“Aid me,” Umar said. “I will give you vengeance. You will help slay her.”

Was vengeance even possible? “She’s a goddess. We can’t.” Babbling, humbled, terrified, Corbin felt strangely unashamed. Umar’s wrist was as thick as Corbin’s neck. Bantamweight Corbin Rafferty had fought men three times his size to prove he could, got the shit kicked out of him and laughed. It was—comfortable?—to face a man he could not fight.

Umar’s grip tightened again. Corbin pried at the man’s fingers without success.

Corbin might die here. Die here, at the hands of this man who had offered him revenge. “Yes,” he croaked. “Yes, dammit.”

Steel-clamp fingers released Corbin’s throat. He fell to his knees, panting, rubbing his neck. He’d have a bruise for a collar. Umar reviewed the room’s contents. He did not seem to notice the letter on the bedside table. “Let us go.”

“We can’t just go. We need—”

“I need nothing.”

“You need pants.”

“Follow.” Umar walked toward the door. Rafferty looked away from the open back of the man’s gown. Somehow he found his feet and balance and followed. Revenge. Was it possible, to kill a goddess? To break her hold on him, and on his girls? To cast off his own humiliation, to reclaim his life from the lies the moon-dreams spun?

Orderlies wheeled a convulsing patient down the hall. Umar turned in the opposite direction, toward the stairs. A gray-uniformed guard emerged from the stairwell door, saw Umar and Rafferty. “Get back in your rooms. There’s an emergency. We need—”

Umar did not let the guard finish. Corbin didn’t see what Umar did, but the guard fell and lay still; Umar knelt, pulled off the man’s shoes, and removed his pants. Then he shed his gown, pulled on the guard’s slacks, and buttoned them. “Pants,” Umar said.

“You just—” The guard groaned. “Hey!”

Umar turned back to Corbin; another guard ran out from the stair behind him. That guard’s mouth opened when he saw his fallen comrade; he reached for the truncheon at his belt, but Umar caught him by the neck and slammed him into the wall. A peal of silence ate the thud of the guard’s skull against plaster. The guard fell, and plaster flakes drifted down onto him. Umar knelt, placed his fingers precisely to either side of the guard’s jugular, and pressed. The man squirmed like a caught snake, kicked twice, then rag-dolled. Umar pointed to the body—still breathing—stood, and walked away.

Corbin pried off the guard’s shoes, pulled down his pants, and started to unbutton the shirt. Umar had already vanished through the stairwell door. Corbin tore the rest of the buttons from the guard’s shirt and followed, hopping into pant legs. “How are we going to do it?” he shouted to Umar. “How can we hurt her?”