off the left! Two in the back!"
"Rhea..." I murmured, not knowing myself if it was a prayer or a curse.
