The first one didn't leap.
It landed in a four-point crouch, palms and bare feet slapping wet carpet hard enough to cause whatever moisture was in it to splatter. Then it stayed there, its arms bent, head lolling side to side in a rhythm too slow for the rest of its body. The beach-ball skull swayed left, then right, as if it rode currents none of them could feel.
Then, its mouth opened.
Rows of serrated teeth gleamed wet and wrong, a jaw unhinging too far. It shut them with a hollow click, then opened again—like a shark tasting blood through water that wasn't there.
Elias's hand froze on his pencil. His creature hummed in recognition, hungry. Ours.
Another one hit behind them, its claws cracking the plaster, shoulders twisted at an angle no joint should allow. It clung to the wall first, ribs flexing like a bellows. Then it too began to sway, rocking back and forth, head tipping as though waves passed straight through the building.
