Gong, gong, gong, gong, clank, clank, gong, thud.

  Imagine hearing your father’s skull bashing against a metal lid. The men on the surface had stopped screaming an hour ago, but that did not mean Franka was finished with them. Gong, gong, gong, gong, clank, clank, gong, thud. What was worse: to witness the desecration of his kinsmen’s corpses with his own eyes, or to be down here, hiding and listening? The latter was evil.

  In the darkness, they waited in silence, their collective breath held—some sobbing, some seething, some whimpering, some murmuring their last prayer. A prayer for forgiveness. A prayer for mercy.

  “Be still,” a voice spoke in the dark. “Never let go of my hand, no matter what happens. Where are the children? Ollie, hold your brother’s hand.”

  A blue glow emanated from a triangle-shaped marking on the wall. It was a crafter triangle, activated by Jaspha when he pressed his hand into the centre of the symbol. His pregnant wife, Julene, held his other hand, while Ollie and their baby brother clung to his legs. They had survived thanks to Jaspha’s motorcycling skills. He must have carried them all at once when the coast was clear.

  Jaspha moved on from the first inscription and pressed his hand into another, causing it to glow as well. He led his family deeper into the tunnels, keeping them ahead of him. The faint light gave Maselli a chance to note those trapped down here with him.

  Zerah stood alone, clinging to Will, his face buried in her shoulder. Antonica kept a watchful eye on Conrad, Rita, and Hanna. Hanna shook Rita’s shoulders, urging her to speak. Patrica stood like a shell, unaware of those beside her. She had just lost her husband and sons to the monster.

  Miller carried his two-year-old on his shoulder, searching for more crafters’ marks along the walls. He whispered words of solace, telling his boy that Mother was in a better place, watching over them. The boy placed his tiny hand against the wall, lighting up another triangle.

  Gracie had been there when the Bannermen captured the children. Now, she knelt with two boys and a girl beside her, comforting them. Annabelle’s eyes stayed fixed on the lid above, twitching at every bang. Earl, her little boy, tugged at her skirt. Lesley tried to intervene, but Samellie asked her to stop.

  Benson and Tam, Zerah’s parents, stood in prayer, holding hands with Anna-Lisa and a few others. Benson was to be the priest should Father Ken pass away; he had received the same training.

  Kellen and Danica did not join the prayer group; instead, they were trying to find out who the girl holding Maselli’s hand was.

  Maselli turned to his mother.

  “Do you remember when Franka and I fought?”

  “What about it?”

  “Aron shamed you for wishing Franka dead,” said Maselli. “I want you to forgive Aron.”

  “I forgive him.” Her laugh rang.

  “Please, Mari, don’t cry,” said Ezra. “If you cry, it’ll make me cry.”

  Mari kept laughing, wiping away her tears. She and Ezra embraced, shutting their eyes to the noise above. Gong, gong, gong, gong, gong… gong… gong… gong… thud. The sound stopped. Franka was finished. What now?

  All eyes fixed on the lid above, bracing for his next move. With a heave and a resounding slam, violet symbols flared across their side of the lid, infecting the tunnel walls and creeping to their feet. The hatch burst open. Franka stood at the entrance, feet planted, staff in hand, the bright moon blazing behind him.

  “Lord and Master of the Universe, we ask for your mercy,” Benson chanted, falling to his knees. Those with him dropped likewise. “Lord, listen! Lord, forgive! Lord, hear and act! For your sake, my God, do not delaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!”

  Franka’s staff speared him through the throat. Benson thrashed on the floor.

  Maselli did not wait to see the rest. He bolted deeper into the tunnels. Ezra clutched him tighter than an oath, and she in turn dragged Mari along. The rest of Blackwood stampeded after them, screams mixing with the thunder of hundreds of fleeing footsteps. The Blackens scattered into different passages.

  Maselli tore down a flight of stairs, making sharp turn after sharp turn. He crashed through a double door and pressed forward. Lockers lined the walls, along with tables, benches, showers, and toilets. There should be a lantern in the storeroom—but drawing attention was the last thing they needed. They kept on in the dark.

  Passing through another door, Maselli stopped and listened, trying to recall the right path.

  “Where are we going?” Ezra wheezed.

  “Your eyes are better than mine,” he said. “What do you see?”

  “It’s just a locker room, Maselli.”

  “Look for a sign on the wall. It should read Observatory Room.”

  “Yes-yes,” she said. “What do we do there?”

  “We might need pens and paper. Come on—stay with me, and don’t say another word.”

  The Observatory Room. Maselli pushed through the door and let go of Ezra’s sweaty palm. The screams had stopped, meaning Franka was either far from them or had not yet found his next victim. Either way, Maselli had no intention of dying tonight. He scanned the room, wishing for Ezra’s eyes.

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  No crafter-triangles glowed on the walls, save for a few crude ones he had etched years ago. Posters of earthmen in green uniforms were plastered across the walls, their colours mottled with orange mould. Some showed soldiers saluting, others pointing straight at the reader. One depicted an earthman with his family beneath the Henrikian flag; another, an army marching past their High Commander. Most bore slogans beneath them: GOD BLESS THE MOTHERLAND and HENRIKIA FOREVER.

  Chairs in the room had straps on the arms. Headsets with goggles dangled before each desk. Six neat rows and columns faced a blank wall. On the desks lay stacks of notebooks, each page filled with the same line, in the same handwriting: Fear No Magic.

  “Fear no magic,” Maselli murmured. “Ezra, find pen and paper. Draw two crafter-triangles.”

  She rummaged through the schoolbags behind the desks, producing both. Ezra sketched the symbols. Maselli took the papers and crushed them in his hand. He prayed to Fury, god of substance—and the god answered. The crumpled paper emitted a soft orange glow, just bright enough to reveal their own dirt-streaked faces.

