But no, I’m jumping to conclusions again. Paige didn’t say they were working together. Maybe Caelar does just have information on the false-blood. Maybe he wants to sell it. Why he’d want to sell it to us, though, I have no idea.
I dial Paige as I get out of the car and walk to my apartment. Predictably, I get her voice mail. I leave a message telling her to call me back. I should be around for the next day or so.
After I lock my front door, I head to my bathroom and turn on the shower. I strip, then step beneath the water, not waiting for it to get warm. The icy stream pelts my face and shoulders, but I grit my teeth and watch the plastic floor turn brown as dirt and grime wash down my skin. I’m hoping the cold shower erases my mind for a few minutes. I’m tired of Kyol knowing how I feel, and I’m sick of worrying about losing Aren.
But when I block both of them from my mind, my other concerns crowd in on me. Like the fact that all my voice mails were from Paige. None from Lee. None from Shane. The latter bothers me more than not hearing from Lee. If Shane was alive, there would have been some sign of him by now. But it’s so hard for me to convince myself that he’s dead. I need proof. I need to know that he’s not being held hostage by the remnants.
Or by Lorn or the false-blood.
By the time the shower heats to something warmer than tepid, the water is almost clear. I pull my towel off the metal hanger. I don’t have a bath mat, so I step onto my jeans so I don’t slip on the wet linoleum. Something digs into my heel. I look down.
And see Kyol’s name-cord half-hanging out of my pocket.
I draw in a breath, reach down, and pick it up. It’s made of onyx and audrin, a pale stone native to the Realm. I’ve never seen Kyol wear it, but I had every intention of returning it to him when I took it from my apartment in Houston. I’m glad I can still give it back to him, but the way Aren slapped it into my palm . . .
I throw my towel against the wall, wishing it were heavy enough to slam or break something. It’s not. It falls so quietly to the floor it might as well flutter.
I kick it into the corner, where my soiled clothes are. Three days until I lose Aren. I’m beginning to think that he might really let that time go by. That hurts. And it makes me feel like I’m a fool.
Swallowing back my emotions, I jerk on clean undies, a pair of cargo pants, and a black T-shirt. I stuff the name-cord in a pocket, swearing an oath to myself that I will return it to Kyol the next time I see him, then I grab a comb and pull it through my wet hair. I’m conquering the tangles one by one when tension explodes through my life-bond. I grab the edge of the sink, bracing for whatever is coming next, but Kyol gets control of his emotions and the situation he’s in. He’s not safe, and he’s worried. Cautious. He’s trying to settle down the celebrating mob, most likely. Has it grown more violent? Has it turned against—
Pound.
I spin toward my bedroom, ripping the comb free to clutch it in front of me like a dagger. The sound came from my front door. Or maybe it was a neighbor’s door? Someone could have dropped something on the floor above me.
Pound!
That definitely came from my door. It’s not exactly a knock, but it’s not quite hard enough to say that someone’s trying to break in.
Eyeing the peephole, I cautiously take a step forward.
“McKenzie.”
I freeze. The voice is muffled through the door, but it sounds strained. And it sounds familiar.
I peek through the peephole. No one’s out there. At least, no one’s standing directly in front of the door.
Pound. Pound.
“McKenzie.”
I back up, frowning. Surely, that’s not who it sounds like.
I unlock the door, turn the knob, then pull it open. Lorn falls inside.
My hands slip under his arms just before his knees hit the floor.
“Jesus, Lorn.” He’s freaking heavy, and he’s . . . wet?
I move him away from me, leaning his back against the doorframe. My breath catches in my lungs. Lorn’s badly hurt. His face is a mask of red, and one bloodied hand is holding his stomach. I can’t see how bad that wound is—I’m pretty sure I don’t want to see it—but his clothes are shredded, his knuckles and hands cut, and his edarratae don’t look healthy.
“What happened?” I ask, standing to flick off my light switch. I start to pull him inside my apartment—all I need is a neighbor seeing me crouched down and talking to my doorframe—but he grabs my arm.
“No—” He chokes on the word, and his lungs rattle. “No. I didn’t quite outlast the interrogation.”
A chill sweeps over my skin. “Interrogation?”
“We need to leave,” he says.
Kyol’s thoughts have turned toward me. I don’t want to distract him, so I fight to keep my emotions stable. That’s not easy, considering this is the fae I accused of intensifying the war between the rebels and Atroth’s fae so that he could make a profit. He was imprisoned because of me. He has every reason to want to cause me trouble.
But he’s sitting here half-dead on my doorstep. I can’t just turn him away.
“Why do we need to leave, Lorn?”
“The false-blood found me,” he says, his eyes closing in a grimace. “The meeting didn’t go exactly as I’d planned.”
“The false-blood? You met him? You know who he is?”
“He is the Taelith.” Lorn opens his eyes. “That’s all I know.”
“And now he knows where I live,” I say. I bite my lower lip, start to shake my head, but then stop and glare at Lorn. “How the hell do you know where I live?”
He doesn’t answer that. He just lifts one bloodied eyebrow, and his lips curve into a faint smile. Yeah, it was a stupid question. Lorn never reveals his information sources.
“How long do I have?” I ask.
“Minutes. Seconds. I’m surprised he’s not here already.”
I stare at Lorn. He managed to make his words so casual, I don’t know if he’s joking.
Crap. I don’t think he is. I think he’s serious.
My heart thumps against my chest. I draw in a deep breath, trying to slow it down and to ward off the adrenaline that’s threatening to jet through my bloodstream. I don’t need Kyol to fissure to my rescue. I need a break from his emotions, and he needs to concentrate on what he’s doing so he doesn’t get himself killed.
“You can’t fissure?” I ask Lorn.
“Not sure if I can walk at the moment.”
Fabulous. I can’t run off and leave him behind.
I grab my keys off the counter, then sidle up next to Lorn to put his arm over my shoulder. “You ready?”
Lorn nods. I count to three, then push up to my feet.
He weighs so much more than I thought he would, and he’s not even wearing jaedric or carrying a sword or dagger or anything. My quads are just barely strong enough to lift him. I so need to join a gym.
I shut my door, then we stagger to the staircase. He grips the rail, uses it as a crutch to help him down the first steps. It doesn’t help, though. We’re moving way too slow.
“You can’t even fissure to the parking lot?” I ask.
He looks down and to the right, where cars are crammed between the narrow lines.
“I’ll try,” he says, letting his arm fall from my shoulder. God, he’s really bad off. No smile, no arrogant reply, just a short, pained statement.