The old man was on his feet, taller than I’d expected, graceful and slender. His suit, I saw from up close, was worth more than every single piece of clothing I’d ever owned in my life combined. Fucking enustari. Nice work, if you weren’t bothered by the oceans of blood you had to shed to get there. Still, the fact that Fallon didn’t have any Bleeders was a confounding mystery.
The thin man strode confidently from the room, and I followed, Hiram sauntering after me, hands still in the pockets of his shapeless trousers. The noise from the bathroom had risen to the level of pretty serious; they were both up and tearing the place apart. The sound of running water flowed under everything else like a silver thread. Hiram had a mess on his hands, and I was comforted by the fact that I wasn’t solely to blame.
Fallon paused outside the door and turned to us. “We will—”
The bathroom door exploded outward in a spray of splinters, the young black guy hurtling through and slamming into the wall beyond with bone-shattering force. He straightened up and staggered, shaking his head, while Mr. Landry, looking really, really worse for the wear, leaped into the hallway behind him.
Mags skidded into place next to me, grabbing hold of my arm. We looked at each other for a split second.
“Balahul!” Landry shouted, sounding exultant.
Fallon whirled, one hand diving into his jacket pocket as Hiram, Mags, and I produced our blades; Hiram was an old scrapper, and his left arm was crisscrossed with white and pink scars just like mine. Hiram had taught me how to hold the blade, how to gauge the necessary pressure, how to avoid tendons, and how to select the right vessel. As we slashed our forearms in sync, Fallon produced a small wooden box from his pocket that looked about as dangerous as a thumbtack. You didn’t meet many Fabricators, and now I knew why: They’d all been eaten by Udug while playing with their toys. I could sense gas in the air from the bleeds Hiram and I had going. I ran through the combat spells I knew, the fragments that might be combined into something weaponized, but before I could speak, Fallon held the box in his palm, reached with his other hand, and opened the lid.
A soft, sweet note emanated from within, louder than should have been possible. It was a beautiful sound, a constant clear tone that made me pause in surprise and wonder. It burst forth without variation, perfect and steady. It was the most gorgeous noise I’d ever heard.
Landry and the black kid began screaming.
They collapsed to their knees and covered their ears, howling and squirming. The black kid moved his hands and appeared to be making an attempt to jam his fingers deep enough in his ears to burst an eardrum.
I looked at Fallon, and he glanced at me. “Always prepared, yes?” he said, the hint of a smile kinking the deep lines of his face. “With preparation, Mr. Vonnegan, one does not need to bleed quite so often. This is a lesson your gasam can learn as well. Also, not to steal every fucking thing he lays eyes on.”
I wasn’t used to bleeding and not casting, my wound left to sizzle and ooze, but I let it go. You never knew when a little gas would come in handy.
“Thank you for the lesson, my lord,” Hiram groused. “See what happens when you leave your fortress and enter the world?”
Fallon clucked his tongue. “My peers have made it clear they prefer me in my fortress, making trinkets.”
The note made their voices sound beautiful, even angelic. Our prisoners, however, continued to screech and writhe on the floor. Without warning, the kid leaped up and launched himself forward, screaming. Mags moved immediately, leaping up to intercept him as I spoke the first spell that came to mind, three Words. The kid froze, his limbs going stiff in a comical pose in midair—and so did Mags, caught in the spell along with him. As Mags crashed into the far wall, the kid’s forward momentum carried him crashing into Fallon, and the box hit the floor hard, smashing into pieces, the note cutting off immediately.
The silence was drab and disappointing, and, I realized, always would be from that moment forward.
I turned just in time to see Mr. Landry, his yellowed skin loose and slack, charging toward me, shouting his one and only Word. Landry appeared to be made of balsa wood and tissue paper, but he smacked into me like a cannonball, knocking me backward. I landed on my back and slid a few inches while Landry grabbed hold of my shoulders, climbing on top of me and pinning me down with terrible, unexpected strength. If I could be so easily overpowered by an elderly man who was also recently dead, I figured it might be time to invest in a gym membership.
My freeze mu wore off, and the black kid leaped to his feet, blood running from each ear, and rounded on Hiram just as he spat out a neat spell that sent the kid hurtling away as if an invisible missile had slammed into him.
The kid, though, being demon-powered, bounced off the wall with a crack of shattered bone and came right back at Hiram, knocking the round man to the floor. Which was the last thing I saw before Mr. Landry, drooling cold, jellied spittle onto my face as he shouted his secret name, raised one fist and brought it down at my head.
II.
4.