  “Mari, I’m leaving you in charge,” Maselli said. “You and Ezra—draw as many triangles as you can on these papers.”

  “Where are you going?” Mari asked.

  “I have to check the bathrooms, dormitories, anywhere close,” Maselli explained. He picked up a dusty schoolbag from the floor. “I’ll grab as many canisters as I can, anything that might help us distract Franka.”

  “What are we distracting him for?” Ezra asked.

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t do as I say. Get to work. I mean it.”

  Judging by the look on his mother’s face, she didn’t appreciate his tone, but she didn’t argue either. She joined Ezra behind the table, took a pen, and opened a notebook in front of her. She had drawn only one triangle by the time Maselli was already out the door.

  The dormitories lay a short distance from the Observatory Room. Maselli passed a large chamber labelled Playground. Effigies hung from one end, dressed as Gaverians in green and black attire, their eyes set with colourful gems. At the far end of the room stood mounted assault rifles—not real weapons, just harmless toys for children.

  Continuing down the corridor, Maselli held up the faintly glowing crumpled paper, struggling to see. Somewhere here there should be a door marked House Management. He found it.

  The room was small, with large windows overlooking the empty hallway that led back to the Observatory Room. Beneath the window sat a study desk cluttered with the sort of junk earthen girls of the ’60s had adored: novels with shirtless men on the covers, posters of pretty boys strumming guitars, bracelets, earrings, stuffed animals. Maselli ignored the mess and went straight to the dressing mirror. He grabbed the first bottle of perfume and two cans of deodorant spray. Tucking them into his schoolbag, he checked the room for any sudden movements before venturing further in.

  The bathroom walls were stained with dried, blackened blood, hair matted against the tiles. Parts of the floor had cracked, though thankfully no corpses lay here. No one had ever claimed to see bodies down here—except Yohannes, but he was dead, so who could say if he had lied? Maselli glanced at the toilet bowl, debating whether to urinate now or later. Who knew when he would have another chance?

  Finished with his business, he noted the toilet paper, still in good condition despite sitting untouched for decades.

  Most of the cupboards held pills and other medications. Maselli swept them into his schoolbag, containers clattering as they landed. A glass jar caught his attention. It stood on a small stand beside the sink, holding two toothbrushes.

  He took the jar but left the brushes behind—a blue one and a pink one, both shaped like kittens. Ezra used to have an orange toothbrush, while Maselli’s was bright green. Aron would sit behind the television during the evening news and call the two of them into the living room to check their breaths. He would inspect their teeth, especially their molars, making sure they had brushed properly. If he wasn’t satisfied, he’d scold them and send them back to the bathroom. Ezra, of course, would go and fool around instead.

  She had a trick she loved. She would spill toothpaste on the floor and trace a triangle with her finger, adding a single dot in the middle—a marker-triangle. Nothing unfamiliar to Maselli; he had seen Father Ken draw it many times. Marker spells are very difficult to master, Father Ken had said. Only the most skilful spellcasters can harness the power of time. But Ezra could cast them with ease. She would boast of her knowledge, claiming she was superior even to Geles, the goddess of time.

  The real fun came when she suspended their toothbrushes above the triangle. They would hover there, static, neither falling nor rising. Then she would give them a tap, and they would begin to spin—round and round at a constant pace. Maselli had tried to recreate the trick countless times, but he had never succeeded.

  Crouched behind the bathroom door, Maselli’s gut twisted. Franka was here. He peeked through the window, confirming it—the lanky demon strolled past with nonchalance.

  Maselli tore off two pieces of toilet paper, slipping back into the living room, scrambling through ideas and counter-ideas. He should have taken a pen from the classroom. His hands shook as he rummaged behind the dressing mirror and found an eyeliner. He laid the toilet paper flat on the floor.

  He drew a marker-triangle on the sheet, then opened his schoolbag, pulling out the glass jar and a can of deodorant spray. He crumpled the paper and dropped it into the jar, setting it aside. On the second sheet he drew a crafter-triangle, wrapping it around the can. He licked the edge to make it stick.

  Improvised weapons in hand, he burst from the dorm and into the hallway.

  “Franka!” he screamed. “Come at me!”

  The demon kept walking, heading straight for the classroom where Mari and Ezra were hiding. Maselli weighed the can in his palm, bounded forward, sprang back, and hurled it. Franka only tilted his head, letting the can sail past. It smashed against the classroom window.

  A blinding light exploded from the can. Glass shattered, shards flying in every direction. Maselli covered his ears, praying he hadn’t hurt Mari and Ezra. His plan had failed—yet not entirely. He had wanted Franka’s attention, and he had it. The demon halted, turned, and lifted his chin at Maselli.

  Franka spun back around—only to face Ezra, screaming as she charged at him with a massive textbook clutched to her chest. She hurled it into his gut. He staggered, but Ezra didn’t stop. She stomped down on the book, unleashing a force that flung Franka backwards. As he looked down at the book pressed against him, he noticed the glowing triangles spread across its cover. A burst of light erupted.

  Blinking through the burn, Maselli grabbed his second weapon—the glass jar. He shut his eyes for a moment, waiting for the brightness to fade. In that heartbeat, he prayed to Geles, goddess of time, begging her power. The jar hummed, the crumpled paper inside glowing a soft grey.

  With a scream, Maselli dashed forward, leaping high and driving down, glass jar raised. It crashed against Franka’s head, detonating a pulse.

  The shockwave slammed Ezra against the classroom door, while Maselli tumbled across the floor. Bruised but alive, he pushed himself up and hobbled toward Franka, who stood frozen in time, unable to comprehend his surroundings. The textbook’s scattered pages were trapped in the frozen time field as well, surrounding the demon.