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Nate considered him. “Who’s behind the wall, Leo?”

“Go to hell,” Leo said.

Nate swallowed.

Then he raised the hammer.

Leo moved.

He was in front of the damaged section before Nate could swing at it again. Back to the stones, arms spread, covering the pale marks and the crack and everything the man before him had no right to touch.

Nate studied him. “Move aside,” he said quietly.

“No.”

“Leo.”

“You can’t be down here.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know anything!” Leo snapped. “And if you want to hit this wall again, you’ll have to go through me.”

Nate lowered the hammer, and relief rushed through Leo so violently his knees nearly gave.

Good. Yes. This was working. “Put it down,” Leo demanded.

Nate didn’t.

“Nate.”

There was something wrong with Nate’s face. His mouth had gone tight, and he kept looking from Leo’s chest to the hammer, as if he couldn’t work out what to do with it.

“Please,” Leo tried.

Nate shut his eyes.

The furnace rattled behind them. Somewhere upstairs, a door slammed.

“Leo.” Nate opened his eyes again. “Do you remember the word?”

Leo stared at him.

What was this word Nate kept talking about?

A vision of something gray and round flashed in Leo’s mind, there and gone again before he could grasp it. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except for this space he needed to protect.

“Put the hammer down.”

“Say the word, and I will.”

Leo glared at the intruder. And then he had it. Gray flippers. Stitched smile. Bartholomew.

A ridiculous name.

His way out of this.

He opened his mouth—then he clamped it shut so hard his teeth clicked.