“I thought you wanted to be set free,” I said reluctantly. It’s what he’d gone on and on about—us setting him free by baking an hour.
“No, no—don’t pour the time, don’t pour the time!” he said, and charged for Silas, eyes suddenly bloodshot, but Silas had already passed the teapot to Anika on my side of the table, so he was able to push back the host easily.
“Don’tcome near me again,” he spat, and the host moved farther back, those glossy eyes on Anika next as she poured the minute into her mold.
“Seven’s a theft,” he whispered. “Seven’s atheft!”
I didn’t understand it—but then again, I doubted I was meant to. The host had been so desperate for us to set him free, and now he looked like he was about to lose his mind if we actually did what we were supposed to do. All from one tick to the next.
I wondered—part of the game, or just Host Ticktock?
Maybe…he was trying towarnus, like those flowers had tried to do in the Tree of Years?
“Faster, faster, faster,” Seth chanted from across, watching Levana pour the tea next with shaking hands. When she did,Cook took the teapot, poured the minute, then handed it to Russ, who was right beside me.
Almost there,I reminded myself, trying not to look at the host, who continued to stare at Cook—then at Reggie on the other side as he poured the sugar, and handed the bowl to Silas.
Their side of the table had already completed the molds.
“Here,” Russ said, handing me over the teapot. I had to pour one minute—no more, no less.
I dripped the gold-colored tea onto my mixture of sugar and flour, then checked the measurements to make sure I wasn’t pouring too much. Another drop or two, and I had exactly one minute.Done.
March grabbed the teapot next—the last one. The others had already put their molds into the bigger one, while the host continued to make these strange sounds, to grab his head, to pace in front of the table back and forth, fast.
“Get it in there—go!” shouted Reggie, and the moment March and I put our slices into the mold, Silas grabbed it with one hand, and spun the oven around with the other. Reggie pulled the door open—and the host shouted.
“No! Not that cake—NO!”
It all happened so fast.
Silas put the mold into the oven.
Host Ticktock ran for him with his hands on his head, his eyes bloodshot, his teeth bared like he thought himself a snake, and was coming to bite us.
Reggie moved, stepped in front of Silas as he closed the lid of the oven, shouting, “STOP!” at the host, but he didn’t.
The host kept coming, and Reggie raised his arms to stop him, and in his right hand something shone silver.
A knife.
A pastry knife like the ones on the table. I hadn’t even seen him grabbing it.
The hostfellright onto him.
“NOT THAT HOUR, NOT THAT HOUR, NOT THAT?—”
His words cut off.
His breath cut off.
His eyes, blue and bloodshot, widened, but he no longer saw Silas. He no longer reached for him, either, but his hands fell over Reggie’s wide shoulders.
I must have been in shock because I only remembered fragments of the next few seconds—when the host continued to slide down Reggie’s arms, then fall on his side against the table; when Silas pulled Reggie back by the shoulders, and Reggie chanted, “He wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t stop…”The blood on the vest of the host, right there over his gut. Dark blood.Freshblood.
Then the host slid off the edge of the table.
A blink and he was on the ground. Everybody screamed—everybody gasped—everybody said to move back, but even so, when the others rushed around the table, I did, too. Couldn’t help it—it was instinct.
