Chapter 8: One Bed

The lights went out at 1:12 in the morning, on the nineteenth night of my contract.

I was awake, reading a spy novel from Birdie's shelf and complaining to the empty room about the plot.

Then the lamp died, and the hum of the building died, and the city outside the glass was the only light left.

The door opened without a knock.

Benedict stood there in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his eyes had a faint red shine.

"Shoes," he said. "Now."

"What happened?"

"Someone cut the power and the backup generator. A dozen men came in through the service entrance. Our driver let them in."

I stopped with one foot in a sneaker.

"The driver. The one who took me to the hospital."

"Yes. Birdie's already in the security office on three with the guards. You're coming with me."

He took my hand, and we ran.

Into the stairwell, with the emergency strips glowing green along the floor.

I could hear boots below us, a long way down and climbing.

Benedict stopped on the landing.

"Don't look," he said.

I looked.

The first man came up around the turn with a crossbow, and Benedict was somehow not where he had been.

There was a crack, and a scream, and the crossbow bounced down the stairs.

When he came back, the front of his shirt was torn and his teeth had come down.

He looked at me.

"That was a lot of efficiency," I said, "for a man who apologizes before biting."

He blinked.

Then he laughed, startled, with fangs showing, which should have been terrifying and was not.

"Up," he said. "The vault on seventy-nine. It's the only room with a steel door."

We climbed eighteen floors.

My lungs were on fire when he swung a steel door open at the end of a plain concrete corridor.

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