The third floor of the QuakerU library was the "Quiet Zone," where the air felt thin and the only sound was the rhythmic thump of the HVAC system.
Jude sat at a corner table, surrounded by a fortress of textbooks. Fernando sat across from him, his cream-colored sweater still damp and smelling faintly of dark roast.
"Okay," Fernando whispered, leaning over the table. His glasses caught the fluorescent light, turning into white discs. "Supply and demand is easy, Jude! It is just a see-saw. If everyone wants the bread, the bread gets expensive. If nobody wants the bread, the bread is lonely and cheap."
Jude rubbed his temples. "I get that part. It's the elasticity that's killing me. My brain just slides off the graph."
"Because you are looking at it like a math problem!" Fernando chirped, pulling the notebook toward him. He began drawing small, incredibly detailed sketches of little people and loaves of bread in the margins. "Look at it like a social drama. The curve is just how much people are willing to suffer to get what they want."
Jude watched the pen move. Fernando's handwriting was tiny, precise, and perfectly legible.
"You're actually really good at this," Jude admitted.
"I have a lot of practice explaining things to people who are distracted." Fernando didn't look up from his drawing. "So, Jude. You missed two weeks of class. That is a long time to be 'sick.' Did you have the plague? The scurvy? A very long nap?"
Jude's pen stalled. He kept his eyes on the graph. "Just a bad flu. Knocked me out."
"Must have been quite a flu."
The words were cheerful. The tone wasn't.
Jude felt a prickle of discomfort—not the demon-chill, but something adjacent. Fernando's questions were getting specific.
"I just didn't eat much," Jude said. "Can we get back to aggregate demand?"
"Of course! My apologies." Fernando held up his hands. "I am just curious. I see so many students who get 'sick' and then suddenly they are different. They join the P.I.T. programs. They start thinking they are the next Ironclad."
Fernando's smile twitched. Just for a second. It wasn't the cinnamon-roll expression anymore—it was something tighter, harder.
"Do you think the heroes are cool, Jude? All that polished steel and capes?"
Jude shrugged, aiming for casual. "They do their job, I guess. Keep the city from exploding."
"They are billboards with heartbeats." Fernando's voice dropped an octave. The cheeriness had a jagged edge now. "They save the buildings that have insurance. They protect the people with the right zip codes. P.I.T. doesn't care about 'heroes.' They care about branding. They are just bullies in better outfits."
Jude looked up, surprised by the venom. "Whoa. You really don't like them."
Fernando snapped back instantly, the wide-eyed innocent returning like a mask sliding into place. "Oh! Did I sound intense? I just have very strong opinions on public policy! My family thinks I am a 'radical' for wanting people to be treated like humans instead of assets."
He laughed—that dolphin-chuckle again. "Anyway! Back to the supply of labor! If the wages are too low, the workers go on strike! It is a very exciting chapter."
For the next two hours, the weirdness faded.
Fernando actually was a brilliant tutor. He broke down complex theories into stories, made the numbers move like characters in a play. Jude found himself enjoying the company. Fernando was strange, yeah, but he was genuine in a way David and Kelvin never were. He wasn't performing coolness. He wasn't jockeying for status.
For a moment, Jude felt like a normal student. Not an angel. Not a mascot. Just a guy failing Economics who might actually pass now.
This is nice, he thought. This is what normal feels like.
Don't get used to it.
BZZZZT.
His phone vibrated against the wooden table.
GRETA (14:45): That fucking angel dick is in my living room. He's pissed. Says there's a "leakage" in the subway tunnels. Meet me at 12th and Arch. NOW. Don't be late or I'll tell him you're the one who's bailing.
Jude felt the blood drain from his face. The "angel dick" was Bob. And "leakage" was definitely not plumbing.
"Everything okay?" Fernando asked, peering over his glasses. "You look like you just saw a ghost. Or a very high interest rate."
"I… uh…" Jude scrambled to pack his bag, hands shaking. "I gotta go. Family thing. My mom just texted—it's an emergency."
"Oh no!" Fernando stood, looking genuinely distressed. "Is it serious? Is everyone okay?"
Jude was already half out of his chair, backpack dangling open. "Yeah. Something like that. I gotta run. Thanks for the help, Fernando. Seriously."
"Anytime, Jude!" Fernando called as Jude bolted for the elevator. "We shall finish the elasticity curve another time! Be safe!"
Jude didn't look back.
Fernando watched the elevator doors close. He waited until the light indicated the car had reached the first floor.
The smile fell off his face like a mask hitting the floor.
He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a small, sleek black phone—the kind no student's budget could afford.
He dialed.
"Yo," the voice on the other end growled. Kraz.
