Descending the ladder took longer than it should have. With every rung, Maselli half-expected to glimpse Franka, Gemma—or, if luck favoured him—the Gaverian above. The battle’s outcome was still unknown. No matter. Escaping Blackwood with his family, or at least with Ezra, was all that mattered.

  The underground swallowed him in darkness. With no torch or lantern, he had to move cautiously. More than once, his foot brushed against a corpse, and once his heel slipped inside an open mouth. Teeth clamped down on his skin. He wrenched his leg free, ignoring the trail of wetness it left, and pressed on.

  The silence unnerved him. He’d expected whispers, movement, the scurrying of survivors. Yet a deep instinct told him many were still alive. The Blackens knew how to hide. Not that it would matter to Franka. Maselli doubted anyone could hide from the demon for long—especially those who lay flat, feigning death.

  Pauline.

  She lay on her belly, clinging to the last thread of life. Her bones rattled, her teeth chattered, the stench of urine heavy in the air—though whether it came from her or a nearby corpse, he couldn’t tell. She sensed someone standing over her, and tears welled in her eyes.

  “Please… give us more time,” she whimpered. “Please.”

  “Pauline,” Maselli said.

  Her sobs broke harder at the sound of her name. If the smell hadn’t been hers before, it was now.

  “It’s me, Maselli.”

  “Don’t kill me,” she cried. “Please, please, please.”

  “Pauline, look at me,” he urged. “Franka isn’t here yet. But he’ll kill us both if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

  She only trembled. Words wouldn’t reach her in this state. Maselli crouched beside her. A slender metal rod had been driven through her ankle, blood pooling beneath it, her deadened skin folding around the wound.

  Maselli clenched his fists and closed his eyes, fighting not to feel.

  “Can you walk?”

  Pauline didn’t seem to hear. Maselli pressed a hand to her forehead. She was burning with fever. The touch eased her panic, if only slightly. Sliding an arm behind her back and another under her knees, he lifted her and stumbled down the corridor. He set her against the wall, but when her injured foot struck the floor, the metal rod clanked and she clawed into his shoulder.

  Maselli cursed under his breath, glanced behind him, and hoisted her again. He carried her until they reached the locker room. Empty, as expected. He shut the door, dragged a bench in front of it, and carved a marker-triangle into the floor. The glyph lay dark—ascension in the area had been bled dry. It might replenish in hours, unless Franka returned first.

  “Maselli?” Pauline’s voice was thin, wavering.

  “Yes, it’s me.” He managed a faint smile as he met her eyes. “Can you tell me where everyone is?”

  Her lips trembled. “How?”

  “Pauline?”

  “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “I will be,” he said, “if you don’t tell me what I need to know.”

  Her gaze darted, unfocused. “Am I dead?”

  “Pauline, focus,” he urged, forcing calm into his voice. “Where is Mari?”

  Her hands clutched at his sleeves, desperate. “Maselli… he’s coming.” Her voice cracked into a chant, his name spilling from her lips, pleading with him not to leave her.

  He almost did. He almost let go. Pairing with a fever-mad woman was the last thing he wanted. But he didn’t move. The truth was, he had no choice. Finding Mari and Ezra in hiding would be near impossible without guidance—and as far as they knew, Maselli was dead. Pauline was useless, broken… but she was also his only chance at a clue.

  Kneeling, Maselli let Pauline bury her face against his chest. He held her close, one hand resting on her head, steadying her shivers with the rhythm of his breath.

  “I’ll never leave you,” he murmured. “You’re safe with me. Didn’t I beat Franka once before? What makes you think I can’t do it again?”

  She sniffled, nodding weakly.

  “But I can’t do it alone,” he continued. “That’s why I need your help.”

  Her grip tightened. “I was so scared when he grabbed me.”

  Maselli froze. “He grabbed you?”

  “By the hair,” she whispered. “Dragged me from—” Her voice cracked, collapsing into sobs. Maselli hushed her, stroking her damp hair until she calmed.

  “We thought we were safe down there,” she went on, “but he found us.”

  “Down where?”

  “In the bunker… at the playroom…”

  “It’s okay,” Maselli said. “Say no more.”

