With the danger gone, Mills could unfurl himself from behind the table. His back was thankful, but his other muscles, the ones forced to bunch up, ached and complained. Baz picked himself up and stretched.

  “I think we’re safe to leave,” Mills whispered.

  Baz nodded without offering a place to leave for. They had only known each other for half a day, but that was enough for Baz to trust Mills’ judgement. Life or death situations had a way of bringing people together.

  “Do you know anyplace we can go? Maybe find more survivors?” Mills asked.

  Baz shook his head without a moment of hesitation.

  “Okay,” Mills said. “Anyplace defensible in the city? C’mon, think.”

  “I’m sorry.” Baz glanced to the ground.

  Mills frowned. Baz had spent however long in Cheau, and couldn’t tell Mills anything about it? Mills didn’t think Baz was trying to hide something; the painter wanted to help, but genuinely couldn’t. When things calmed down, if Mills got a chance, he’d ask Baz about that gap of information.

  “I remember where I had defenders go,” Mills said. “If we find them, maybe they will have an idea. Or we’ll run into soldiers who know where to go.”

  Baz nodded.

  The two stepped out of the swung open door, and back into the night. A full moon shone high in the sky, and hundreds of starts twinkled around it. The moonlight bathed the plaza in pale light. Colorful festival decorations flapped above bodies lying in awkward positions. Masses of stone, that had once been statues, scattered along the sidewalk. A porcelain doll with a broken face lied crumpled on the bloody cobblestones.

  If Mills believed in any gods, he would have prayed. He was tempted to pray anyway, and hope something was listening.

  Baz was staring at the carnage with a carefully constructed blank face.

  Mills walked down the street, and when Baz noticed, he followed. The pair made their way through alleys and side streets. They found less bodies, but they heard the Abyss monsters growling from around corners. Both Mills and Baz kept their weapons out. Mills’ shoulder throbbed in pain, and he knew swinging his dagger around would only make that pain flare higher, but if he had to fight, he would fight.

  Mills and Baz arrived at a courtyard near the edge of the city. A waterfall cut through the middle, so bridges were constructed to pass over the water. Bodies were strewn across, leaving bloody smears against the ground. The clock tower, where Mills had stationed two people, stood proud among the destruction.

  Mills glanced over the courtyard again, to make sure nothing was moving. If it was moving, then it was very likely a relic. If it made noise, it was a creature from the Abyss.

  Silence answered.

  Mills padded toward the clock tower. He waited for something to jump out and surprise him. Mills should have burned a card before stepping out, but it was too late now. Baz followed close, and kept his dagger up and ready.

  The two reached the clocktower, and headed up.

  “Guys, it’s Mills, so please don’t attack!” Mills called up. He and Baz climbed to the top of the tower to find a pair of half eaten sandwiches.

  Mills remembered the men he’d sent to this tower. He’d seen one of them on Main Street, just before the second explosion vaporized him. The second man hadn’t been there too, had he? It would have made sense for someone to stay in the tower to keep an eye outside, in case something new came up. That’s what Mills should have done.

  “Hello?” Mills tested.

  He stood still, and waited for a response. The clocktower had nothing to say.

  Baz took a step toward a corner.

  “They aren’t here,” Mills mumbled.

  Baz looked at Mills. He looked ready to challenge him for a moment, then he huffed.

  “I think you’re right,” Baz said.

  Mills glanced at the sandwiches again. Hever and Ygitti; Mills could remember their names. He hadn’t known either that well when he left Cheau, but he knew they were good guys. They probably had something good going for them. Then Mills showed up with his stupid warning and his stupid plan, and now Hever and Ygitti were dead. A lot of people were dead. Tress might be dead.

  No, Mills couldn’t think like that. If he hadn’t shown up, Cheau would have been completely unprepared for the relics’ arrival, and Hever and Ygitti would have died without knowing why. Mills hadn’t seen Ygitti in the void explosion, so he might still be alive somewhere. And Tress must be alive, too; Mills hadn’t seen her on Main Street.

  “C’mon, we’ve got some other places to check out,” Mills said.

  He and Baz left the clocktower behind, and continued through the city’s alleys. At one point, a relic dashed in front of them. Mills stopped, and held out his arm so Baz wouldn’t jump out. Mills had forgotten about the gash on his shoulder, but when he raised his arm, he got a sharp and very painful reminder of his fight with the reaver.

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  The second outpost was an apartment building on a winding street. Relics were still on this street. Someone, or something, had pressed a pile of bodies against the apartment building.

  Cries came down the street. Human cries.

  A handful of people were alive. They were in the middle of the street, on their knees. Relics surrounded them, forming a living pen.

  A woman in a witch’s costume rose an arm, and an inky serpent sprang up from her. The summon struck at the nearest relic. The woman scrambled to her feet, and ran by her captors.

  A second relic broke into three smaller figures, and rushed at the woman. They swarmed her, and pulled her to the ground. She screamed. One relic slammed her head against the cobblestone. The woman stopped screaming.

  Baz stepped forward, dagger ready. Mills grabbed Baz’s arm. The painter tried to pull away, but Mills kept a tight grip.

  “There’s seven of them; if we fight them, we’ll die,” Mills whispered.

