to die…” Altair’s eyes widened. “Oh God, and we have to watch—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Flynn barked. “God, you stupid cock!”
Tick tick tick. The noise was faster now. The blade pinched at Tobias’s pants, and he looked away, waiting for the masked man to do his worst.
Pressure bore into his leg, followed by a sharp snap.
The blade ripped through him, bringing with it a fiery pain. Tobias sucked in a gasping breath, the moment agonizing, the ache ungodly and alive. The blade stopped, hitting something hard—bone—and rivers of crimson seeped from his opened flesh, fueling his war-drum heartbeat.
Tickticktickticktick.
The man twisted the blade inside Tobias’s flesh, sending him writhing, but eventually the weapon went still. The worst was over. The torture had ended. But when the man’s beady gaze locked with Tobias’s, it became abundantly clear that the torment had only begun.
With a tight fist, he pushed up on the blade, carving a straight line through Tobias’s thigh.
TICKTICKTICKTICK. Tobias’s mouth gaped open, compelled to scream, but there was nothing—just silence, suffering. Everything had become acute—the sting of his muscle tearing apart, the heat of his blood saturating his pants. Be calm, but his heart raged behind his ears, bringing him closer and closer to death.
An alarm rang out. Tobias’s fate would be revealed—except the alarm was far away, coming from across the room.
From Altair.
An explosion shook the space as fire shot from Altair’s chair, engulfing him.
A wave of heat hit Tobias. Altair wailed within the inferno, his violent screams slowly wasting away beneath the crackling flames. His body was barely discernible through the blaze, charring, oozing, and Tobias averted his gaze.
The fire gradually died, leaving behind the foul scent of burned flesh. A blackened, seeping corpse waited in Tobias’s peripheral vision, tempting him, but he refused to look its way. Instead he was left with the blade in his thigh, the masked man hovering over him.
And no ticking.
The man yanked the steel from Tobias’s leg, sending him crying out. Meeting Tobias’s glare, the man wiped the sharpened edge onto his pants, and for the first time, he spoke.
“Lucky you.”
“Your turn, Zander.”
Zander stared at the stretch of cards, fiercely focused. Tobias sighed—just pick a damn card—but the man took his time, grazing the slips of canvas. Finally he plucked one from the others and flipped it over, revealing a symbol in black ink.
“A heart,” he said. “How lovely.”
He flipped one more at the other end of the spread—another black heart, a perfect match to the first—and smiled victoriously.
“Of course Zander gets an easy draw,” Flynn grumbled. “The fates favor him.”
“You know, for someone who has no interest in this game, you seem awfully miffed when the fates favor anyone but you,” Raphael scoffed.
Flynn waved him away. “Oh, shut up.”
Tobias and his allies sat in a circle at the end of the sanctuary, the canvas slips sprawled on the floor between them. Raphael fiddled with a second stack of cards, while Orion and Zander prattled on about the game at hand, debating strategy, memory, or something else far removed from Tobias’s interests. Flynn pouted at his side, more sulking child than grown man, and Enzo sat in silence, glaring at whomever caught his gaze.
A nagging pain pulsed through Tobias’s thigh. Scraps sloppily wrapped his leg, the makeshift dressing little more than a mask for the mess beneath it.
It was Flynn’s turn, and he gazed at the cards with dread. His hand hovered over a single slip—he paused, rethinking his decision—then moved down the line, flipping over a different card and revealing another ink symbol: an eye.
He dropped his hands. “Shit.”
“You’ve drawn a riddle,” Raphael said.
“Yes, I can see that.”
Raphael drew a card from his stack and read its text. “Place us at the ends of a triangle. A spot of light compels the height of our youth to dwindle with age.”
Three candles. The answer quickly unfolded in Tobias’s mind, but he didn’t bother speaking it aloud.
“Dwindle with age?” Flynn glanced between the others. “What does that even mean? Why can’t they just say exactly what they’re looking for?”
“It’s a riddle. It’s not supposed to be straightforward.”
“Well, it might as well be in another language, because I haven’t a clue.”
Raphael sighed. “Maybe you should think about it.”
“Oh, don’t be patronizing, read the damn answer.”
Three candles.
“It’s three candles,” Raphael said.
“Three candles?” Flynn wrinkled his nose. “Implausible. You lie.”
“The cards don’t lie.”
“Where did you get these cards anyway?” Tobias asked. “I didn’t think we were allowed to bring anything into the labyrinth.”