The sun hasn’t been up long over the cornfield. The air is still and frigid, cold enough for snow. I shiver in my jacket, my breath misting between the papery leaves of dead corn.
We don’t have long. There are demons keeping watch from the farmhouse roof. If we stay here for more than a few seconds, they’ll see our collective breath rising from the plants.
Zak leads us along the cornrow, gives Jude and the others a chance to see the house and the clearing, get their bearings. The house was always eerie, but it looks sinister in the early morning light—the gleaming super-sized shipping container jutting from the side of the hill perched on a concrete base. At least a dozen Gatekeepers are on the roof, prowling back and forth.
Rafa is in there. Hurt, bleeding. Ready to die. My heart leaps into my throat, beats so hard I think I might never swallow again. Jude touches my arm.
‘Ready?’ The pulse in his neck keeps time with my own. I nod.
Mick and Rusty kneel down in the corn. Rusty quietly slides the first rocket from the bag, ready to load. Seth positions himself behind them, nods that he’s got the brothers covered.
Ez and Zak reach for Jude and me; Zak checks with Mya and then signals to the other Outcasts. They’re coiled, ready to shift into the open: more than a dozen of them taking on a horde of Gatekeepers and hellions to buy us time. I have a second to see them ready themselves—resolute, weapons raised—before the ground drops out beneath me in a rush.
We arrive upstairs outside the iron room. My head swims from the shift, and blood pounds in my ears. I brace for attack, scan the room for threats, but the place is empty. The pot-belly stove by the wall is black, lifeless. The couches we sat on only a few nights ago are overturned like discarded toys, a lampshade smashed across the scuffed timber floor. From our place at the back of the room, all I can see through the floor-to-ceiling glass is cold blue sky.
Sounds of shouting and ringing steel carry up from outside. It’s started.
Mya races to the wall near the stairs. She pushes aside a painting of cheery yellow flowers smeared with blood. A keypad is recessed into the plasterboard behind it. She swaps her sword for pliers. The others fan out in front of her, ready for attack. Malachi and I take up positions in front of the iron door. It’s been beaten back into shape; enough at least for a tight seal. Mya pulls the cover from the keypad, yanks out wires. The seconds pass slowly.
Three loud beeps and something clicks. The door grinds open behind us. I turn, rush in—
My heart stops.
I can’t feel my legs.
Rafa.
Blood everywhere.
Rafa.
He’s slumped on the floor against the filing cabinet, chin on his chest. T-shirt soaked crimson, knuckles raw. The left side of his face is so swollen I can’t see his eye. Hair matted.
My legs give out. My knees hit the timber with a jolt; the katana clatters to the floor. A movement to my right. Malachi is bent over Taya. I’m assuming it’s her: it’s hard to tell from here. She’s propped against the wall, the etched angel wings stretching out either side of her. One hand wrapped around the other. Unconscious.
Malachi scoops her up and they’re gone before he’s straightened. In the void, I vaguely register that the plasterboard has been ripped from the room and all the photos of the Rephaim are gone. All that’s left are giant wings on all four walls.
A groan.
Rafa.
I crawl over to him. I have no words for this moment. I push his hair back from his forehead, wipe blood from his good eye as gently as I can with my thumb. I need to get him out of here. I look around for someone, anyone. There’s shouting outside the room now, sounds of fighting. I have a stab of fear for Jude, which shifts to panic: Malachi is gone and everyone else is creating a distraction. It’s up to me to get Rafa out of here.
But I can barely shift on my own. How the hell can I do it with someone else?
I bite down on my lip, try to concentrate.
‘Gaby?’ Rafa’s voice is raw, scratchy. He opens his good eye, tries to focus on me. ‘Ah fuck, no.’ He reaches for me, grimaces. Has to shut his eye to deal with the pain.
‘Rafa, how do I—’
But he’s out again.
What do I do? Where can I touch that won’t hurt him? I’m running out of time. I suck in my breath and hook his arm over my shoulder. He leans into me. My head reels from the smell of sweat and fear.
I can do this.
I try to reconstruct the infirmary in my mind: the fluorescent lights, the tang of disinfectant, the squeaky lino floor.
Before I can get it set in my mind, the iron door thuds shut.