Michael turned, nodding to the undead who held the leader upright.
"Hold him," he ordered.
Two blank helmets inclined in unison, gauntlets tightening just enough to pin the man's shoulders without crushing them further.
He paused to glance over the row of bodies, all limp in death.
It was an odd thing, how little revulsion he felt now. Perhaps he'd simply grown accustomed to the sight.
And as for why Spartan was absent?
Spartan remained behind in the vault, because of the ritual array.
Michael knew when he was ready—when he had hopefully wrung some secret he could from this wretch—he would give the final order. The array would be smashed. The spell would hopefully collapse. And everyone affected would wake.
But not yet.
Michael stepped closer, lowering his voice to something almost intimate.
"Who sent you?"
The man's throat bobbed. His eyes flickered sideways, as if searching for a means of escape that didn't exist.
Michael sighed.
