“They’re coming,” Santi interrupted him.
Jess heard footsteps then, and the scrape of the lock turning to the outer door, and was on his feet and at the bars so quickly he might have been spring-loaded. Thomas, by contrast, didn’t even move a muscle from where he sat on the edge of his cot—though it was an icy calm that Jess thought hard-won.
The door gaped open, and three men came in—different ones this time, but with a brawny look that said they were ready for trouble. Khalila, across the way, unhurriedly tied her scarf in place and tucked the edges in to hold it. How she could stay so perfectly clean in these conditions, Jess had no idea, but she wouldn’t have looked out of place in her own Library office, despite all they’d been through. Made him feel somewhat better.
Morgan, on the other hand, looked more like he felt—pale, tired, her hair tangled and badly in need of combing. He wanted to do that for her, run his fingers gently through that riot of silk and curls. Had they come for her? He was afraid that Thomas had been right—Morgan’s abilities were a valuable, vanishingly rare resource that the Burners would lock a collar around as sure as the Library had done.
But they didn’t stop at Morgan’s cell, which was a temporary relief that vanished as they stopped at Jess and Thomas’s barred door and pointed at Thomas. “You there. Come with us.” The clipped tone of the guard’s accent made the command sound that much more unfriendly. He had pale skin and straw blond hair cropped to a shimmer around his skull, and he’d been in more than one fight; noses didn’t get that distorted from just one punch.
Jess was caught wrong-footed, and it took him a second to realize what it might mean. He turned to look at Thomas, and one glance at the other young man’s set face was enough.
“He’s not going anywhere alone,” Jess said.
“Back up, boy.”
“Never happen. You want him, you take us both.”
The guard laughed. “You mean go through you? Not a problem.”
Jess was afraid that assessment was correct. He could fight; his High Garda training had made him efficient, fast, and deadly, and he was confident he could make them bleed. But there were three of them, and he couldn’t count on Thomas, who wavered between sudden bursts of violence and crippling fear at the strangest of times. Thomas would probably fight for others. Jess wasn’t sure he’d fight to save himself.
Jess was afraid, but it was a fear he was familiar with, after all the High Garda drills and the horror he’d already survived. An old friend, this kind of fear. Almost a strength.
“If you make us put you down, you’ll go hard,” the Burner said. He grinned and revealed an array of jagged teeth as battered and broken as his nose. “Your choice.”
“Gentlemen,” Santi said, from the next cell over, and leaned against the bars of the cell he shared with Wolfe. His tone was charming, which meant he was ready to do awful things. “If you want answers, come and get someone who has command rank.”
“Oh, we’ll get to you,” the man said. He smacked a heavy wooden club in his palm and moved down to look in at Santi. “We’ll ask real loud, if you keep it up, booklover.”
“It’s funny you think that’s an insult. Whereas, I’d rather talk about the misshapen state of your face. Just how many fights did you lose? I think a much greater number than those you won. Are you sure you brought enough friends?”
The man slammed his club against the bars of Santi’s cell, which was a mistake; instead of moving back, Santi must have been ready, and he wrapped his fingers around the club and yanked the man’s whole arm inside his cell. The man yelped in pain. Jess couldn’t see much, but he heard the clatter of the club as it fell, and Santi must have retrieved it first, because he slammed it against the cell bars, which rang like a struck bell.
All three of the men on the other side flinched.
“Now we can talk,” Santi said.
It almost worked, but unfortunately, the tough in charge was smarter than Jess gave him credit for . . . and he backed off, drew a large, crudely forged gun, and pointed it not at Santi, but square at Jess. “Throw it out, Captain,” he said. “Now. We don’t need all of you; you know that.”
The man cocked the weapon as he spoke. Jess forced a smile. “It’s a bluff, Captain,” he said. He’d gone cold inside, but he wasn’t about to show it. His family had trained him first and well to fight like a cornered rat when there wasn’t anywhere to run. “He’s not going to shoot. His master would have his hide.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. We can afford to lose one or two. Especially those of you wearing Library uniforms. No worth in your hides except to toss you over the wall at our enemies.”
Jess watched the man’s finger whiten on the trigger—and then quickly pull away as the club Santi had been holding hit the floor, bounced, and rolled to bump against the man’s boot. “All right,” Santi said. “Pax.”
“Smart choice.” The tough lowered the hammer on the pistol—not Library issue, an American-produced slug-throwing device that undoubtedly would have blown a gruesomely large hole straight through Jess’s chest—and put it in a leather holster at his side. “Now, let’s start over. You. The big one. Like I said, you’re coming with us.”
Jess opened his mouth, but Thomas put a hand on his shoulder and moved him—not unkindly, but firmly—out of the way as he stepped up. He silently turned his back to the bars, which puzzled Jess until he realized it was to allow the men to reach in and snap ratcheted metal shackles around his wrists. He’d obviously been through this process before, many times, while in Library custody.
Thomas nodded to Jess, blue eyes clear and calm. “I’ll be fine,” he said, which was a rotten lie.
Jess tried to think of something to say, and as the key turned, the door opened, and Thomas stepped out, he finally did. “Thomas. In bocca al lupo.” It was the phrase that the High Garda used to wish one another luck traveling through the Translation portals, a process that was painful and terrifying and dangerous in equal measure, and it seemed right now. In the mouth of the wolf.
“Crepi il lupo,” Thomas responded as Jess’s cell was locked tight, and then he was gone, prodded down the hall and to the outer door and away. Kill the wolf.
It slammed and locked behind him.
Jess let out a deeply felt English expletive and knelt to examine the lock as he dug the picks out of their hiding place, deep in the cotton ticking of his mattress.
“Jess?” Wolfe was watching him with a frown. “Don’t.”
“I’m not leaving him on his own!”
Wolfe made a sound that managed to be completely disgusted. “You’ll be shot two steps out the door. Think. I know you’re somewhat capable. Thomas has survived far worse than they’ll ever do to him here, and he knows his business. He’s going to sell Willinger Beck the idea of the press. He’s safe enough right now. Beck doesn’t want blood.”