By the time they reached Bond Street, their pace had dropped without anyone saying it.
Iyisha felt it first.
Marybeth tugged at her arm. Iyisha turned.
Lance had gone pale. Not just tired. His face had drained, his breathing uneven, his shoulders lifting higher with each breath like it was starting to cost him more.
Ahead of them, Malcolm threw another stone down a side street, pulling a few of the undead away.
"Iyisha," Marybeth whispered.
Iyisha stepped closer, her eyes staying on Lance. Then she reached out and touched Malcolm's arm.
He looked at her.
She did not say it right away. She just glanced back.
That was enough.
Malcolm's eyes shifted to Lance, taking him in quickly, measuring.
"We are not reaching the bridge like this," Iyisha said. "We need somewhere to rest."
Malcolm held the look for a second, then gave a short nod.
"We need somewhere high," he said.
Iyisha frowned. "Why?"
He tilted his head toward Manhattan. "So we can see them too."
