Tally staggers over.
“The dog has the stamina of an octogenarian,” François tuts. Reaching out a hand, his eyes focus on Tally with clinical intensity. “This may be… unpleasant.”
A strangled cry leaves Tally as a faint, sickly green light flickers between his skin and François’s fingers. Smelling of ozone and rot, the air in the cell turns instantly frigid. Tally’s back arches and his eyes blow wide as he gasps, drawing in a massive, desperate lungful of air. The deep purple bruising on his torso fades to a dull yellow right before my eyes.
Straightening up moments later, Tally stands with a fluid, terrifying strength that looks almost entirely pain-free.
“What the hell are you?” he hisses, staring down at his own hands.
“I am the one getting you out of here,” François replies coldly, rolling his shoulders. Sweat dots his brow, making him look slightly drained. Rubbing the back of his neck, his irritation returns. “Now, which of the Digger peons did you wish to see?”
“Clay and Layla,” Tally replies firmly.
A sharp, piercing whistle leaves François’s lips. A minute later, Danny’s greasy face appears in the doorway. He stops short, eyes darting nervously to his former leader standing tall and un-bruised.
“Fetch me Clay and Layla, immediately,” François commands.
“Er, yes, boss.” Danny flicks one last terrified glance at Tally and scuttles away.
A thick, awkward silence settles over us as we stand in the dim light, waiting for our friends to appear.
“Is it Imran?” gasps Clay as he enters, his eyes scanning his friend’s face.
“Sky?” Layla stands right behind him, her arms crossed tightly.
“There is too much to explain, but you have to trust me,” Tally replies, his tone low and urgent. “I’m leaving. So are the French prick and Aurora. We’re going after Sky. We think the Grieves have her.”
“Those fuckers,” Clay growls.
“Exactly. Clay, you’re the Boss now. You have to keep the Diggers united. Voss is going to be looking for a head to put on a spike the moment he realizes we’re over the wall.”
“Leaving? That’s impossible, or suicide,” huffs Layla, her hands flying to her hips. “Are you high?”
“Tally, you can’t,” Clay agrees, his face etched with genuine concern. “Trying to cross the Null-wards will fry your brain.”
Nodding toward François, Tally grunts, “Remember what I told you about him. He wouldn’t risk his own skin if he didn’t know it was possible.”
“Fuck, man. But me? Boss? Layla should do it,” Clay argues.
Thinking Clay might be right, I cut in. “I second that. What do you think, Lay?”
“I’d say yes, but Danny, Rice, and their little gang of shits won’t like it,” she counters, her eyes darting to the hallway. “They’ll shiv me in the tits the first chance they get.”
Looking up from his chair, François offers a terrifying, slow-blooming smile. “Fetch the dissenters. Bring them here. Now.”
“Why?” asks Clay, wary.
“Because,” mutters François, “I find I am in the mood to delegate my authority.”
Returning a few minutes later, Clay leads a sneering Danny and Rice into the cell. Rice’s hand hovers near the sharpened toothbrush at his waistband, his posture radiating a challenge.
“What’s the word, Boss?” Rice looks at François. “I see Bevan’s back on his feet. Want us to—”
Moving with an unnatural, predatory speed, François stops inches from Rice’s face. His pupils expand until the whites vanish, leaving only two abysses reflecting the flickering fluorescent strips.
“Look at me,” whispers François.
The air in the cell turns frigid, the scent of ozone and rot suddenly heavy. Staring into the void, the two men’s eyes glaze over. Their pupils blow wide as they fall into the trap of his gaze.
