“I’m going to kill you,” he says to his progenitor.
Old Bishop nods. “I know you would try, but the restraints are far too strong. It is best if you make your peace with the gods.” The ancient monster reaches down, places a hand on my Bishop’s shoulder. “I am sorry it has to be this way.”
My Bishop sneers. “Maybe it’s better that I die now than live and become you. You are no warrior—you are a coward.”
Old Bishop stares for a moment, then hangs his masked head.
My Bishop senses his words have hit home. He tries to rise up, but of course, he can’t.
“At least let me fight for my life,” he says. “Don’t you want to know if you could beat me?”
Old Bishop’s red eyes swirl. He looks at my Bishop’s face, then above his head—I see a green jewel there, the same one Matilda pressed to release O’Malley.
The massive Grownup gently reaches for it. I hold my breath. His wrinkled, black finger rests lightly on the jewel.
“Don’t be stupid, lover,” Matilda calls out. She’s on the pedestal platform with Smith. “Do you really want to prove what a big man you are by damaging the body you’re about to inhabit? Leave him be—it’s your turn to transfer.”
Old Bishop’s hand drops to his side.
“I want to live,” he says to my Bishop. “I am sorry.” He lumbers to the black X. “Uriah, Kevin, prepare me.”
Coyotl scurries over, as does O’Malley. It is devastating to see their young faces so eager to help, so excited about killing off another of my friends.
My Bishop sniffles once. Then twice. No, not sniffling…he’s smelling the air. I don’t smell anything.
Old Bishop removes his bracelet weapon. He hands it to O’Malley, who slides it onto his own arm. Coyotl shackles one of Old Bishop’s wrists, O’Malley the other. They lock down his ankles.
Old Bishop looks at each restraint as he tests it, giving it a short pull. His head suddenly snaps up, eyes darting about the room.
“Release me,” he says.
O’Malley throws back his head and laughs. “No cold feet now, Ramses old chap. I know you’re afraid you’ll be stabbed in the heart—because you will be—but the you that does the stabbing will enjoy it, I promise.”
Old Bishop pulls hard on his shackles; the metal rattles so loud that O’Malley takes a surprised step back.
“Release me now, I smell something.”
And then I smell it, too—burned toast.
The Springers are here.
Coyotl’s nose wrinkles: his eyes widen.
“Oh, shit,” he says.
A flash and a deafening roar from somewhere past my head.
Coyotl spins in place, falls.
Borjigin cries out, as if he still doesn’t understand that the Coyotl he knew was already gone.
O’Malley dives away from the X, hits the ground and rolls into a crouch at the foot of my coffin.
Old Bishop rattles the X even harder.
“Kevin, come back,” he screams. “Let me out of here!”
Another gun roars. My ears ring. The overpowering scent of wet charcoal fills the room, singes my nose.
I still can’t move. Spingate screams in fear. Gaston is cursing for someone to let him go. Borjigin is crying, the sound somehow heartbreaking despite the insanity and death that surrounds me.
Springers screech a grinding war cry that sets my teeth on edge.
Another gun roars, then another.
O’Malley pops up. He levels his arm on me, using the bars across my ankles to steady his bracelet, and fires off a blast of white light.
I try to kick my feet to throw off his aim, but I can barely move my legs. He drops back down behind the coffin. He’s using me for cover. If the Springers chance a shot at him…
I look left: my Bishop’s arms trembling, every huge muscle popping out, his face scrunched in quiet effort. Past my feet, Old Bishop is doing the same, pulling at the metal restraints that hold him to the X.
Through the chaos, I hear a voice that is not human.
“Hem! Hem!”
Barkah has come for me.
“I’m here! Can’t move!”
The sharp shriek of metal breaking, metal dying—two curved pieces sail through the air as my Bishop’s right hand flies up.
Then a sound almost exactly like it, but this one comes from the black X—Old Bishop’s left leg kicks free. Pieces of broken ankle restraint clatter across the floor.
My Bishop fights with the thicker bar around his waist. He slides his fingers under it, lifts, grunts, but he can’t get leverage.
I remember how Matilda let O’Malley out.
“Bishop, the jewel above your head! Push it!”
He reaches up, fingers frantically searching the fabric above him.
Another Springer gunshot.
Coyotl is somewhere on the floor, screaming in agony.