Page 104 of Hell Bent

Alex was on her back. At some point it had started to rain. She wiped the water from her eyes and spat the taste of sulfur from her mouth.

“Mercy!” she shouted, shoving to her feet and coughing. Her arm was whole and unbroken, but the world was spinning. Everything looked too rich, too saturated with color, the lights too yellow, the night lush as fresh ink.

“Are you okay?” Mercy was beside her, drenched from the rain, her salt armor somehow keeping its form.

“I’m fine,” Alex lied. “Is everyone here?”

“Here,” said Dawes, her face a white blur in the downpour.

“Yeah,” said Turner.

Tripp was sitting in the mud, arms cradled over his head, sobbing.

Alex looked around, trying to get her bearings. “I saw someone up here.”

“Did you stop the metronome?” Dawes asked.

“I’m sorry,” Mercy said. “He told me to stop it. I didn’t know what to do.”

“It’s certainly not your fault, Miss Zhao.”

“Shit,” Alex muttered.

She didn’t know what she’d expected—a vampire, a Gray, some other new and exciting ghoul. All of those seemed easier to manage than Michael Anselm. They’d taught Mercy how to deal with undead intruders, not a living bureaucrat.

He stood in the doorway beneath the stone carving of Dürer’s magic square, arms crossed, protected from the rain. Amber light from the hallway cast him in shadow.

“Everybody up,” he said, his voice thrumming with anger. “And out.”

They got to their feet, shivering, and shuffled out of the muddy courtyard.

Alex was struggling to make her mind work. The wolves. The blue fire. Had she saved them? Or had Anselm inadvertently come to their rescue by interrupting the ritual and pulling them out? And where had the wolves come from? Dawes had said there shouldn’t be obstacles like that. Could Alex blame Anselm for those too?

“I feel like someone dropped a house on me,” said Turner.

“Hell hangover,” said Tripp. He’d wiped his tears away and color was returning to his cheeks.

“Take off your shoes,” Anselm snapped. “You will not track mud over these floors.”

They wriggled out of their shoes and socks, then walked barefoot into the library behind Anselm, the stone floor like a slab of ice.

In the dim light from the generators, Anselm shepherded them to a back entrance that led to York Street, where he allowed them to sit on the low benches and pull their wet shoes back on.

“Detective Turner,” said Anselm, “I’ll ask you to remain.” He pointed at Mercy and Tripp. “You and you. I’ve called cabs.”

“I don’t have any cash,” Tripp said.

Anselm looked like he was going to throw a punch. He drew out his wallet and slapped a twenty into Tripp’s wet palm. “Go home.”

“I’m fine,” said Mercy. “JE is right next door.”

“The armor,” said Anselm, “does not belong to you.”

Mercy removed the breastplate, gauntlets, and greaves and stood there awkwardly.

“Miss Stern,” said Anselm, and Alex took the pile of armor.

“Go get warm,” she whispered. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.” She hoped. Maybe she was about to be driven past the New Haven city limits and dumped in a ditch.