The man with the knife crept towards the side of Wren’s bed. A momentary gleam in his left hand. The knife, the blade translucent.
Wren’s timing would have to be perfect. A few more steps and the man’s back would be to Wren, and Wren would have a clear path to the door.
Still. Be still.
The man stopped mid-step, only part way along the bed. Still too close to the door. If Wren moved now, the man might see the motion and have time to react, time to catch him before he made it to the doorway. But maybe the man had realized that Wren wasn’t in the bed. Maybe it was already too late. Wren felt cold sweat break over him as he fought the indecision. Try to run for it now? Hold still just a little longer?
The man’s head snapped around. Now it was too late. The night-light illuminated only the right half of the assailant’s face, leaving the left blank in shadow. His right eye fixed on Wren, and for a long, electric moment, the two stared at each other.
It was impossible to make out the man’s features distinctly in the dim light, but Wren could tell he was young. His face seemed smooth and soft. Wren couldn’t see the knife.
“Please, don’t,” Wren said.
After a moment, Wren saw the young man’s shoulders go slack.
“I have to,” the man whispered, his voice thin and light. Not a man at all. A girl. The knife inched upwards, where it caught the light. She rolled the blade over in her hand. Then again, to herself, “I have to.”
She shook her head slightly, and in the half-light Wren saw the gleam of her eye disappear. She was looking down, watching the knife blade continue its uneven roll, or maybe she’d closed her eyes. Considering. Wrestling. Her shoulders came up again, tensed. Wren knew what was coming next. He brought his hands up in front of him, palms out, started to rise slowly.
Help, flashed through his mind, help!
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking at him again, “but I don’t have–”
She didn’t finish the sentence. In that instant, Wren launched himself from the corner and drove the hard edge of his right hand into her left wrist, aiming for the nerve there, just as he’d been taught. A split-second later he buried the top of his head into her lower abdomen, just above the pelvis. Together they crashed into the bedframe, and Wren felt a sharp impact on the back of his head that made stars explode in his vision.
They hit the floor, and Wren rolled to his left, found his feet. The room spun. The door wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Where did it go?
There. Closed. He leapt just as the girl snatched at his foot and caught it for a split second. Wren went sprawling again at the foot of the bed and heard a metallic scrape against the floor behind him. She still had the knife.
He scrambled, fumbled the door handle with fear-numbed hands, felt her rising close behind. She was clambering over the bed. He clawed the door open and squeezed through just as she reached out and slammed the door on his ankle.
“Help!” Wren called. It was the only word that would come out as he tumbled into the hall. He skittered backwards as the door flew open. “Help!”
He scrambled back, back, back into a wall, hard. Felt strong hands clamp down on his upper arms. Lifting him. Not a wall. Someone else.
The girl stood silhouetted in the doorframe, and Wren felt himself whirling sideways as he was tossed to one side. He landed on his feet, but went down on his knees as the Someone Else stepped between him and the girl. Shielding him. He recognized the shape now. Able.
“Wren!” Cass, his mother, was running down the hall, her eyes glowing their eerie blue in the gloom. In two heartbeats, she was at his side, and then hunched in front of him, eyes on the assassin.
Wren craned around his mother for a view. The attacker was trapped, now, trapped in the doorway of Wren’s room, with Able and Mama both ready to pounce. The girl took a step backwards into his room, hands up, submissive. But she still had the knife.
She looked sad in the glow of the night-light. Trapped, defeated. Desperate. Wren recognized the look. Remembered it well. It was how Mama used to look, before Three had come.
“It’s OK…” Wren started to say, but the girl was already in motion. Before anyone could react, she plunged the knife into her own stomach, just below the breastbone. A quick twist of the handle, and a dull thump sounded inside her chest. The girl doubled over, hung in an awkward pose for a moment, and then collapsed to the floor.
Lights came on in the hallway as guardsmen rushed in from both directions. Able signaled to them, and they slowed their approach, obviously relieved that they weren’t too late. Late, but not too late. Able moved to the girl and crouched near her warily, holding himself ready for any sudden ambush.
Cass turned part way around and pulled Wren in front of her so she could look at him without taking her eyes completely off of Able and the girl. She went down on one knee, cradled his face in her hands, searched his eyes.
“Are you alright, baby?” she asked. “Did she hurt you?”
Wren shook his head. His legs felt hollow and his face hot, and when he shook his head it made him dizzy. “My head hurts a little. We fell. And my ankle.”
The guardsmen formed a timid semicircle around the others, waiting quietly for some kind of orders or direction. Cass gently ran her hands over Wren’s head and when she reached low on the back of it, he winced and jerked away from a stab of pain where she brushed over a wound. When she brought her hands back, the fingertips of one were stained wet crimson.
“Lane,” she said to one of the nearby guards, “would you go get Mouse for us? Ask him to bring his kit?”
“Sure thing, Miss Cass,” Lane said, with a quick nod. He turned and hurried off down the hall.
“You might need a stitch or two,” she said. Then she motioned with a hand and caught Able’s attention. “How’s the girl?”
Able shook his head slightly. Dying, he signed with his hands. But not dead yet.
At least that’s how Wren interpreted it. He still had a little trouble following some of Able’s faster signs, and everything was starting to feel fuzzy. He pulled away from his mother and approached the girl.
“Careful, Wren,” said his mother, but she didn’t restrain him.
Able held up a cautionary hand as he drew near. Wren nodded and crouched next to Able, careful to keep the man between him and the girl. From here he could see she was taking quick, jagged breaths, almost like hiccups. Weeping. Or maybe struggling for air. Able rolled her gently onto her side. There was blood in her mouth and fear in her eyes. Able brushed the hair back from her face, an almost tender gesture.
She was a few years older than Wren. Thirteen, maybe fourteen, with hazel eyes and a splash of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. Too thin. Wren wondered when the last time was she’d had a meal. Without understanding why, he felt emotion clawing up his throat.
“It’s OK,” he said to her. Her wild eyes bounced between Able and him. “It’s OK. We’re going to get you some help.”
Mama was next to him now, kneeling at his side. Able handed her something, and as she was examining it, Wren recognized it as the handle to the girl’s knife. The blade was gone. After a moment, Mama turned to him.
“Wren, she doesn’t have much time. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do for her now.”
“What about Mouse?” he asked.
Cass shook her head, and held out the knife hilt for him to see. She pointed to a section of the hilt, showed him how it twisted. “There’s a charge in the blade. This makes it explode.”