  He pulled back, meeting her swollen eyes. With a swift motion, he tore a strip of fabric from her skirt, carving a triangle into it with his blade. Cupped in his palm, it glimmered faintly brown—the colour of her cloth—after a quick prayer. He wound it around his hand, shaping it into a muted lantern.

  “Stay here. Stay quiet. I’ll find the others.” Her tears welled again. He steadied her chin. “Don’t be a coward. We’re Henrikians. We don’t cry—we fight.”

  Leaving her behind, Maselli began his search. He scoured the classrooms, tearing open cupboards, rifling through desks. Ezra might not be in the playroom bunker at all, but he would leave no corridor unchecked. He combed the dormitories, peered beneath beds, scouted bathrooms and toilets. He scaled the top floor, then plunged into the basement. Nothing.

  Finally, he turned to the playroom.

  A broken seesaw lay dismantled across the floor. Gaverian effigies had been ripped to shreds. The mounted rifles were gone, their brackets hanging bare. And from the middle of the room, a trail of blood streaked straight into the bunker’s entrance.

  Guided by the glow of his hand, Maselli crouched at the bunker’s door handle, holding his breath. He already knew no one was inside. Still, he couldn’t admit it to himself.

  He pushed the door open.

  A scream tore out of the dark. A figure lunged at him, rod swinging. Maselli threw himself back, skidding across the floor as the weapon slammed into the tiles where his ankle had been. He flung up his glowing hand, its light catching the face above him.

  Rita.

  They froze—both panting, both wide-eyed. She dropped the rod, covering her mouth as if she had killed him. Shaking her head, she staggered back, muttering disbelief.

  Maselli rose slowly, scooped up the rod, and hurled it aside. Then he stood, waiting. Watching. Wishing he could see her clearly in the gloom. Her swing had been strong enough; that alone told him she was far from broken.

  He tilted his ear to the silence. Nothing. Perhaps Franka was already in the tunnels, hunting, perhaps not. Maselli forced himself to act as though the demon wasn’t here—yet.

  “What do you want from me?” Rita demanded at last, her voice brittle. “You brought this on us. You’ve no right to haunt me.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “I’m not dead,” Maselli snapped.

  “Then Franka’s gone,” she said quickly. “It took longer than we expected.”

  “Was Mari here with you?”

  “I heard the explosions. It was the military, wasn’t it? Are they here?”

  “Do you know where my mother is?”

  “Is there a rescue team?”

  “Is Mari alive?”

  “I have to get Conrad.”

  “The soldiers are dead,” Maselli spat out. “Franka killed them all.”

  She gave no reply—at least not to him. Only whispered, again and again, “I have to get Conrad,” before turning toward the playroom door.

  Maselli hesitated, then followed. The more people he found, the closer he came to Mari and Ezra.

  Rita strode ahead, swift and certain, unhindered by the dark. Maselli trailed her into a wide lobby, where the air felt different. No corpses here. No stench. He ran his palm across the walls, scanning for signs, for markers, anything to place them.

  The layout told him enough: they were still inside the Observatory Wing.

  When he spotted the rickety shaft at the end of their path, Maselli knew exactly where she was taking him. A likely place to hide from a murderer—though the last he’d ever choose. Rita shoved the door aside and went in first. She gripped the lever and pulled it down. Together, they descended into the detention centre below.

  The stench hit him before his boots did: years of excrement, soaked into stone. A thousand flies hummed, their swarm thickening as if the walls themselves were alive. He would never get used to cells.

  Back in times of drought, when water ran dry, villages across the UCL had conserved what little they had. Many dug pit latrines. The Blackens, no different, dug theirs too—but some, more daring, came down here instead.

  Rita walked the middle path between rows of open cells. Each held nothing but a bed and a hole for waste. She froze when a mouse darted across her feet. Maselli nudged her forward until she reached the last cell. If Conrad was hiding there, Maselli couldn’t see him.

  “I told you not to bring anyone,” a voice rasped from the dark.

  “It’s Maselli.”

  Silence fell, heavy as chains.

  “Maselli,” he croaked. “Welcome back from the dead.”

  “You’re more in control than the last two I’ve spoken with,” Maselli said. “Please, for the love of God, tell me where my mother is.”

