“I don’t want peace,” Cradle said. “I want revenge. You all intruded on my life, my deal, my space, my dreams. Now I’m really, really hoping that when my agent here tears you to shreds, it puts you all in comas where you have nightmares every damn moment you’re under.”

“You’re kind of a terrible person,” Chicken Little said.

“So why doesn’t she shoot me?” Cradle asked.

Tattletale kept the gun leveled at him.

“Thought so,” he said, barely audible.

Cradle started forward, marching her way. She swung the pistol, aiming to pistol-whip him, but he had the knife, and the knife gave him more effective range.

The cuts were deep, the slashes painting sprayed arcs of blood momentarily into the air. Forehand and backhead swing, into Tattletale’s forearms.

The many-handed thing creaked, hands picking up and orienting, ready to plunge. Cradle barely seemed to care, one eye on the hands, the rest of his attention on the attack.

Hands came down. Aimed at distant points. The others.

“Can’t get me from behind,” Cradle said. “And in front of me—”

Tattletale attempted to back up, and in the doing, she nearly tripped over Chicken Little, dropping to a crouch in the process of catching her balance. Colt rushed in, and Colt got stabbed—twice, her punches and grabs ineffectual. She wasn’t combat-trained.

The kids were backing up, the hands finding position as the main ‘body’ of the thing reoriented. Cradle, too, backed up, until his back was to a fallen concrete slab.

“Heads up!” Chicken Little called out, voice high.

The hands came down. Three of them. I had to turn my face away.

It was like Cradle anticipated it. Or he understands how it works. He—

And I could connect some of the dots. Why Cradle was safe, why the others hadn’t been attacked and why the many-handed thing had drifted our way instead.

I drew in a deep breath, the skin of my chest cracking and oozing.

“It isn’t avoiding just Cradle!” I called out, with every bit of volume I could manage. “It’s avoiding killing anyone that’s in their own room!”

Meaning if they could get to their own rooms, they’d be safe. By leaving our boundaries, we invited attack. And here—in the room with the empty shelves and displays—

It kept hesitating. Avoiding striking home. Waiting.

Snag’s influence at work. Maybe he was here, in a fashion. There was some other logic at work too, maybe a desire to emulate Cradle and maim or corner us to torment us as much as possible. But for right now, this knowledge of the safe spaces was all we needed.

“Get closer to Cradle!” I called out, my voice straining around attempted coughs. “Try to kick him out of his room!”

A man with a knife was less threatening than that thing, and the entire group that was over there seemed to agree.