He was so restless, standing there. He took a half step forward, and by the shadows cast on the floor around her, she could see her other three boys had turned their heads to look. She kept her gaze straight.

It took him thirty seconds before he turned, starting to walk away.

“Hon?” she asked. She turned her head. Her fourth hero was tall, muscular, with hair cropped close to the head, and a broad chin. Veins stood out in his arms and neck, and a number of little features stood out as alien, like his eyes that were black from corner to corner—and there were more than two of those eyes. Patterns stood out on his skin and gave his muscles interesting artistic shapes. If he wasn’t so alien he would be grotesque, but his strange appearance lent him enough allure she could enjoy his companionship.

That, and Teacher had insisted she keep more muscle with her.

He’d stopped, and now he waited.

“I won’t tell you what to do or what not to do, because you’re loyal to Teacher and you’re loyal to me, and I trust that, but do be careful, because he can pass on injuries to you.”

He shrugged, so very blasé.

“You saying something?” the Black Goat called out.

“Talking to my boy,” she said.

“Okay. I thought it might be another attack.”

“Nothing so soon,” she said. “Take care of your dolls.”

“Thralls, or bodies. Not dolls.”

“It’s all dolls and boys, Goat,” she said. Then she winked at her fourth. In a quieter voice, she said, “My boy. You go do what you think you have to do, Spawner. I trust you.”

She resumed her watch, staring down at the hallway below.

Behind her, the Black Goat screamed. It was the kind of scream that someone made when their arm was broken, except that scream was one of surprise and agony, it rose, hit its crescendo, and then fell, so breath could be caught, and the next scream could begin.

The Black Goat reached the crescendo, then managed to squeak out another, shorter, more intense scream with that reserve of oxygen he kept in his lungs.

The third scream cut in before he could gasp in a breath, if it could even be called a scream. It was to screams what the dry heave was to vomit.

Ingenue looked down at her feet, noted a bit of dirt on the toe, and lifted her foot up, so her ankle crossed her thigh. She cleaned it up. A cruder person like Blood Diamond might have made their servants lick it off, but Miranda had no interest in degradation.

Little Goat managed to scream while dragging in a breath.

“Spawner,” she called out. “You have better eyes than I do, and you have more eyes than I do. Could you come here?”

The gigantic man did as asked.

“That dark corner over there. Do you see anyone?”