Emma Lewis, fitting the key back into the lock, unlocking the door, peeking, slipping out.

Back into the ominous quiet of the great hall.

The first corners she checks are the ones nearest the door. Weaver stance adapted, double grip, watch ahead and watch the sight. Her breath has a burr from the recent sprint, but she’s in better condition than she’s ever been. She jogs in her soundless running shoes down to the barred gate, checks her firing line, head moving with the gun.

By the time she scoots behind a column to come up on the oak door at an angle, her knees are starting to shake. She’s not sure how to hold the gun while she’s moving—tucked between her breasts, okay. Her feet get slower as she approaches the door. The door is still wide open; she can see the edge of the desk.

The doorway, not the doorway, tactical suicide but she’s got to go through, Emma Lewis with her heart in her throat as she plunges forward, ducks inside Simon’s room.

Movement to her right—before she can swing, a sharp, hot feeling slicing her right shoulder blade—but Hoyt has mistimed his attack.

Emma spins and fires; all she can see is muzzle flash, but she hears a grunt, the pattering sound of footsteps. Her vision clears. She’s inside Simon’s room, the room is lit dimly, Hoyt is hiding.

Simon is still swinging gently in his cell, his cheeks ruddy from being upside down. “Hello again, Emma.”

She detaches a hand from the gun and presses a finger to her lips. Hoyt could be behind the side curtains. She only has one bullet left and she wants to make it count.

“It means a great deal to me, you know, that you came back.”

“Be quiet, Simon, I’m trying to hear.”

She edges forward. Too dark in here, too many shadows. So many miles to reach the cage, and she’s worried about hitting Simon with her next shot.

“And you got my sister out—that was marvelous, wasn’t she a banshee?”

“Simon, shut up.”

Emma Lewis panting, with the thin, high screaming in her head, eyes wide and edging carefully past the desk. It’s a big room and the Butcher could be anywhere. Step. Step. Closer to Simon’s cell, she can get a view of the whole room there, or maybe she just doesn’t want to feel alone. Two hands on the gun, turning as she steps, swinging to cover too many angles. Maybe not the curtains, maybe the old pews at the sides of the room—

“Emma!”

Swinging back and Hoyt’s on her, slamming into her—she sprawls to the floor near Simon’s cage, knocks her head on one of the legs of the pushed-over sawhorse.

Emma on her back, dazzled by stars, and Hoyt above her, looming over her, his face contorted, ugly with rage, the bloody gouge in it from Kristin’s needle. Hoyt’s hot breath on her, his arm lifted with the scalpel, keys dangling low off the lanyard in front.