“You will study. With me. Out here. Every night.” He swung his blade so that the tip rang across both of my own swords, causing them to twirl in my hands. I had to grip them more tightly so they wouldn’t clatter to the pavement; I wondered if that had been the point.

“Name them. Quick.”

My palms were still stinging.

“Name what?”

“Your swords. A trollhunter must name his sword before he draws first blood.”

I looked blankly at the long-sword and cutlass.

“Now,” Jack seethed. “The Nullhullers are gathering.”

“I…”

“Something that’s important to you. Just say it. Whatever comes out is the right answer.”

“Claire,” I blurted, holding up the long-sword.

Tub gave me a sidelong smirk.

“Claire?” he repeated.

I hoped that the darkness covered the flush of my cheeks.

“Claire…blade. Claireblade.”

Tub covered his laugh with his hand. “Whatever, man.”

“Quick,” Jack urged. “The cutlass.”

“Uh…” I stared at the sharp, pocked metal. The dull, stubborn surface revealed nothing. I turned to Tub. “What was the name of that cat you had?”

“That cat? We’ve had sixty or seventy.”

“The cat! You know, the one that liked me.”

“Oh, right. Cat #6.”

It would have to do. I held up the cutlass and flashed a desperate grin.

“Cat #6!” I shouted.

Jack stared at me. Even through his armor I could feel the chill of his disappointment. Behind me, I could hear Tub’s muffled snickers and the tut-tutting of Blinky. Even ARRRGH!!!’s shoulders quaked in a manner that suggested laughter. I squeezed the handles of Claireblade and Cat #6 and glared at Uncle Jack.

“What are yours named? If you’re so great at naming inanimate objects.”

Blinky and ARRRGH!!! went silent. Tub, too, sensed the change in mood and stifled his laughter. Even the vehicles on the bridge above seemed to sense the weight of the moment—there was no traffic for the longest time. Jack contemplated the long-sword he held in his right hand. After a time, he reached back and withdrew a shorter blade. He held both with tenderness, as if they were not weapons but monuments to the dead.

He indicated the long-sword.

“Victor Power.”

He raised the scimitar.

“Doctor X.”

All of us could feel in our guts the significance the words held for Jack.

He rolled his shoulders to rouse his body from contemplation. His stance broadened and the bike chains wrapped around his legs crackled. He lifted both swords, one high and one low, in a threatening attack formation; the die-cast trucks on his chest spun their wheels and the notebook spirals around his biceps clicked like barbed wire.

“Pay attention,” he said. “This is going to be fast.”