One moment he was free-falling and the next he was on the cold alley surface, with his cheek pressed against the rough granite. He tried to call out for someone, anyone, but as soon as he’d opened his mouth, he realized he’d made a grave mistake as a boot came up to meet it. His vision squirted red and somewhere—not here, not where he was—he realized it was blood. It splattered over the ground in front of him, becoming real in his mind. His mouth flared with pain, and as he was processing it, the boot kicked him square in the forehead. His cut sang and the rest of his forehead felt like it had cracked open.

He made a pathetic scream, choking on his own blood before he could get any volume, and he spit something tangible out. It flew out in front of him and clattered away—a tooth.

Robin found himself curling up—retreating into himself—into the fetal position as a barrage of kicks cracked at his back. The figure in front of him started kicking him in the chest, finding an opening between his legs and chin. He tried to curl up more to close the gap, but the attack of kicks was so strong he couldn’t. Pain became a constant, punctuated only with peaks of it. The figures showed no signs of letting up, and consciousness was a thing he had to work to keep.

Kick, kick, kick. And he squirmed on the floor of the alleyway.

He lived a lifetime of anguish.

And then, letting the darkness in, he let go. His final thought before he lost the world was not one of pain, or suffering. It was one of anger. Anger at the person who had done this to him. Not the people kicking the life out of him.

No.

Anger at Matthew McConnell.

Chapter Forty-Five

He didn’t know how long he was out. But his first thought was that he was making a habit of this.

He surfaced gradually, coming back into the world, with slight indifference. He opened his eyes—his left one was back to being glued shut. No doubt the figures’ barrages had reopened his cut. He felt the rough ground on his cheek and saw a canal of blood flowing from his face down the alley. He jerked his head up, a rock clanking around inside it every time he moved even ever so slightly. Of course, he was alone—the figures were long gone.

He got up—his body shifted around him before his mind caught up. He had a sharp pain in his chest—a biting, grating feeling, as though something was out of place and rubbing up against something else. His legs ached, and a certain point in his spine, about halfway down at the bottom of his rib cage, was on fire.