  “So we leave these people?” Baz hissed.

  Mills winced. He didn’t want to leave anyone at the mercy of the relics, but he couldn’t throw his life away trying to save them.

  The relics that murdered the painter stood up, and morphed back into a human-sized monster again. The summoned serpent was gone with its owner, but it had killed one monster. The relics regrouped, then they marched the humans down the street.

  This was new; Mills never heard of relics taking prisoners. Then again, he thought reavers were fairy tales until a few days prior. Anything was possible now.

  “Do we go in?” Baz asked.

  Mills stared at the apartment building.

  “There’s probably more relics inside,” he said. “If there aren’t, that means the relics have already got everyone. We’ve should move.”

  “To another outpost?” Baz asked. He didn’t want to go to another empty outpost. Mills didn’t, either.

  “We’re pretty close to Tress’ shop,” Mills said. “It’s not a defensible place, but survivors could be there.”

  Tress could be there, alive and well. If she was going to retreat anywhere, it would be her own shop. Her outpost would be empty, because Tress was back home.

  Baz cocked his head, like he heard Mills’ thoughts and deemed them stupidly optimistic. He didn’t voice his concerns though, so Mills walked in the direction of Tress’s shop. Baz followed a few steps behind.

  They walked by familiar scenery–wrecked statues, bloody streets, and bodies in colorful festival costumes. It stopped registering with Mills; he’d seen plenty of bodies through the night, plus at Camp 33. Something in Mills’s brain switched itself off instead of forcing him to contend with the full scope of horror before him. Mills decided that he was grateful for the protection.

  Mills and Baz came across the courtyard where Mills had run into Tress. It was flooded with relics. Mills and Baz hid behind a building.

  Mills pictured the street layout in his head, and tried to find a new route to Tress’ shop. Mills knew the street would have to connect somewhere else within Cheau; there had to be another way to the shop. Mills wasn’t familiar enough with this part of the city to form a route, though.

  “Baz, do you know a way to Tress’ shop? One that won’t take us through that relic party?” Mills whispered.

  Baz shook his head without hesitation. Mills expected that, but it was worth asking regardless.

  He peeked his head around the corner. The relics lurched around the square and over bodies. They didn’t move with any sort of pattern, at least not one that Mills could read. It seemed that the relics, with their numbers, had an eye in every direction. There was no way to sneak by. Fighting them all was a suicide mission.

  Mills pulled out his cards, but didn’t write anything yet. His idea was still fuzzy, and he wanted it tangible before he burned any cards.

  “Baz, do you have paint and a brush with you? Can you draw something on the ground?” Mills whispered.

  “I didn’t think to bring either,” Baz muttered.

  “That’s okay.” Mills scanned over what he could see of the plaza. He leaned out further than he would have liked, and saw what he wanted to–a trash can at the edge of the plaza, near the stream.

  Mills slinked back to the wall, and began writing. Baz leaned over to see, then he backed away.

  “You can watch me work; it’s okay,” Mills said.

  Baz stayed a respectful distance away, and kept his eyes on the street.

  Mills finished writing his card, then he burned it.

  “Keep your ears open,” Mills whispered.

  A breeze rustled the streamers hanging from the building. Something distant splashed into the water. The relics in the plaza groaned.

  Mills peeked around the corner.

  The relics’ attention had shifted to where the trash can miraculously tipped into the river. Mills tensed, ready to run towards the square. The relics would be focused on the water and not Mills and Baz. Soon, they would be at Tress’ shop. Mills would see her alive and well.

  The relics moved to the railing, and peered into the river. Mills counted four relics at the railing, which was how many he’d counted wandering the square. He darted forward, and waved for Baz to follow.

  The two hurried around the edge of the plaza, to the store facades.

  One relic rose his head from the river. Whatever fell in wasn’t interesting enough, and it was time to patrol aimlessly again.

  Mills slipped into the space between a coffee house and a painter’s workshop.

  The relic examined the square, then ambled forward. The other relics left the edge of the stream. Two stayed to patrol the plaza while the third took a path to the right, along the current of the stream. At least one relic was still puzzled by a trash can.

  Mills and Baz flattened themselves against a wall. They should be hidden by shadows, but in case their silhouettes showed up, they might pass as a protrusion on the bricks.

  Mills looked over the square for anything else he could use to draw the relics’ attention away. He was aware of the arithmetic, too. Mills and Baz were two, and the relics were three. If Mills and Baz had to fight their way through, they had a chance to survive. Mills’ shoulder was better already. But a head-on fight would be a last resort; Mills wanted to find a way through that kept him and Baz completely out of danger.

  Something banged from the painter’s workshop.

  Mills stiffened. He looked to Baz, hoping to read an explanation on his face. Baz’s expression, however, was one of fear and confusion.

  Another bang emanated from the painter’s workshop.

  The only explanation Mills had was a painter’s summon, but the painter needed to be conscious for their summon to operate. Mills didn’t think anyone in this plaza was alive. He also couldn’t think up any tools a painter used that would make so much noise.

  The back door crashed open with a bang. Mills stepped back and readied his karambit.

  A figure stepped out. In the darkness, it was nothing but a silhouette, but Mills knew what he was looking at. His breath caught in his chest.