Page 141 of The Fake Divination Offense
A crack, a shattering splinter as the barrier falls; the noise barely registers. I’m moving.
I dive forward, a final wave of prickling electricity sheeting over my skin as I hurl my body toward Tem.
Aaron, Roesia, and Darian move at the same time I do. I’m half aware of grunts and shouts, a snarl, a rending tear, a wail.
All I see is Tem, twisting toward me.
For one stretched-out beat, his dismay morphs into shocked fear before I tackle him.
The dagger glances off my rawball padding and clatters across the concrete with a metallic ring. Tem cries out as he thuds to the floor, my full weight crashing down on him.
Something rolls next to us—the hot sauce bottle.
I don’t give him a beat to gain his breath; I grab the bottle and smash the fuck out of his face with it.
Oh, look. The hot sauce was an important part of the ritual after all.
Tem’s head snaps back, skull cracking on the stone. Blood flies from his nose and hot sauce ruptures across his face in a mini explosion.
I drop the broken bottle, rear back, fist wound—
“Orok!” Darian’s in front of me. “Go, I got him.”
Go? Tem’s unconscious but his face is still recognizable. He’s stillbreathing. I’m not done yet.
“Orok,” Darian says more firmly. “Your guy needs you.”
That rips me to my feet.
Darian strums a chord on his guitar and Tem’s whole body arches in a muscle spasm.
“I got him,” Darian says again.
Roesia and Aaron have the other cultists restrained or unconscious. Seb and Thio lean exhaustedly on each other. Bel’s hanging from the chain but Marlow’s above him, legs wrapped around the I beam.
Her eyes pop upside down to mine and she quickly signs, “Get ready to catch him,” before she goes back to work on the chain links.
I dive in, arms clamping around Bel’s waist to hold him to me. He mouths something at me and my lungs ache as I bellow, “Someone get rid of this damn silence spell!”
I’m unhinging. The weakened seams of my composure are fraying and I have nothing,nothingleft to hold myself together.
Darian hits a chord on his guitar and Bel sucks in a rattling breath.
“Orok,” he tries, and sobs. “Orok!”
I kiss him, tasting my name on his lips and the salt of his tears, feeling the warmth of his exhale and the thrum of his anxiety as his body shudders in my arms. Or maybe that’s me shuddering; we’re both tremors and desperation.
The chain releases with a rattle of metal, and I make sure it doesn’t hit Bel as it falls to the ground. Marlow drops with it and undoes the cuffs.
I take Bel’s wrists and rub my thumbs over them, noting the redness, the way bruises are already forming.
I’m going to kill Tem.
Around us, everyone’s stunned. Cameras are still on us; security is now levitating toward the platform.
It doesn’t matter. All that matters is here, right here.
Bel’s okay. He’s all right. He’s tear-stained and wide-eyed and shaking, but he’s all right.
