Page 59 of Sullied Saints

“Our backup wouldn’t be coming that close, not yet.”

My throat feels dry. If they get in the way, they’ll either be collateral or the reason we don’t catch Cassandra tonight. “How many, do you think?”

Dirk focusses back on the edge of the oval ahead of us. “Could be half of Tregam at this point.”

We reach the other side, and a long building with a row of crumbled metal lockers. I lean back to take in the façade of the building—what’s left of it, at least. Just a typical brick schoolhouse. At some point in its history, it was full enough to need an additional three storeys added, that brick lighter and in worse shape than the bottom half. And now… there’s been no children here in a very long time.

Tristan nods towards a dark doorway leading in.

“This building is half-gone,” I comment.

“But it’s the one,” Tristan says quietly.

Inside, the walls look like they used to be painted blue, now discoloured and cracked. The hall is all but impassable with rubble where the street-facing side of the building has collapsed, but the stairwell is accessible.

I stare up towards the first landing, where a studio light has been left on a pile of rubble, casting harsh shadows and blinding light against the steps. What lies up there feels as claustrophobic as a coffin. I long for the openness of the oval again. Or absolutely anywhere but here. When we take those stairs up, I fear we’ll never take them back down.

We go up. Five flights to where the steadily degrading staircase gives way completely, leading nowhere but a hole in the floor. The darkening sky peeks through the missing roof as we step onto a level missing most of its walls. Bare cement stretches out under our boots, cracked right across the wide-open room to the other side. The rubble from what had once been the highest level is pushed off to the sides with a dozen old, splintered school desks. Pillars and sections of wall darken the space to the left and right, and an old blackboard fixed to the wall has enough holes in it to suggest it was used as target practice.

Ahead, facing out towards the city, the side of the building is gone. I don’t know how. The way the metal support bars are bent indicates someone was playing with explosives. The cement gives way in a sharp, jagged drop to the street.

There are sounds coming from beyond; the hum of cars and voices. Our support cars haven’t gone unnoticed then. Tregam has figured out, if not exactly where, the vague area of our interest, and so theirs. They’re gathering.

And we’re not alone inside, either.

Guns in the hands of men glint from the shadows. The hair on the back of my neck rises.

Then. Her.

I want nothing more than to take Dirk’s hand, to pull him away from here and hold him until someone else deals with her. She’s just there, sitting precariously close to the edge and the five-storey drop, the feet of her school chair uneven over debris and crumpled cement.

While her face is turned away, I take in her profile, the lines sharp and hollow. Somehow, she seems even less than when I knew her, like she’s given up eating entirely, her bones stark and the rounds of her joints protruding. Her cheeks and jaw stand out against skin turned softly yellow in the last of the day’s light. Her blond regrowth is cutting through the thin brown all the way to her ears. As she turns and stands, the jeans she’s wearing hang off emancipated hips. I almost think she'll breeze away herself without our help. But then I remind myself she’s killed a man—albeit a young one—quite recently. Maybe she had help stringing him up, maybe chloroform and the surprising strength of being absolutely bat-shit is enough. I don’t know.

Her eyes, big and ogling, remind me of a fish in a tank. They lock on Tristan for several beats before she takes us in, and when she moves on to us, lingering on Dirk in a way that makes my skin crawl, her thin lips draw back in a kind of smile.

"We brought him," I say, breaking whatever hold she's trying to get him in. "Now call off your basement dwellers."

Her head tilts to me, her huge eyes glinting in the spear of light falling across the side of her face. "I'm so glad you came,” she says, apparently forgetting that she told her people not to let anyone but us through. Her voice is airy, reminding me of the people who believe they’ve reached enlightenment, except with a low croak of dryness to it.

"We're not here to chat,” I say flatly. We’ve sighted her, now we need to get her the hell away from her army. Without her at their lead,ourmen with guns can come in. Before Tregam gets other ideas.

"Tris." Cassandra smiles at Tristan, but he's as silent now as he has been this whole walk. "We didn't part as family last time. That made me… upset. To get you back and lose you so quickly."

Needler’s voice is small, barely there. "We can catch up, Cass, as long as you want. I'll stay with you. But send them back out, you don’t need them here." He’s going off-script already. I can’t blame him. None of this feels predictable.

Outside, a first shout is quickly followed up by others, loud enough even for us up here to pick it. They’ve spotted Dean and Howie. Recognised them as Cocooner case detectives. I hope those two are safer out there than I feel in here.

Whoever is down on the streets sounds angry. I picture those men as we drove in, with their homemade weapons. The people can't take much more, more losing their brothers, mothers, sons, friends. They won’t take any more loss. Like Tristan said, Tregam doesn’t like to be held hostage, and that’s exactly what Cassandra has done. With her dates, her promise of death. More than that, it won’t take much to figure out we’re bending to her demands, that if we’re here, so is Needler. And there’s every chance they’ll believe what I believe—that she's going to kill him. Or at the very least, she’ll see to it that no one will ever hear of him again.

Cassandra pouts. "But I've been waiting to see them both again for so long." Tilting her gaze to Dirk, her smile is a rictus, thin lips pulling too far back from teeth started to rot. "Especiallyyou."

I see him want to reach for the gun that isn't there. Something pops outside, and again.Fuck. A glow erupts from the direction of the street. Like a fire bloomed from pure gas and burned out just as fast. Cassandra seems not to notice any of this, only waiting, watching us all.

We’re too high up for anyone at ground level to hear us or be aware of us unless someone inside screams or fires a shot. Hopefully, it won’t come to that. Especially since we’re not the ones with the guns.

"Don't, Cass," Tristan says, with some degree of pleading.

"Have they come to mean something to you? Have you caught Stockholm Syndrome?" Cassandra asks, giggling. Then her face changes, hollows sinking deeper. "LikeHewas precious to me. And you took him away." Caleb. Needler killed him back when Caleb was the Cocooner and Cassandra was some kind of protégé.

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