He wasn't leaving. The exasperation was faint, there, and not nearly enough. The fear ratcheted up much higher, and the hard grip on his shoulder only seemed to cement it. Erskine wasn't gone. Why wasn't he gone? Since when did he--did any of the Dead Men--stop to ask questions when Anton told them to run?

'Let me out,' hissed his Gist, its presence expanding in him with his breaths as if feeding off it. 'Let me out let me out let me out!'

No! Terror overrode the despair, for the moment--long enough to keep his Gist inside, where it boiled under his skin. He couldn't pinpoint just from where the fear came. He couldn't stop to consider it; the only thing he could do was feel and act.

"S- six," he managed. "Rooms--on the desk--g- go--"