I had no answer.
We climbed the stairs, and took the second-floor passage between old building and new. We went at a half run now, trying to stay quiet, listening for Cyrus.
The passage had glass walls, and I scanned the darkness outside for signs of other Mortons closing in. Orrin would be headed over from Faraday’s, if he wasn’t already here.
No cars passing through Main Gate. No figures in the trees below.
We went past the Rare Books Room, then into Geology, where someone had left the sconce lighting on—the gemstones glowed in their little alcoves.
Descending to the ground floor, we drew our knives.
“You throw something heavy,” Sebastian whispered. “I’ll cut the hamstrings.”
“Nostalgia, cousin?”
“It worked last time.”
Cyrus was waiting for us at the fire exit in the T–Z section of English Lit. He stood with his back against the door, the baton extended in his right hand, a canister of Mace in his left.
“Jessica,” he said. “This isn’t your fight.”
The door wasn’t chained—a lure to make us fight him.
“Come home with me,” he said. “The world will make sense again.”
“I recommend Thackeray,” Sebastian whispered, then moved away from me, giving Cyrus more angles to cover.
“What about Sebastian?” I asked. “Does he get amnesty too?”
“He’s lost,” Cyrus said. “They all are, except you. But you can go back to your old self.”
I hesitated, as if considering this offer.
Sebastian made a half feint, drawing Cyrus’s eyes to him, and I reached for the nearest shelf. A thick, squat volume of poetry.
I threw it hard at Cyrus’s head.
His hand came up too late, and the book smacked against his face. It was nothing like a padlock—no teeth flew—but he lost track of Sebastian for a split second.
My cousin darted in and sliced a hand; the canister of mace clattered to the ground. Cyrus swung the baton, and Sebastian blocked it with his forearm—a horrible crack. The baton came up again.
I threw my knife, wishing it was bigger, wishing it was Ziggy.
It stuck in Cyrus’s open flank, two inches deep—drawing a breathless grunt, a spurt of blood. He wasn’t wearing body armor.
The baton came down too slow, and Sebastian was inside Cyrus’s guard, stabbing randomly and fast. I grabbed the biggest book within reach and closed in.
Blood was spattering now, the knife flashing in the half dark, the butt of the baton connecting with Sebastian’s shoulder.
I swung the book crosswise, to the chin. Cyrus’s head jerked back, his eyes glassy for a moment.
That’s when my cousin found his mark—the knife plunging deep into a lower calf. The first real shriek of pain from Cyrus, thesnapof his Achilles tendon.
But he brought the baton down one last time, clipping the back of Sebastian’s head. Blood flew as Sebastian staggered past him, crashing into the fire door and through.
“Go!” I called.
Cyrus smiled, picking up the canister of Mace. He raised himself on one leg, his back against the fire doors again, and shoved the baton through the handles.
