Page 90 of Dublin Beast

“Again.”

Still, nothing happens.

“The rust is fighting us.” Harper sets down her lever and goes back to where I tossed the metal brackets I used as a blade to free her from her bindings. “See if we can score some of it away.”

The two of us drop to our knees, hacking and digging at the seam of the grate. Bits of cold, broken tile bite into my kneecaps but the adrenaline is pumping now, so there’s no stopping.

Harper works one side. I take the other, jamming the rusted metal into the seam, making chunks of old iron flake off like scabs.

Then the bracket slips.

The sharp edge catches my palm, and heat flashes through my hand like lightning. “Feckin hell!”

Blood wells fast, dark, and immediate.

Harper sits up, her eyes narrowing on my clutched fist. “How bad is it? Let me see.”

“It’s just a wee scratch,” I lie.

She doesn’t buy it. Of course she doesn’t.

She crawls over and grabs my wrist, uncurling my fist. The gash is a long, nasty slice, shallow and filthy.

“Just a scratch, my ass. You’ll need a tetanus shot, for sure. That bracket probably has more rust and bacteria on it than a sewer rat’s teeth.”

I peg her with a droll stare. “We’re about to crawlintoa sewer, trouble. Now you’re just jinxing us.”

She looks up at me, exasperated. “Bryan. I’m serious.”

I wave her off with my uninjured hand. “We’ll deal with it later. If Mason and his men get here before we’re gone, blood poisoning will be the least of my problems.”

She hesitates, then grabs her tool and slices at the hem of her shirt. Gripping the torn piece, she tears a strip all the way around. Then, she wraps it tight around my hand. “If your arm falls off, I’m not carrying you.”

“Noted.”

She ties the two ends of the makeshift bandage and tucks in the edges. When it’s done, she looks up at me, her fingers lingering on my skin before she pulls away. “Are you good to try the levers again?”

“Better than good.” Reclaiming my chair leg, I wedge it into place again, grit my teeth, and give it.

We both strain, metal groaning in protest.

“That’s something,” Harper grunts. “Keep at it.”

The two of us work and push and give it all we’ve got. And finally, with a sharpsnapand a screech that echoes off the tiled dome above us, the grate lurches upward.

Harper scrambles back and I heave the thing off, tossing it to the side with a clang that shakes the walls.

Below is a tunnel—narrow, black, and reeking of wet stone and rot. I peer into the mouth of it, barely wide enough for a regular-sized grown man.

I’m far from that.

“I’m not sure I’ll fit.”

“That’s what guys always say.”

I give her a look, thankful that at least for now, the icy chill of her disdain has melted. Straightening, I wipe my palms on my pants. “But, seriously. That’s going to be tight as a coffin for me.”

“You’ll fit. It’s our best chance of survival.” She places a hand on my back—a brush of her fingers, warm and quick.

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