The Diamond Dragon (Kip Keene Book 4) by Nicholas Erik Page A

web of cracks through the glass. The rapt onlookers didn’t move or acknowledge the disturbance. They kept their half-burned candles steady, their eyes focused.
    Towards him, but not at him.
    Keene returned to the table. Strike’s haunting gaze still stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t take it any longer. With shaking fingers, he reached over and shut the lids.
    Wet.
    His bloodied fingertips brushed against her skin, leaving streaks on her pale cheeks like war paint. In his absent-minded daze, his hand passed her dry lips.
    The faintest wisp of air rushed against his skin, bringing a light, brief chill to his wet fingertips.
    A rush, this time of joy, surged through his throat.
    He hugged his partner, which was something like putting his arms around a bundle of 2 x 4s, but it didn’t matter.
    Strike was alive.
    “St…”
    “What?” Keene said.
    “Stop. Hug.”
    Keene released his grip and stepped back. A semblance of life began returning to Strike’s body. Tiny quivers and movements—usually unnoticed—seemed like overt and ostentatious gestures after she’d lain still for minutes.
    “I’m glad you’re not dead, you know.”
    Strike didn’t reply, but her now audible breathing was all the response Keene required.
    Keene glanced up to check his witnesses. In the sea of black veils and cloaks, there was one unlike the others. Shining eyes, one emerald and one red, flickered beneath the fabric. A small red plume was sewn atop the cloak, like something that belonged to a Roman soldier. One of the standard black cloaked figures followed behind, trailing this mysterious person like a loyal dog. 
    The irises caught the glow of the candlelight, holding Keene’s gaze for a moment.
    Then the person disappeared into the sea of black.

14 | Treatment
    “Lemme go.” Strike shook free from Keene’s steadying hand, only to wobble along the walkway like a drunk after last call. Before she took a face-first dip into the sewage, Keene grabbed the back of her jacket, pulling her towards the wall.
    He kept his hand on her back and took the inside track. The further Strike stayed away from the burbling muck, the better.
    “Any idea where we’re going?”
    “Didn’t get that far,” Keene said. They reached a junction with a slightly raised platform large enough for Strike to sit down. He helped her up the two steps. “Sit.”
    “What am I, a dog?”
    “Alive,” Keene said. “I need both hands.”
    “I can help.”
    “If you really want to go swimming that bad, be my guest.”
    Strike gave a small groan, but then sat down cross-legged on the square concrete platform.
    It sat in the center of a four-way intersection, the sewage channeled beneath its gray, utilitarian surface. When Keene stood on top, the ceiling was only about a half foot from his forehead. Keene looked back the way they’d come. No sign that a lynch mob was trailing behind with pitchforks and torches. But then, there was no telling what the fine citizens of Tillus were planning.
    “Hold my phone so I can see,” Keene said. The almost non-existent light, coupled with the bloodstains, made the blueprint almost impossible to read.
    “Oh, so I can help.”
    “Steady now. Jesus.”
    “I was almost eaten alive three minutes ago, so cut me a little slack.”
    “I don’t think that’s what was going on.”
    “But we’ll never know for sure,” Strike said with a grim smirk.
    The light bobbed all over the dimly lit tunnels. It periodically passed over sections of the blueprint.
    “Wait,” Keene said. “Right there.”
    “You’re asking a lot.”
    “All right, all right… there . You saw that?”
    “Yeah, I can still see.”
    Keene jabbed at the top left corner of the blueprint, which outlined the tunnels beneath the wastewater treatment facility. It would have been of zero interest—except he’d gotten to thinking about the strangeness of that particular amenity for such a tiny town. And he’d finally figured out why Mitchell had a map