“Hey,” Nate whispered now, moving his tongue slowly to try to form words. “Listen up, Pix, before I fall asleep.”
“I’m here.” She held the Diffuser steady with one hand while the other stroked Nate’s hair out of his eyes.
“When we’re done, pull the little sharp bit out and wipe it off and put it away and hide it. Keep it safe. It’s Alden’s.”
“Youkeep it safe.”
“And look in my pocket. There’s a thing for you. From Reed. Hang on to it. He wants you to have it.”
“Let him give it to me, then.” Her small, fierce voice cut through the fog in Nate’s mind. “When he’s better.”
He abruptly remembered what else he had to tell her.
Alden had told him to feed Reed for thirty counts, but that wouldn’t be enough. He wasn’t going to let Alden’s greed push him around. And if he gave too much and that got him sicker—or got him dead—well, that’d be worth it. All of this was his fault. He had to fix it.
“Count to one hundred. You can do that, right?” Nate asked slowly. That was the longest amount of time the dusty old manual had recommended. Alden’s rules could rot. He was going to give as much as he could—and more if he had to.
“I can do that. Should I do something for your arm?”
“Wrap it up and fix my sleeve to hide it. Tell them I passed out.”
“Like when you’re sick?”
“Like that, except from the bump on my head, yeah?” Nate blinked slowly and couldn’t open his eyes again, and that was all right. He was so tired and warm here, sleeping with Reed.
“He looks better, Nate. He’s breathing more. I think it’s working.”
“Count,” Nate mumbled. “You gotta, or. . .”
“One,” Pixel said, her voice quiet and thin, as if the sound came from a speaker that needed tinkering. “Two. Three.”
Nate went to sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The first time Nate had fed Alden two years before, he’d wondered if he was falling in love.
The next day, when he finally woke up and the grogginess faded, Alden’s sallow skin had warmed and the tight lines around his eyes had smoothed out.
“You look happy,” Nate said.
Alden took his hand and kissed it. “I am.”
The last time Nate had fed Alden nearly a year later, he’d ached distantly. It was like being stuck in a dream and knowing something was wrong—that hehadto wake up.
He became aware of someone banging on the shop door, and Fran, wrapped in heavy blankets, using a walking stick to poke Alden’s still form. He’d thought, for a lurching moment, that Alden was dead. But it was worse. He was flying, too gone to see that Fran was gaunt with hunger and thirst, that Nate looked like a skeleton, that the shop was in disarray. The last thing Nate remembered was summertime, and now the shop was cold. The furnace lay bare.
When his legs would carry him, he’d left without saying goodbye.
Something heavy pounced on Nate’s chest, ripping him away from delightful numbness. His hands stirred and found skinny arms.
“You’ve been asleep for three days,” Pixel said. “You toad! I thought you were killed.”
Nate didn’t want to open his eyes, but even in the fuzzy tilt of waking up, he knew something was wrong about Pixel being close. The smells around him and the softness beneath him were too familiar to be anywhere but his old pile of cushions on Alden’s floor.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Nate strained against sticky dryness in his throat.
“Why is that?” Alden asked, close by. “Are you insinuating that I’d do something untoward to our veryyoungfriend?”
