Page 67 of When the Sky Breaks

She was vomiting blood. My pulse spiked, hammering in my ears.

We needed to get out of this place. Fast.

I grabbed a napkin from a nearby patron’s lap. The man didn’t react, not for a second. I wiped the blood off Sorcha’s face.

“You’re okay,” I lied. “I’ve got you.”

The second half was true at least.

I turned and put the bloody napkin back onto the patron’s lap and locked eyes with the man, just for a moment. The stranger’s gaze was vacant, glazed, detached—just like everyone in this horrible place. But for a second he met my eyes, the first person in the entire city to do so.

And then a dry, rasping croak, as though speaking was an effort. “Get out.”

I grabbed Sorcha by the wrist and pulled her away, still farther into the room. We had to find Ansel. And we had to leave. Right. Now. She tried to shift in my grip, tried to take my hand. But I didn’t let her. I’d take her hand, take her arm, do something soft, loving. And then I’d get distracted, which might very well get us both killed.

She’d just vomited blood and no one had so much as blinked.

Everything was so very intensely wrong.

I saw a hallway leading off the main room and thought I caught a glimpse of Ansel heading down it. So I pulled Sorcha forward, following.

The scent of rancid flesh and iron was stronger here. Suffocating. I slowed my pace, trying not to look frantic as we stepped into the narrow passage. Then a door opened and I froze. A polished, middle-aged man stepped out of the room—mustache waxed, adjusting his cufflinks, slipping back into his jacket. But behind him was a scene that made my stomach turn.

I grabbed Sorcha and pulled her into my chest, hand cupping the back of her head and pressing her face into my shirtfront.

“Close your eyes,” I said. She tried to pull away for a split second, but I gripped harder, fingers digging in at the base of her skull as I wound my other arm around her back and held her there. “I said close your eyes.”

“Neal, what’s happening?” There wasn’t a shred of defiance in her voice—only fear.

“Close. Your. Eyes,” I repeated.

Past the open door was a mahogany paneled room, undecorated and empty but for a dark wood table, littered with organs and offal, all branded with the cult’s symbol. Above it hung a split cattle carcass, ribs open, dripping blood onto the marble tiles.

I held perfectly still and just waited. I felt Sorcha stir a bit, trying to pull away from me. And I just shushed her.

“Stay still,” I told her. “Eyes closed.”

“Neal?” Her voice was shaking. She was shaking all over.

“Just stay still,” I repeated. “Eyes closed. I’ve got you.”

If our experience so far was anything to go off the man would ignore us—close the door, walk past, get on with whatever hellish business he’d started in there. But I didn’t want to draw attention just in case.

A split-second later Ansel barreled past, dragging an old man with a monocle behind him by the collar. Ansel’s pace was brisk but unhurried. His eyes were focused, steely, clear. There was a nonchalance about him, as though this was just a normal day at work. I shuddered when I realized that before, when he’d been doing proper Outer Court monster hunting, it probably was just a normal day at work.

“Come on,” Ansel said bluntly as he passed us, dragging the kicking, fighting man through the club and out the front door.

None of the patrons seemed to notice.

“Are we done here?” Sorcha asked into my chest.

“Seems like it,” I replied, hurrying after. “Keep your eyes closed. Take my arm. I’ve got you.”

We stumbled out onto the street and instantly Ansel was shouting.

“Over here,” he called, voice still dark, clipped, commanding. “Help me get this door open.”

Ansel had the monocled cultist by the collar, and the man was fighting hard. We stood in front of a machine shop that was locked up for the night—one of only a handful of businesses in the city that seemed to keep normal hours. Ansel was wrenching on the door handle—seemingly trying to break in.