Moab barely noticed. He caught the man’s wrist, twisted, then bent the arm backward until it snapped. The guard screamed, then Moab punched him once in the face, and the scream ended.
He let the body drop, hands flexing.
“Shit,” Scarlette said, staring at the mess.
Moab looked at her, eyes dull. “Nobody touches my brother,” he said, voice flat.
I tried to say something, but my throat closed up.
Declan herded us to the back of the cell block. “There’s a hatch here. Leads to the drain tunnel.”
Mama Celeste walked up to me and pressed her fingers to the side of my neck. Her hands glowed faintly, a heat that burned and soothed at the same time. “You’re leaking,” she said, and her eyes went black as ink. “Give me a moment.”
I stood there, letting her do whatever magic she could, while the others watched the door.
Scarlette sidled up, voice low. “You alright?”
I nodded. “No.”
She smiled. “Welcome to the club.”
When Celeste finished, I felt a little steadier. She handed me a strip of cloth, already spotted with my blood. “Tie it tight,” she said. “You have at most a few hours before you run out of will.”
I nodded, wrapped my arm, and took a deep breath.
“Ready?” Scar said, already at the hatch.
I didn’t answer. I just looked at my hands, still covered in blood, and thought of Catherine.
I’d get back to her. Or I’d die in the attempt.
I barely felt my boots hit the rungs. My mind floated a few feet above my head, watching as my body moved, limbs hollow and uncertain. The drain tunnel was cold and narrow, black water slapping at our calves, the air thick with rot and iron. Scar led the way, hunched like a predator, torch clamped between his teeth. The others followed—Moab carrying most of me, Mama Celestewith her hand at my back, Scarlette and Declan behind, always checking the darkness for sounds of pursuit.
The first thing I noticed was the heat. Not from the torch, but from Celeste’s palm pressed to my spine. It burned through my shirt, and I felt her fingers work a slow, hypnotic rhythm along my ribs. Her voice was a thrum, soft and metallic, singing words I didn’t know.
“Is he dying?” Scarlette whispered, just behind us.
Celeste didn’t answer, but the pressure in my chest lifted, pain ebbing for a moment. I inhaled. It stank like shit, but I could breathe.
She leaned close. “I’m cauterizing the wound, but you’ll still be leaking. Can’t heal you, not here, not with this much hate in the walls. All I can do is keep you moving.”
“That’s enough,” I managed. The words cost me.
Moab grinned, the old bastard. “You always were too stubborn to bleed out, Toolie.”
Scarlette looked at him. “He’s gray,” she said, voice small. “Like he’s halfway gone.”
“I’m here,” I croaked. “Don’t start the eulogy yet.”
Scar let out a low snort, torchlight carving his features into something mythic. “Save the jokes. We got bigger problems.”
We rounded a bend, the tunnel narrowing until Moab had to duck his head. The sound of water got louder, then shifted, the slap of boots echoing up ahead. Scar motioned for silence. We froze, the world condensed to breathing and the drip-drip of water.
“Guard post,” Scar said. “Looks like six. Muskets. They’re awake, so this’ll be rough.”
“Let’s go around,” Moab said.
Scar shook his head. “No way. The only way is through, unless you want to drown in the river.”