Chapter 7 · The Dry Tank

The grate was locked, Ethan had one hand over my mouth, and the timer in my skull had just dropped to 68:14:09.

I bit him.

He jerked back. I shoved his wrist away and sucked in a breath that tasted like rust, dust, and the stale coffee he'd been living on. Behind us, the service door clicked once.

Someone was coming.

"You bite everybody who helps you?" Ethan whispered.

"Only the ones who grab me in dark buildings."

"You were about to kick open a restricted access door."

"And now I'm reconsidering the kick."

The footsteps stopped on the other side.

Ethan's eyes cut toward the door. He pressed one finger to his lips, then dragged me behind a bank of dead filtration tanks. His hand found the back of my jacket and pulled me down hard enough that my knee hit concrete.

Pain shot up my leg.

I nearly swore out loud.

The handle turned.

A thin line of white light opened beneath the door. Somebody stood there, close enough that I could see the shine of polished shoes.

Ethan leaned over me. His mouth was near my ear.

"Don't move."

"You say that like it's worked before."

"Celine."