"I have him." Fernando's voice was flat, professional, stripped of every quirk and stutter. "He's on the move. Nervous. Just got a work call. I'm following now."
He walked to the library window, looking down at the quad. Jude was sprinting across the grass toward the subway entrance.
"Don't lose him, Four-Eyes," Kraz barked.
"I won't." Fernando's eyes tracked Jude like a scope finding its target. "You can count on me."
The intersection of 12th and Arch was a wind tunnel of damp city air and shawarma smoke from a nearby cart. Jude skidded to a halt, backpack bouncing against his spine, and found them standing near the entrance to Reading Terminal Market.
Greta was leaning against a lamppost. But she wasn't hunched over.
Jude blinked, squinting at her. The ghostly gray tint to her skin was gone, replaced by an actual healthy flush. Her hands, which had been vibrating like tuning forks two days ago, were steady as she tucked hair behind her ear.
She looked like she'd slept ten hours and eaten a vegetable.
"You're late," Greta said. Her voice didn't have that raspy, dehydrated edge. It was sharp, clear, and annoyed in the normal way.
"I was studying." Jude clutched his knees, panting. "Wait. You look… okay? Like, actually okay."
"I feel weird," Greta muttered, staring at her palms. "Stable. It's gross."
"It's not gross, it's a Celestial Supplement," Bob chimed in.
The angel was leaning against a newsstand, wearing a trench coat three sizes too small. He checked a golden pocket watch with an expression of intense boredom.
"Slipped her a little angelic remedy this morning," Bob said, snapping the watch shut. "Tossed it in her coffee while she was sulking. Suppresses the withdrawal, keeps her nervous system from liquefying while she gets her shit together. Don't tell Seraphile. It's technically 'misuse of divine assets,' and I'd rather not spend my weekend in a cubicle in Purgatory."
He pointed a stubby finger at Greta, expression suddenly grave.
"Don't get cocky, kid. This isn't a cure. It's a bandage. You still have to do the work—the meetings, the sobriety, all of it. If you think you can cruise on my supply and go back to the pills, the rebound will hit you like a freight train made of lightning. Understand?"
Greta's jaw set. "I get it, dickhead."
"Good." Bob turned to Jude. "And you. Your cardio is still a hate crime against biology, but I hear you're actually hitting targets now. Tonight's simple janitor work. Nest of Gloom-Ticks in the old sewage bypass. Small, fast, annoying. They're eating data cables and P.I.T. thinks it's a localized power surge. If they find the demonic residue, they start asking questions we don't want to answer."
Bob stepped closer, voice dropping into rare sincerity.
"Tonight is about teamwork. Maximum efficiency. No more rolling around in the mud like toddlers. You move as one, or you don't move at all. The Wyrmmaker needs a steady hand to guide it. The Bow needs someone competent clearing the path. Do you hear me?"
"Teamwork. Right," Jude muttered, glancing at Greta. She looked like she'd rather swallow a live grenade than high-five him.
"Excellent." Bob's mood flipped back to chipper. He checked his watch again. "Anyway, I won't be joining you tonight. Prior engagements."
"Prior engagements?" Jude asked. "Like, heaven business?"
"If by 'heaven business' you mean a three-day gala in the Fourth Circle celebrating the invention of the harp, then yes." Bob smirked. "Open bar with nectar that'll make your soul vibrate. Karaoke machine that only plays '80s power ballads. I have a very convincing rendition of 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' to deliver."
He began to shimmer, the air around him warping like heat haze.
"Don't think that means you're off the hook. The Boss has eyes everywhere. So do I. I'll know if you slack off. I'll know if you fight. And I'll definitely know if you break anything expensive."
A golden portal tore open behind him.
"Try not to die," Bob said, stepping backward into the light. "It creates an enormous amount of paperwork."
The portal snapped shut with the sound of a closing book.
Jude and Greta stood alone under the flickering streetlights.
The silence stretched, heavy and awkward.
"So," Jude said, shifting his bag. "Subway bypass?"
Greta reached into the air, her hand closing around a ripple of light. The heavy, gray Labrys materialized in her grip—still dormant, but solid.
"Shut up and keep up," she muttered.
She headed for the subway stairs. Jude sighed, summoned his bow into a faint golden shimmer at his side, and followed her into the dark.
The tunnel smelled like grime, stagnant water, and something that might have been blood a long time ago. They moved carefully, boots splashing in the shallow runoff.
"So," Jude ventured, keeping his voice low. "Bob said you actually went. To the meeting."
Greta didn't look back. She kept the massive Wyrmmaker resting on her shoulder like a baseball bat. "Yeah. I went."
"And?"
"And I threw a chair at a frat boy. Then I left."
Jude blinked. He'd expected her to say it was stupid, or pointless, or beneath her. He didn't expect honesty.