  “I’m sorry,” Conrad answered. “I’m sure Rita’s already told you. Knowing you, you’ve refused to accept it.”

  “Don’t—”

  “Your mother is dead. Franka bashed her head in with his bare hands. We all saw it. She’s gone. And so is your sister.”

  Maselli knew a lie when he heard one. He had told enough himself. He glanced at his knife—he could pin Rita, force the truth out of her—but he didn’t have that kind of courage. Better to understand why Conrad would spin such a story. Crippled Conrad, reduced to petty deceit.

  “Come on, I’ll help you,” said Maselli. “We may still escape.”

  “What? No!” Conrad shifted back. “I don’t want your help.”

  “We’ll die if we stay.”

  “We don’t want your help, Maselli,” Rita snapped. “We’re fine where we are.”

  “I don’t understand. Is Hanna alive? Do you want to find her first?”

  No clear answer. Maselli stood, stuck. Never once had he thought of running when he had the chance. Instead, he had come back to the tunnels, clinging to some foolish dream of reunion. Better to die with his family than abandon them.

  “Maselli, wait,” Rita called, stepping closer as he turned to go. She reached out, her fingers brushing his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t lie to you. After trying to help us the way you did, I can’t live with myself knowing what we’ve done.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We sold you,” she said. “All three of you.”

  “Rita, what are you talking about?”

  “They’re not dead,” she said. “Hanna chose your mother and the fae over us. That’s what she did. When you and Miller left, Conrad told everyone what you did the night Franka attacked. We saw you run to your apartment to free the faerie. Antonica rallied a mob, and they tried to lynch your family. Franka broke free before we could get them. That’s all I know.”

  “Hanna helped my mother and sister escape.”

  “To the gym area, yes. We’re so sorry...”

  Maselli cranked the shaft’s lever up and waited as it carried him away. A good look at him could give the wrong impression. His eyes were dry, his lips sealed, his neck straight, and his breath steady. Behind his back, one hand gripped his knife. Not tightly—just a grip.

  First things first: Ezra and Mari were not dead. Not until he had proof. With that settled, he needed to find the best way to reach them. Two main paths led to the gymnasium. You only need to know about the one he took—the main path. He knew no one would recognise him as easily that way.

  He arrived at a lobby leading to the gym. A looming figure filled the centre of the room, darkness darker than the surrounding dark. Nothing nefarious, but imposing at first glance. It was something like a sculpture, massive, made of the blackest metal in Dominus. A serpent, winding with a narrowing tail. His fathers had called it the Black Belt—or at least a replica of the real thing.

  Feet shifted, furniture dragged across the floor, voices mumbled, and lights flickered in the distance. A smile crept onto his face, one that had been waiting a long time. The proof he needed was that his family was still alive.

  “Find her,” commanded a voice. “She has to be here.”

  Serica. She, along with six others, judging by the floating spheres of light approaching. Maselli unwrapped the cloth from his arm and dampened it with his boots. He stood in place, hands at his sides, as the hunters spread out across the lobby. Serica urged them on, insisting that ‘the witch was here somewhere.’

  Samellie passed by Maselli, a breath too near, muttering under his breath about not wanting to do something just because Antonica said so.

  One step followed the next, and he moved through them. He strained to see the gym door but did not stumble along the way. He doubted anyone would hear him over the noise Serica and her associates were making. Maselli slipped into the gym, walking onward until he was certain no one was close behind him.

  There was a cafeteria here, with a kitchen. Only one place came to mind where Ezra might be—the cabinets beneath the kitchen counter.

  The kitchen was twice the size of the one in his apartment, which made him all the more confident that Ezra was hiding in one of them. He pulled out a drawer and took a ladle. With his blade, Maselli carved a crafter-triangle onto it and wrapped tissue paper around the head. He stuck it fast with expired margarine and hoped for the best. With a short prayer to Fury, the ladle lit up in a bright orange hue.

  Holding the ladle forward, he crouched past the cabinets, watching for any subtle shift in its brightness. He stopped at cabinet number twelve, where the glow burned brightest. A change so faint no one else would have noticed. Ezra wasn’t here. But he held his breath all the same as he pulled the door open.

  Empty. Not entirely. She’d left her triangle behind—the one strong enough to render her invisible to unwanted eyes. That wasn’t all. Maselli brought his makeshift candle closer to the floor and found shimmering letters carved into the stone.

