And the Saint wasn’t with Rogue.
The detective hesitated, then grabbed the knob. He just had to assume this was a trap and act accordingly. He couldn’t afford to stand by and let him get away.
He twisted his wrist. The door wasn’t locked; the knob turned easily. As it opened, a powerful scent struck his nostrils. Like food left to rot.
He peered through the crack in the door. There were no lights on, but enough came through the window. No one was in sight. He could see a plate and cup left on the table in the living room. And something on the floor—hidden in shadow.
With one foot, he wedged the doorstop in place. When he stepped in, the floorboards creaked. Rogue’s eyes darted about, but no one came bursting out.
There was mud on the floor. It went all the way into the living room, where it cut out, as if that part alone had been wiped up. That seemed like an invitation.
He’s gotta be here.
But there were still no signs of anyone.
He remembered the man using a spell to turn himself invisible—but that hadn’t disguised his footsteps. He must be standing perfectly still somewhere.
Rogue listened carefully, thinking.
There’d be a sign. If he sensed anything at all, he’d have to act on it.
He crept toward the living room.
The stench was getting worse. The source was obvious—there was a swarm of flies hovering over the table.
Rotting food. A sandwich and some sausages on the plate. The sandwich was half eaten and in especially gross condition.
……What a slob.
The living room floor was covered in bags of trash, rolled up magazines, and discarded clothes with yellow stains. The man had not been living well. Rogue found it tough to breathe through his nose. As he got closer, he saw something sticking out behind the cup.
_____What the…?
Fighting off the urge to splutter, he moved closer, picking his way around the table, avoiding the trash. Soon, he could make it out.
It was a Bible.
The one clean thing in this hovel. A spotless white cover, like it was brand-new.
He reached out and picked it up.
It was heavy enough. Rogue flipped through the pages but found nothing wedged between them. It was a totally ordinary book.
Was this Dicky’s? Or does it belong to Chronos—?
Creeeeak.
The closet in the corner swung open.
Rogue looked up.
A giant stood there. Half his face—everything above the mouth—was covered in fuses. His mouth opened.
“Conditions met.”
And the man lunged toward Rogue, arms outstretched, going for the bear hug.
_____A human bomb!
Rogue ducked under his arms, and the man bumped the table. The flies all took off, but the man didn’t seem to care; he was right back on his feet.
This time, he came in low, going for the waist, adapting to Rogue’s movements. Rogue swore and braced himself, but he was in for a shock. The man was far heavier and stronger than anticipated. Rogue’s feet left the floor. Was there a strength boost in play?
The man’s arms went round his back, picking him up and charging for the window.
_____Shit!
Rogue knew where this was going and wasn’t looking forward to it.
He slammed his elbow into the man’s forehead, to no avail. He seemed incapable of feeling pain. With Rogue as his shield, they crashed into the window.
The man let go, and his face retreated into the distance. Rogue was left falling from the fifth floor.
There was no time to catch himself; he felt a blow to his back. All the air was forced out of his lungs. He couldn’t breathe.
“Usher! I am bound for the far side!” the man roared.
There was a sound like raw meat slapping a board. Eyes blurred, Rogue saw the man crawling across the concrete. Unbelievable. Even if he felt no pain, he’d made that jump?
Rogue tried to pick himself up, scrabbling on the ground. His hands sank in, and only then did he realize he’d fallen on a hedge. It was probably the only reason he was still alive.
_____He’s coming.
Rogue tried again to right himself. A sharp pain ran down his back. The man was here to finish him off. Move.
He made it off the hedge, crawling along—and bumped his head on someone’s foot.
“Oh! Usher!”
Rogue looked up, and the blood drained from his face.
The man’s arms were twisted out of shape, but he was bellowing anyway. The fuses covering his face had shrunk to the length of his pinky. The rain was falling on them, but they were made from magic, and the flames did not go out.
Rogue was done for.
_____Here? In this insignificant fight?
That was the only thing he could think about.
He’d accomplished nothing.
Not one thing.
The man was moving in slow motion.
Maybe that was just how his senses perceived things now that he was on the brink of death. He could clearly make out the progress of the explosion. It started with the man’s limbs, then his torso—and finally, the head. Even the cameras hadn’t caught that sequence.
The flames of the blast swept toward Rogue. Horrifically hot air filled his lungs, burning his entire body. His vision turned orange, then he saw nothing. The blow hit him all at once, followed by pain like needles on every inch of his skin.
It was an unbearable pain.
For what felt like eternity.
When would it be over? Rogue wondered, his throat parched.
“You always were a sleepyhead.”
He opened his eyes and beheld a white figure. There was white hair on her head, billowing out like a cloud on the wind. It fluttered up and down and right and left. He gazed at it absently, and a pleasant voice tickled his eardrums.
“Get your head in the game! You’re keeping me waiting.”
That woke him up.
“……Y-you’re…”