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Chudovishche. Monster. The same one that all of Shanghai had been seeing, lurking in the city’s corners.
“Good God,” Benedikt muttered.
The shadow was moving toward them, toward their very alleyway.
“Hide!”
“Hide?” Marshall hissed in echo. “You want me to magically shrink myself?”
Indeed, the alleyway was too thin to offer a viable hiding spot. But there was a wide blue tarp lying atop the discarded wooden boxes. With no time to give instruction, Benedikt grabbed the tarp and pushed Marshall down roughly, shushing him when Marshall winced, and folded himself down too, until they were curled up alongside the boxes and hidden under the thin sheet.
Something heavy passed through the alley. It sounded effortful, like feet that did not quite come down right, like nostrils that were too thin to pass breath, so only a wheeze could come out.
Then a rough splash of water rang into the night. Droplets came down onto the river surface as if it had started raining only in one section of the sky.
“What was that?” Marshall hissed. “Did it jump into the water?”
Benedikt grabbed a corner of the tarp, slowly inching his head out into the open. Marshall gripped his shoulder and tried to do the same, until both of them were peering out from their hiding place, squinting into the dark, trying to get a look at the river beating on at the other end of the alleyway.
A shape was floating in the water. Under the moonlight, it was hard to catch much except the glint of what could have been the spine, rows of protrusions that were distorting and changing and…
Benedikt swore, pushing Marshall down. “Hide, hide, hide!”
A burst of movement erupted from the water—from the monster. Miniature dots—spitting into the air, bar
ely visible until they landed on the boardwalk, barely visible until they skittered forward under the moonlight, looking like a moving carpet spreading into the alleyway.
Marshall yanked the tarp up and Benedikt slammed his foot down on the edge of it, pressing the tarp hard into the ground lest the insects crawl through. There was the sound of skittering. The sound of a thousand little legs brushing up against rough gravel, dispersing into the city.
Silence. A long minute passed. The silence only continued.
“I think they’re gone,” Benedikt whispered. “Mars?”
Marshall made a choking noise.
“Marshall!”
Benedikt moved fast enough to disrupt the air around him. He placed his hands on both sides of Marshall’s face, squeezing hard to demand Marshall’s attention and sanity, squeezing hard in case he needed to stop him from clawing himself to death.
But instead of falling to madness, Marshall snorted. A beat later an amused laugh escaped. “Ben, I’m only kidding.”
Benedikt stared at Marshall.
“Mudak,” he hissed angrily. When he took his hands back, he had to resist the urge to hit Marshall. “What’s wrong with you? Why would you joke about such a matter?”
Marshall appeared confused now, like he didn’t understand the fury being thrown in his direction. “They hadn’t crawled upon us,” he said slowly. “Why would you take me seriously?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Benedikt snapped. “You don’t joke about that, Marshall. I will not lose you!”
Marshall blinked. He tilted his head curiously, in the same way he usually did when he was trying to predict Benedikt’s next move during a sparring match. In a true match, Benedikt had always been better at predicting Marshall’s lazy feigns, tracking Marshall’s guesswork and acting the opposite.
But here, while they sat nose to nose, he would never have expected Marshall to reach out and touch his cheek—the brush of a finger feather-soft, as though to test whether Benedikt was really there.
Benedikt jerked away. He tore the tarp off them, getting to his feet in a whirlwind of motion.
“I need to tell Roma what we just saw,” he snapped. “I’ll see you at home.”
He hurried off before Marshall could follow.
