He might have passed out for a moment. When he came to himself all he could see was the booted feet of two strangers, who were having a semi-panicked argument about what to do with him. He ached in every joint and muscle, and the snow was painfully cold on his hands and face. Trying not to draw attention to himself, he flexed his arms and legs while listening to the argument going on above him.

“The fuck did you tase him for?” whisper-yelled one of the guys.

“He was gonna raise the alarm.” This guy’s voice was a deep rumble, and despite his correct defense, he seemed unsure. “Needed to buy Logan and Tommy time to finish the job.”

Ángel rolled onto his side, to get his face up out of the snow. It hurt, and a little groan escaped him.

“Stay down,” said the deep-voiced guy, prodding him sharply with a foot. Ángel collapsed back into the snow.

“So what do we do with him now?”

“Leave him.”

“He’ll die out here.”

“What the fuck do we care?”

“Guys,” called someone. “Come on. We gotta go.”

The voice was familiar. It belonged to one of the security team—Logan the goon, the one who’d strip-searched him ages ago. The one who’d said Oberon gave him the willies.

“Is it done?” asked the deep-voiced man, and his companion added, “Where’s Tommy?”

“Come on,” said Logan, striding toward them.

Ángel curled his shoulders and ducked his head, hoping to not be recognized. Hopeless. “Is that the boy toy?” demanded Logan.

“No,” said Ángel into the snow.

“He was going to give us away, so Aaron tased him.”

Logan rubbed his face. “Jesus Christ. Shoot him and let’s go.”

There was a moment of shocked silence from everyone. Ángel shrank down into the snow like a rabbit, his heart stuttering. Then the deep-voiced guy said, “Fuck you, Logan. What happened, and where the fuck is Tommy?”

“Tommy’s dead,” snapped Logan, a ragged edge to his voice. “The elf killed him. We’re fucked, and this little fag knows my face. So we need to kill him and get out of here. That okay with you, Aaron, or do you want to stay and talk about it some more?”

Ángel lay folded in on himself, trembling so hard his teeth chattered, waiting for death.

Then Aaron said, “I don’t kill fags. I’m only here to kill elves.” He yanked the taser’s prongs out of Ángel’s back, and a high whine escaped Ángel’s lungs.

Aaron hoisted Ángel over his shoulder in a dizzying swoop that almost made Ángel vomit.

“Thanks,” whispered Ángel, as they began to head back through the snow toward the wall.

“Shut up.”