Cyprian spun around, shoving me behind him.
He didn't have a gun—the water had ruined it—but he snatched the crowbar from our guide’s hand with a speed that blurred in the dim light. He raised the steel bar, ready to crush the skull of whoever had followed us into the dark.
The footsteps stopped. A silhouette emerged from the gloom, ragged and dripping wet.
"Don't swing, Savage," a voice rasped. "I'm not worth the XP."
Elara stepped into the circle of firelight.
She looked like a drowned rat. Her tactical catsuit was torn at the knee, her hair was plastered to her skull, and she was limping heavily. She held her side, wheezing for air, but her eyes burned with a manic, terrifying resilience.
"You," Cyprian growled, taking a step forward. "I should finish what the river started."
"I
