He took one step toward them and knocked over a whole tray of kitchen knives.
“No,” he gasped, spreading his hands.
Butcher’s knives, steak knives, butter knives, knives for shaving, knives for slicing, knives for hacking, knives for stabbing, all of them exploded in a pile on the tiled floor. Some bounced, some scattered, creating a musical, metal cacophony. The tray, however, was the loudest. It ricocheted up against the stainless steel legs of one of the tables, then rolled in a wide circle around and around, clipping one of the fridge doors right in front of him, finally winding down like a pot in a vaudeville skit.
Topher dropped to his knees and pushed down on it, trying to silence the final circle, but it was wet and his hand slipped off and into the pile of knives, slicing ope