"You threw a chair?"
"He was being a dickhead." Her voice was tight. "Treated it like a joke. I didn't handle it well."
Jude watched her back. The tension was still there, but it wasn't the coiled, murderous energy from the alley a few nights ago. It was just exhaustion.
"I'm proud of you," Jude said.
Greta stopped walking. She turned slowly, face set in a scowl that didn't have any real heat behind it.
"Don't make it weird, Jude. I don't do sappy bullshit."
"I'm serious." He shrugged, clutching the unstrung bow. "You showed up. Bob said the first step is the worst. You did it. That's something."
She studied him for a moment, searching for mockery. When she didn't find any, she let out a sharp breath through her nose.
"Whatever." She turned back around. "How's the girl? The one you shit your pants over every time you see her?"
"Natalia," Jude corrected, falling into step beside her. "And I asked her out. For real. Friday night."
"No shit?" Greta glanced at him, eyebrow raised. "You? The guy who apologizes to automatic doors when they don't open fast enough?"
"Hey, I have layers." Jude grinned, feeling a rare spark of confidence. "We're going to The Tops. I'm picking her up at six."
"Expensive taste." A hint of respect crept into her voice. "Don't fuck it up. And try not to mention the wings. Girls hate feathers."
"Noted."
They weren't friends. Not even close. But as they moved deeper into the dark, scanning for the nest, the air between them felt less like a cold war and more like a ceasefire.
Then the silence shattered.
"AAAAH!"
THUD.
A high-pitched scream followed by the wet smack of a body hitting concrete. Directly behind them.
Jude and Greta spun in unison.
Greta leveled the Wyrmmaker, the blade igniting with chaotic neon-violet energy. Jude drew the bowstring, a shaft of blue light materializing instantly, aimed at the intruder.
Lying in a puddle of muck, looking like he'd tripped over his own feet in a panic, was Fernando.
His sweater was smeared with sludge. His glasses hung off one ear. He looked up at them—at the glowing weapons, the unnatural light—and scrambled backward, heels scraping frantically against the floor.
"No, no, no!" Fernando squeaked, hyperventilating. "I didn't see anything! I didn't see the axe! I didn't see the light! I am legally blind!"
"Fernando?" Jude lowered his bow slightly, shock washing over him.
Greta didn't lower anything.
She moved like a blur. Before Fernando could scramble to his feet, she'd crossed the distance and grabbed him by the cable-knit collar, slamming him against the brick wall.
SLAM.
"Who the FUCK are you?" Greta snarled, lifting him until his toes barely touched the muck. "Why are you following us?"
"I… I…" Fernando gasped, clawing at her hand. "I'm just a student! I was taking a walk! An urban exploration walk!"
"Bullshit." The Wyrmmaker hummed inches from his ear, energy crackling like a bug zapper. "You saw us transform. You saw the weapons. You know what we are."
"Greta, wait!" Jude rushed forward. "He's a friend! From the library!"
"Bullshit, Jude!" Greta didn't look away from Fernando. Her eyes were wild. "He's tailing us. Nobody just 'wanders' into a sealed subway bypass. If he talks, we're done. If P.I.T. finds out, we're done. If Bob finds out—"
She tightened her grip. Fernando choked, face turning red.
Jude looked at Fernando. At the terror in his eyes.
And the pieces clicked.
The coffee shop "accident." The insistence on walking to the library together. The questions about where Jude had been. The sudden appearance down here in a sealed tunnel.
It wasn't clumsiness. It was surveillance.
Jude stepped closer. His expression hardened. He didn't pull Greta off.
"You were using me," Jude said, voice cold. "In the library. All those questions about heroes, about where I've been…. You weren't tutoring me. You were interrogating me."
"Jude, please!" Fernando wheezed, tears streaming behind the crooked glasses. "It's not… I just…"
"Who sent you?" Jude stepped into Fernando's space. "Is it the school? The cops? P.I.T.?"
"I can't—"
"Answer him!" Greta roared, bringing the axe blade to Fernando's throat. The energy singed the wool of his sweater. "Give me one reason I shouldn't bury you in this tunnel right now. Who are you working for?"
Fernando opened his mouth to scream, to beg, to lie—
But then his eyes locked on something over Greta's shoulder.
The color drained from his face. The panic of being choked was replaced by something older, more primal. His jaw went slack.
"B-b-behind…" Fernando whispered, voice trembling so hard it was barely audible. "Behind you."
A wet, clicking sound echoed from the darkness.
Skitter. Skitter. Hiss.
Jude and Greta froze. Slowly, they turned their heads.
The tunnel wasn't empty anymore.
Hundreds of glowing red eyes were opening in the gloom, accompanied by the sound of a thousand tiny legs scratching against the walls.