“Nico!” Cosima shrieked, lunging forward, but a massive grip locked around her ribs, yanking her backward. Bastian threw his weight across her, twisting them both toward the floorboards, his back taking the initial blast of aerosolized venom. He grunted—a harsh, winded snap of ribs and breath.
Cosima struggled against him, gagging as the gas began to burn her lungs. “Let me go! Nico!”
“Stay down, you fool!” Bastian roared, his voice already rough with irritation, but a strange gurgle followed, quickly replaced by a hacking cough. He wrestled her flat, shielding her with his own bulk, pressing her face into the threadbare rug. The scent of his leather coat mingled with the sweet, sickening burn of the neurotoxin. She could feel the tremors beginning to rack his body.
Nico, roused by the explosion, let out a choked cry. “Cosima… help…” He was thrashing, his small frame convulsing on the cot, directly in the path of the spreading emerald haze.
Marcello. Always Marcello. He hadn’t just intended to frame her; he meant to erase her entirely. And Nico. Fleeing Canto wouldn’t save them. Marcello would hunt them to the edge of the known world, and beyond. He would never allow a loose end that knew his true nature to live. He had to be destroyed. Utterly.
The urge to vanish into the Outer Blight dried out, leaving behind a cold, sharp ledger. She would not just escape; she would dismantle him, brick by bloody brick. And Bastian, for all his arrogance and dangerous curiosity, was the only weapon she had.
“The floor!” Cosima gasped, ripping herself free of Bastian’s weakening hold, scrambling on all fours. Her eyes, burning and watering, darted to a loose floorboard near the hearth, a relic from a forgotten maintenance shaft. “Get down, Nico!”
The air was a thick, burning shroud. Cosima clawed at the aged timber, jagged barbs biting into her fingertips. The enforcers would be through the door any second. She heard their heavy boots on the stairs, their shouts muffled by the smog. The floorboard groaned, then tore away, revealing a dark aperture below.
“What in the blazes are you doing?!” Bastian choked, his voice slurring, his eyes glazed with pain and an encroaching madness. He staggered, swaying like a drunkard. The neurotoxin was working fast on his larger frame.
“Getting us out!” she yelled, kicking out the remaining brittle wood. A rush of cooler, dank air, smelling of rot and ancient stone, streamed up from the dark opening. It was Canto’s forgotten arteries, the vast network of subterranean pneumatic waste tubes and storm drains, originally designed to carry refuse out to the Mire of Rust before the city devoured itself.
One of the enforcers slammed against the apartment door, the timber groaning under the impact. “She’s in here! Ferraro’s orders! No witnesses!”
Cosima grabbed Nico, pulling his limp body off the cot. He was barely conscious, his breathing shallow, a thin stream of black phlegm at the corner of his mouth. She pushed him gently, headfirst, into the opening. He slid down a short, debris-choked chute, landing with a soft splash in the muck below.
“Your turn, Salvati,” she snapped, turning to Bastian. He was clutching his head, his face pale beneath the grime and sweat. A trickle of blood ran from his temple, where a shard of glass had grazed him. He swayed, mumbling incoherently, his movements slow and uncoordinated.
“My ghost…” he slurred, reaching out a trembling hand, trying to cup her face. “Smells like… storm and… trouble.”
Cosima stared at him, a flicker of something she couldn’t name—pity? Fear?—in her gut. He was compromised. A liability. But also her only chance. She couldn't leave him. Not now. Not when he was like this.
With a surge of strength, she shoved him, hard, towards the hole. Bastian stumbled, grunting in protest, then plunged headfirst into the darkness. She heard his heavy splash, followed by a muffled curse.
The door burst open. Three hulking figures in Ferraro livery, their gas masks making them look like nightmare beetles, stormed in, their flamethrowers spitting nascent fire. The gas in the room was thick enough to chew metal. Cosima spared them a final, defiant glare, then dove into the maw of the earth, the stench of toxic air replaced by the cold, metallic reek of the sewers.
She landed awkwardly, her ankle twisting. Nico was whimpering nearby. Bastian was already trying to stand, splashing through the knee-deep effluent. The light filtering from above, through the now-destroyed safehouse, was swiftly fading, leaving them in near absolute darkness. The air down here was heavy, humid, but breathable – a blessed relief after the neurotoxin.
“We need to move,” Cosima whispered, her throat raw. She helped Nico up, supporting his slight weight. Bastian was mumbling again, clutching his head. He stumbled against a corroded pipe, nearly falling.
“The sky… it’s broken,” he muttered, his voice a low growl, his eyes wide and unfocused in the gloom. “Rain of emerald… a thousand shards.” He swayed, bumping into her. “My ghost… why do you hide?”
“He’s hallucinating,” Cosima realized, the gas working its way through his system. The cut on his temple was bleeding more freely now, a dark stripe against his pale skin. She couldn’t risk him collapsing here, a dead weight in the dark. She needed him lucid, or at least mobile.
She pulled him to a relatively dry ledge, forcing him to sit. His head lolled. Cosima ripped at the hem of her ruined tunic, tearing a strip of the coarse fabric. The material, soaked in her own sweat and the intoxicating salve, was cool against her fingers.
“Hold still, you lunk,” she ordered, her voice surprisingly steady. She pressed the makeshift bandage against his wound, her fingers brushing his slick, dark hair. He flinched, but didn't resist, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The dim, watery light from a distant, ancient grate above the sewer line chose that moment to catch on something. It was just enough illumination to cast a faint gleam on her bare hip, exposed by the torn fabric of her tunic. It highlighted the unmistakable, faded mark of a splintered-star burn scar, etched into her skin. As she finished binding his head, Bastian’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze falling directly on the scar.