Cass desperately hopes he isn’t lying about being home with JJ by lunchtime. He takes a deep breath, waits until his hands stop trembling, and pushes himself back to his feet. “Let’s do this,” he says briskly, striding into the kitchen and snapping open an invisible rift to the forest outside the Sanctum. “Gutierrez?”
Roma gives the rift a skeptical look, but she squares her shoulders and steps through. And, with a last apologetic look at Ez’s and Obie’s stricken faces, Cass follows her straight into his next war zone.
24
JJ is going to die.
He’s resigned to that fate by now. Been resigned ever since the interrogator after Chester didn’t even bother asking questions before picking up her knife, ever since the spellcaster who healed his injuries afterward curtly informed him that he’ll be expected to walk to his execution?—
Ever since they officially stripped JJ’s powers away a few hours ago. He remembers the enchantments hurting when the Sanctum first burned them into his soul at ten years old, but the pain was nearly excruciating now.
He’s officially a regular human again. No stronger than a civilian. Probably weaker, actually—concussion-induced unconsciousness aside, he’s barely slept for more than a few minutes at a time since they captured him, and they’ve only given him enough food and water to keep him alive. And even if this morning’s last healing spell made his bodyappearunbroken, he’s still shaky and threadbare from exhaustion and stale adrenaline.
But that doesn’t mean he’s going down without a fight. He’s spent the better part of the past few hours slowly prying a nail out of his bedframe with his fingernails, and he’s currently working on extracting a second. They might be paltry weapons, but he can still slide them between his pointer and middle fingers to punch the first interrogator he sees in the throat.
He’ll feel bad if it’s Chester. Otherwise, he’s stopped caring entirely.
Occasionally, he hears the low murmur of the interrogators’ voices outside, the sharpclickof cell doors opening and closing. Muted screams that the soundproofing can’t contain. This is where Desi would’ve been if he’d delivered her for testing, and more than anything else, knowing she’s safe is the one thing that lets him feel at peace.
He doesn’t regret saving her. Doesn’t regret any of it, honestly. Even if Chester was right, even if shediduse her human façade to manipulate him, he can’t really blame her for it.
She did what she had to do to survive, just like JJ did. He can’t fault her for that. And he definitely doesn’t regret the time he spent with her afterward, showing her the world and watching her grow.
His list of regrets is surprisingly short, actually. He regrets not telling Roma and Bryant the truth, regretsbetrayingthem, more than anything else. He regrets that Chester’s last memory of him is going to be from the wrong side of an interrogation table.
He regrets not hugging Desi goodbye, just one last time. And he regrets not telling Cass that?—
JJ’s eyes sting. He forces his fingernails harder under the head of the nail, trying to distract himself with the pain.
Don’t think about Cass. Don’t think about Desi. Don’t think about Roma and Bryant and Chester.
Just think about your next move.
And JJ’s next move is probably going to be his last. Even if he manages to take down the first interrogator, there’ll surely be more—dozens more, once they sound the alarm. Maybe if he still had his powers, or if he hadn’t spent days on end being tortured, or?—
He cuts off that train of thought before he can follow it any further. No use dwelling on the what ifs, not now. So he keeps prying out the nail, keeps watching the door, keeps straining his ears to hear the muffled noises outside. Judging by the volume of footfalls in the hallway, he knows that change of shift passed a few hours ago, but it’s hard to gauge time without windows. He pries out the second nail at what he thinks is around ten in the morning and decides to push his luck for a third. At best, he’ll have three weapons.
At worst, he’s already scheduled to die at noon.
The footsteps in the hallway start to fade. Preparing for the execution, maybe? Distractedly, he wonders how much accelerant they’re going to need, if anyone besides the Council will be there to watch?—
If Roma and Bryant and Chester will be in the audience.
Don’t think about that. Just think about your next move.
He’s not going to be able to pull out the third nail in time. He abandons the attempt, sits in the very middle of his cot with his feet planted on the floor, and watches the door.
Counts his breaths. Tries to match them to seconds. Slides the nails between his fingers, spins them until the cold metal warms against his skin.
Waits for the door to open.
Waits for the end to come.
Waits for?—
A scream makes JJ bolt to his feet, heart slamming against his ribcage. That didn’t sound like it was coming from an interrogation room—no, it sounded like it was coming from thehallway.Did a prisoner get loose? It’s possible if the interrogators are short-staffed for the execution, but JJ doesn’t think it’s ever happened before. Another scream, louder than before,closerthan before?—
Screaming and racing footsteps and the clang of metal and aroaring,something deep and primeval and bone-chilling that sends liquid terror spiking through JJ’s veins.
