Extracted

  LEX

  Hobbling to the window in Claymore’s third-story office, I wipe the grime off one of the panes with my sleeve and press my nose against the glass. I can’t quite make out what’s going on—all I can see is a small fire on the right side of the courtyard.

  “Fire!” I say, turning to the desk.

  Claymore doesn’t move. The board doesn’t change. It’s as if he’s turned to stone.

  “There,” I mutter, pointing to where Bruce and Slap Stick are ducking behind some thick shrubs. There’s movement on the outskirts of the courtyard. Someone is hiding behind the pillar.

  From my vantage point, I can’t see them well, but from the look of confusion passing between Bruce and Slap Stick, I don’t think they can see the intruder at all. But who do I tell? Claymore hasn’t said anything since his warning, and I’m beginning to wonder if something shook loose inside him during the explosion. I turn back to the windows, using my cane to shatter the glass. Maybe I can at least call to Bruce and point him in the right direction.

  Watching through the broken windows, I try to decide if I will be more helpful here or if I should go help my friends. There’s only one intruder I can see, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t more lurking out there somewhere. Just as I decide to go, my leg groans and seizes up. I smack the metal straps with my palm, trying to get the gears to start turning again. Movement draws my attention back to the window. The intruder hasn’t moved, but I notice a small, metal object reflecting sunlight in the middle of the courtyard, weaving through the spray of bullets that Bruce lays down.

  “Gear Heads!” I yell through the broken glass window. I am too high up, too far away for them to hear me through the pop of gunfire. I have about a minute and a half to be grateful there is only one before it doubles back, crouches down, and starts spitting out little gears at Bruce from behind. Slap Stick runs to his aid, but the Gear Head lunges, digs into his arm, and sprays what looks like steam in his face.

  The Gear Head then generates the rusty old saw I loathe and cuts into his flesh. Slap Stick tears the little creature off his arm before it can move its way up to his face. He throws it aside, motioning for Bruce to take care of it as he advances on the person hiding on the outskirts of the courtyard.

  The Gear Head doesn’t even miss a step in its pursuit. It’s so much faster than the others we’ve dealt with—it’s on Bruce in the blink of an eye. I smack my leg again, harder this time. I need to get out there. The Gear Head backs up, scurrying into a crouched position. I can see where it has taken cover behind a scraggly bush on the other side of the courtyard. It is waiting for a sneak attack. Smart, sneaky little monster.

  The only thing I can think to do is to grab my cane and use the oil slick feature. I lift it up to my shoulder like a long rifle, glad I have the gear settings memorized by now so I don’t even have to look down to see which one to use.

  The cane doesn’t kick when I squeeze the small, concealed trigger. Oil starts to ooze out of the end of the cane. The flow is slow, and it drizzles down in spurts.

  I slap the side, thinking that maybe it isn’t functioning properly.

  Then, without warning, the cane gushes with oil like water out of a fire hose. Surprised at how much the skinny cane holds, I rotate my body back and forth like a sprinkler so I can get a good covering of oil in front of the Gear Head. Slap Stick gives me a thumbs-up.

  Soon, the path between the Gear Head and its prey is covered, slicked with the shiny substance. The steady stream continues for a long moment. The Gear Head tries to get its balance. But even though it attempts to cut into the ground with its saws and pincers, it is unable to advance on my team. Slap Stick takes advantage of the oil and moves toward the floundering Gear Head. With the stride of a football kicker, he boots the Gear Head over into the far corner of the courtyard. It flails, bounces, and slides under a bush. Sparks fly and the dry tumbleweed bursts into flame. There is no explosion.

  From behind the pillar, the intruder puts its hands in the air and shouts, “Will you stop shooting at me, you lunatics? I said I surrender!”

  At the sound of the voice, my heartbeat quickens. “Anya!” I yell, smacking my leg once more to get the gears grinding back into motion, and I limp to the main room.