“Viézteix! Demechnef!”
Niklaus pushes me out of the way before a heavy baton can land on my back. A Guardian strikes him across the shoulder. Once, then again right on the burned, raw flesh of his upper back.
He flashes his white teeth as he growls, twisting his head to the side and taking the quick beating without flinching.
I try to pull Niklaus away from the Guardian, but he won’t move. And as I twist to tug him forward again, I see why. We’re next to enter the showers.
He’s unable to step foot inside.
“Niéxv! Niéxv!” the Guardian shouts, winding his gigantic arm up again and slamming the baton back down on Niklaus’s back.
And I know the fear of stepping foot back into this shower must be all-consuming and eating him from the inside out—because the pain of the baton striking his wounds aren’t enough to make him budge.
He’s a statue, hand hardening like concrete around mine.
“That’s enough!” I shriek at the Guardian. “Give him a minute!”
But the Guardian attacks again and again. And Niklaus takes it.
“Stop!”
I’m not thinking. I forget where I am and the consequences of certain actions in a place like this. My hand rotates out of Niklaus’s stone grip, and I block the next hit with both hands, using the gargantuan man’s weight against him—unsheathing his other weapon hooked to his belt and slicing into that veiny forearm. A spray of hot blood finds my chest and face.
And the Guardian fails to contain his disbelief.
“He’s not ready yet…” I try to justify my actions, but it’s too late.
“Spitfire!”
What have I done?
“You silly, moronic little bitch!” The Guardian throws his long whip of black hair over his shoulder and backhands me. The force is that of a galloping bull. My teeth clack together. My body spins and smacks to the floor.
“She opened the flesh of a Guardian!”
Hands are shackled around the base of my neck, under my arms, stapled into my rib cage as I’m hauled from the damp, mildew ground and dragged like a dog. Chains are hooked to my iron collar. My legs and core scape along the brimstone, textured ground.
I scream as my skin is torn and grated raw.
“Krimson!” I cry out.
I believe in you, Krimson! Come save me. Please.
I hold my head up as the great mammoths continue to trail my flopping body behind them like a fish on a hook. The cuts and burns take such a beating against the rough floors, I start to go numb.
What’s going to happen to me?!
Aunt Ruth lost her legs.
Oh god. Please. Please, don’t take my limbs.
57. Black Widow
Niklaus
It’s my fault.
My fault.
