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Jem’s voice.
“Lana,” Theo said as he scrambled out of the bed, and he felt more than saw Auggie nod.
His first move was to get the gun. He dropped to the floor, found the safe, and entered the combination—thankfully, not one of those spinning wheels, just buttons that were easy to identify and press. The lid popped open, and he grabbed the pistol and the magazine. He shoved the magazine home as he got to his feet.
“Theo—”
“Get Lana and go.”
Jem shouted again, wordless this time and full of outrage. And pain. There had definitely been pain.
Their bedroom connected with the combined living room and kitchen, and when Theo threw open their door, he had only an impression of the room: the darkness, the flicker of a candle Auggie must have lit after Theo went to sleep, the moonlit deck on the other side of the windows.
Something moved at the periphery of Theo’s vision, and Jem shouted—a warning, this time. Theo threw himself to the side. Something barely missed him—a knife—and then Theo hit the coffee table, and his bad knee gave out.
He landed hard on the coffee table, flat on his back, the slap of skin on wood registering for a millisecond before the breath exploded out of his lungs. His body had gone into overdrive, and he was distantly aware of Jem shouting. A shape all in black loomed over Theo. The man—that was how Theo thought of him—raised something. Not a knife, Theo saw. A sickle, the metal matte black. Not some old farm implement—this thing was clearly tactical, minimalist, made with the kind of beauty designed for violence. He thought of the smoke in the dream. Then the sickle flashed down, and Theo was still gasping for air, too slow.
Auggie shouted, and the man in black staggered. Kicked from behind, Theo decided. The man spun around, the sickle in one hand and—now Theo could see—a matching matte black knife in the other. A trench knife, with the long, double-edged blade and the knuckle dusters. Theo rolled onto his side, trying to get up. He could see Auggie now, in nothing but the gray modal trunks that looked like water, sheer and clinging to him, as he backpedaled. He might as well have been naked, every vulnerable point exposed. The man lunged, and Auggie stumbled back.
Then Jem was there, and something spun in his hand, whistling in the darkness. The sound of contact came—a hard, thunking sound—and their attacker howled. The sickle swept out, then the knife, but Jem danced back. Something long and silver flashed in his other hand, warding off the other man long enough for Auggie to get clear.
Theo got to his feet. He’d lost the gun, and a quick, panicked scan of the room showed him it was gone.
“Get out of here,” Jem said.
It took a moment before Theo realized the command was meant for him and Auggie. Auggie was already moving, circling behind Jem toward the hallway that would take him to the stairs. Theo backed toward the kitchen, taking advantage of the precious seconds Auggie and Jem had bought him. He gave one last look for the gun, and then he turned to the kitchen.
“Ok?” he called to Auggie.
Auggie nodded, the movement a blur in Theo’s adrenaline-warped vision.
“Lana! Lana!”
Auggie kept running toward the hallway, which Theo took to mean that Auggie had understood him. Theo brought his focus to bear on the fight. At the edge of his field of vision, Jem was giving ground to the man in black, moving slowly, fencing with that long, silver sword. Not a sword, Theo thought. But he couldn’t come up with anything better. In a few moments, Jem would run out of room—he’d hit the dining table, or he’d corner himself, and then he wouldn’t be able to dodge the black steel.
Theo grabbed the chef’s knife, the twelve-inch one, from the magnetic strip. He hit the lights, and suddenly he could see. The man in black had done a good job: a close-fitting cloth mask, long sleeves, gloves, nothing to give away his identity. But he was small, Theo thought. Short, with a whipcord frame. Maybe Auggie’s height, but with less mass than Auggie packed.
His size clearly wasn’t holding him back. Jem held what looked like a telescoping antenna—not a sword. He was bare chested and barefoot—Theo realized, distantly, so was he—in nothing but those gray-and-purple vintage Adidas shorts he loved. A red line ran diagonally across Jem’s chest, and blood curtained across his belly.
“Fina-fucking-ly,” Jem panted. “Could you stab this bitch in the back, please?”
Theo yanked open a cabinet and took out the lid to the stockpot—the biggest lid they had. Then he started toward the son of a bitch who had come into their home.
The man slowed his advance on Jem, repositioned himself to keep Theo in his field of view. If the possibility of two opponents bothered him, he gave no sign of it. His stance was loose, almost relaxed. The sickle looked like it was hanging from one hand, and although the knuckle dusters meant his grip on the trench knife was tight, his whole body looked liquid.
“We’re going to fuck your shit,” Jem said. He was grinning, his eyes bright with a wildness Theo hadn’t seen before. “I sell real estate, and do you know how fucking cutthroat the Salt Lake market is? And him? He teaches teenagers.”
Theo inched closer, hoping to use Jem’s patter as cover, but faster than Theo could believe their attacker spun toward him and swung the sickle. Theo barely got the lid up in time.
He might as well have been holding a sheet of paper. The blade of the sickle tore through the steel before catching. Theo yanked, trying to pull the sickle from the man’s grip, but the man twisted his body, and instead, Theo lost the lid. The attacker dropped the weapon to his side, trying to shake the sickle free of the lid, and lunged at Theo with the knife.
Jem darted in, the antenna whipping so fast that it blurred. It caught the man on the side of the head, and he expelled a furious breath. Jem pressed the attack, slashing over and over again with the antenna, and the man reacted instinctively, trying to pull out of Jem’s reach.
Theo saw the opening and took it. Their attacker’s lunge had left his arm partially extended, and now, while his attention was turned to Jem, Theo dropped his own knife to grab the man’s wrist and forearm. He forced the man’s arm down and brought his knee up, driving it into the man’s arm. Theo didn’t care if he broke the man’s arm or if he simply forced him to drop the knife—he’d take whatever he could get.
For a moment, it seemed to be working. With the sickle trapped in the pot lid, Jem raining down blows, and Theo breaking his grip on the knife, Theo had the barest flash of a thought: we’re winning.
Then it all went wrong.
