The city is a canyon of glass and steel. We fly between the towers. The wind buffets the helicopter, throwing us side to side. Alaric is sweating, his face a mask of concentration and agony. "Which one?" I ask.
"The black one," he says. "The Obsidian Tower. Tallest in the district. There is... a private pad on the roof."
I see it. A monolith of black glass rising above the others. It looks like a tombstone. On the roof, a circle of red lights outlines the landing zone.
"It's marked," I say.
"Private asset," Alaric grunts. "Shell company. No one knows... it's mine."
He initiates the descent. This is the hardest part. "Collective down," he orders. "Slowly. Like a feather."
I lower the lever. The helicopter drops. Too fast. "Too fast!" Alaric yells. "Power! Give it power!"
I twist the throttle. I pull up. The engine screams. The descent checks. We hover over the pad. The wind swirling around the building is vicious. We are drifting sideways toward the edge. toward a hundred-story drop.
"Right pedal!" I scream, seeing the tail swing.
Alaric stomps on the pedal. The nose snaps back. We drop. Ten feet. Five.THUD.
We hit the concrete hard. The skids groan. The helicopter bounces once, then settles. Alaric kills the engine instantly. The whine dies down. The rotors slow. Silence returns. High-altitude, wind-swept silence.
We sit there for a moment. Alive. Alaric unbuckles his harness. He tries to open the door, but his arm fails him. He falls back into the seat, his head hitting the headrest. "Landing... complete," he whispers. "Score... six out of ten."
I unbuckle. I scramble out of my side and run around the nose of the chopper. The wind up here is brutal, freezing. The city sprawls below us, indifferent to our survival. I open Alaric’s door. "Come on," I say, grabbing his jacket. "We're not done."
I help him out. He is barely walking. We stumble across the helipad toward the roof access door. "Code," he gasps. "One... nine... eight... four."
"Original," I mutter, punching it into the keypad.Green light.The door opens.
We spill into a penthouse. It is massive. Dark. Empty. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire city. Modern furniture covered in dust sheets. It smells of stale air and money. It is cold, but not freezing.
I drag Alaric to the nearest sofa—a long, white leather sectional. I dump him onto it. He groans, clutching his shoulder. Blood is seeping through the layers of bandages, through his clothes, staining the white leather crimson. He is pale. So pale.
"Water," he whispers.
I run to the kitchen. The tap works. I fill a glass. I run back. He drinks greedily, spilling half of it down his chin. "We need... to stop the bleeding," he says, his eyes finding mine. "The sutures... tore."
"I don't have the kit. We left it in the tunnel."
"There is... a supply cache. Master bathroom. Under the vanity."
I run. The bathroom is black marble. Huge. I find the cache. It’s better than the car kit. It has IV fluids. Saline. Blood bags? No. Just saline. I grab everything. I run back.
I cut his shirt open. The wound is a mess. My neat stitching from the cabin has ripped open. The flesh is angry, swollen. He needs a surgeon. A real one. He needs a transfusion.
"I can't fix this," I say, my voice trembling. "Alaric, you need blood. You've lost too much."
He looks at me. He looks at my arm—the one the dog bit. "You're O Negative," he whispers.
I freeze. "How do you know?" "I read your file. I know... everything... about you." He reaches out with a shaking hand. "I'm A Positive. Universal recipient. You can... give to me."
"A direct transfusion?" I ask, horrified. "Here? On a couch?"
"Field transfusion," he nods. "There are kits in the bag. Tubing. Needles. Gravity does the rest." He stares at me, his eyes burning with that last reserve of will. "Feed me, Elodie. Give me your life."
It is monstrous. It is vampiric. It is the most intimate thing he has ever asked of me. And I don't hesitate.
I rip open the transfusion kit. I find the tubing. I tie the tourniquet around my own arm. I find the vein in the crook of my elbow. It’s easy. I have pianist’s veins—prominent, strong. I shove the needle in. I hiss at the pinch. Dark red blood fills the tube. I tie the other tourniquet around Alaric’s good arm. I find his vein. I insert the needle.
