The silence after her knife hit the floor was unbearable.
Elena leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight. Damian sat at the counter, ribs bound, head bowed like a man praying to a god he didn't believe in. Neither of them spoke. The air between them was cracked glass, sharp enough to bleed on.
Then came the knock.
Three short, sharp raps.
Elena's eyes snapped to the door. Damian's hand slid toward his gun.
Another knock. Slower. Harder.
And then the voice. Sing-song. Crooked. Wrong.
"Knock, knock."
Elena's blood turned cold. She knew that voice.
Damian was at the door in an instant, gun drawn. He yanked it open—
—and the boy from the tunnels staggered in.
Elena's stomach flipped. He was supposed to be dead. Instead, he looked like death's practice dummy: pale, drenched in blood, swaying on his feet like a puppet whose strings were fraying. His eyes burned too bright, fevered and wild.
He braced against the doorframe, then grinned wide through bloody teeth. "Guess I'm not great at goodbyes."
Elena stared, horrified. "You've got to be kidding me."
The boy coughed, spat dark red onto the floor, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Don't worry, I won't ruin the carpet."
Damian kept the gun steady. His voice was flat. "You shouldn't be standing."
The boy snorted, then wheezed a laugh that rattled like broken glass. "Yeah, well, people keep telling me that. I'm starting to take it personally."
Elena almost laughed herself, a sharp, ugly sound that wanted out. "You look worse than him." She jabbed her chin at Damian.
The boy's grin widened. "What can I say? I'm committed to the bit."
Damian didn't blink. "Say what you came to say."
The boy's grin twitched, faltered. His hand shook as he pointed at Damian. "The key." His finger shifted toward Elena. "The lock." His voice cracked low, near a whisper. "You open the door."
Elena's stomach dropped. "What door?"
The boy pressed his head against the wall, like he was trying to push the words straight into the concrete. His voice was frayed, unraveling. "The door they swore to keep shut."
Then he dropped. Just collapsed in a heap, twitching once before going horribly still.
For a long moment, no one breathed.
Finally Elena croaked, "Is he—?"
Damian crouched, checked the boy's neck, then straightened slowly. "Dead." He paused. "Or at least on break."
Elena let out a sharp, almost hysterical laugh. "Perfect. Even corpses are more talkative than you."
Damian didn't rise to the bait. He just stared at the body, jaw tight. "Let's hope he stays down. I'm not wasting another bullet."
Elena sank into the couch, laughter spilling through her exhaustion, cracked and bitter. Because somehow, in this nightmare, death itself had a sense of humor....