  “Seceree,” he read. Seceree was the ship that would carry souls to the land of the dead. It couldn’t be that she’d done something to herself. No—she’d left this behind for someone who could find it. Him. She knew he would return.

  What did it mean? “Idiot.” He slapped his forehead. Ship. She was hiding in the replica ship out in the lobby—the very place where Serica and her gang prowled, hunting for Ezra.

  “We’ve searched everywhere a hundred times already,” said an unfamiliar voice, probably speaking to Serica. “It’s like she vanished into thin air.”

  “Are you sure you saw her come in here?” That was not Serica, but a man’s voice.

  Antonica. He’d come with a few others, each carrying lanterns. In all, Maselli counted eight.

  “We blocked both exits,” said Serica. “There’s no way she could have escaped.”

  Maselli walked unnoticed. A ramp led from the ground to the replica ship. As he climbed, his boots thudded on the platform, and the light from the ladle in his hand rose higher than anyone else’s. No one seemed to see him clearly, but he felt eyes on him all the same.

  “She’s not in there,” said Serica. “We’ve checked already.”

  Should he respond, or should he keep walking? If he spoke, they might recognise his voice. If he stayed silent, suspicion would fall on him immediately. Maselli flipped a coin in his mind. “One last look won’t hurt anybody,” he said. These people thought he was dead. He was the last person they expected to see here. It worked. He got onto the old ship.

  A sweet, flowery scent filled his head, stinging his eyes. He could not yet see Ezra, but he did not doubt she was here. The relief, the joy, the fear he’d buried. It all hit him at once.

  A pair of multicoloured eyes opened, shimmering in his faint light. They neither blinked nor turned away. Maselli dropped his ladle and rushed to her. They embraced, clinging to each other even when they knew they shouldn’t.

  “How?” he whispered.

  She shifted aside from the triangle she’d been sitting on. Maselli laughed. She slapped a palm over his mouth, silencing him, then grabbed his wrist and pulled him to sit. She pointed to the entrance he’d used. Right—trouble. He drew his knife.

  “You know where Mari is?” he asked. She nodded, then shook her head. He crouched, creeping back up the ramp. She followed with little resistance. Boots clattered up the ramp, much faster than Maselli had climbed.

  “Hanna, is that you?” Serica’s voice. Maselli leaned back, one arm outstretched to keep Ezra from moving past him. He raised his knife. Light spilled ahead of Serica. One second. That was all it would take.

  “Hanna?” Serica called again, peering into the ship.

  Maselli looked long at his knife, then changed his mind. Serica’s glare froze as though she’d seen a ghost. He rushed her, grabbed her head, and slammed it against the ship’s wall. Knife in one hand, Ezra’s hand in the other, he charged out of the ship. Together they scurried down its ramp.

  No need to look back. Everyone was chasing them. Maselli tried to sprint but stumbled over a third obstacle in the dark. Ezra seized the lead, dragging him along. They bolted. He couldn’t believe how fast she was.

  They tore through offices, papers and folders flying into the air. Past an abandoned pharmacy, a chemical warehouse, a withered garden with its weary fence, the studio where a body lay on the operating table, past the labs, one after another.

  “Over there!” a voice shrieked. “I see them!”

  Their lead wasn’t as wide as they’d thought. They skipped over trail tracks and dashed toward an open gutter. Ezra leapt first, Maselli followed, landing badly and scraping his knee on the concrete. She hauled him up by the hand, and they squeezed through an alley, veering toward a nursery.

  Another grey building, like so many others, except this one had paintings of grass and flowers across its entrance. Inside, two girls knelt at opposite ends of the hallway, carving symbols into the walls.

  “They’re coming!” Ezra shouted, racing towards them.

  The girls jumped up and ran too, all of them headed for the open classroom door at the far end. Mari stood there, waving them in.

  “Maselli?” Mari gasped.

  They rushed inside, but the two girls stayed back. Each stood by a carved triangle on the wall. As Antonica stormed into the hallway, they slapped their palms against the symbols and crouched low, hands over their heads. Blue rays burst from the triangles, crisscrossing the corridor.

  Antonica halted.