"Someone has to lead the dogs away," Nyx says. She hands me a backpack. "Supplies. Meds. Cash. Burner phones. Go. I’ll drive the van into the river on the east side. Buy you a ghost window."
I look at her. The nurse with the dead eyes. "Why?" I ask.
She looks at Alaric, who is swaying on his feet, leaning heavily against the van wall. "Because he pays well," she says dryly. "And because I hate politicians." She slams the van doors. "Move."
I wrap my arm around Alaric’s waist. He loops his good arm over my shoulders. "Walk," I command him. "One foot. Then the other."
We stumble across the gravel. The train is a massive, groaning beast of steel, stretching endlessly into the dark. The engine is already revving, building pressure. The cars jolt forward.Clank.Then stop. Then jolt again. It’s starting to move.
"Boxcar 7," I count. One. Two. Three. The train picks up speed. We are running now. Or shambling. Alaric is dragging his feet. "I can't..." he gasps. "Elodie... go..."
"Shut up!" I scream at him. "Grab the handle!"
We reach the open door of the boxcar. It’s moving at a jogger’s pace. I shove him toward it. He reaches up with his left hand, grabbing the rusted iron bar. He tries to pull himself up, but he has no strength. He dangles there, his boots dragging in the gravel. I grab his legs. "Pull!" I yell. I heave him up. He groans, a sound of pure agony, and rolls onto the wooden floor of the car. I run alongside, grabbing the handle, and swing myself in just as the train lurches into speed.
We are inside. The darkness wraps around us. The rhythmicclack-clack... clack-clackof the wheels becomes our heartbeat. We are leaving the city. We are leaving the ruins of the Obsidian Tower. We are exiles.
The boxcar smells of straw, old grain, and grease. It is drafty, the wind whistling through gaps in the wood slats, but it is dry. I use the flashlight from the backpack to scan the space. It’s empty, save for a few pallets in the corner. I drag the pallets together to make a platform. I cover them with a thermal blanket from the pack.
"Alaric," I say, kneeling beside him. He hasn't moved from where he rolled. He is lying face down on the dirty floor. "We have to move you."
He doesn't answer. I turn him over gently. His head lolls back. His skin is burning hot again. The infection is fighting a war against the antibiotics, and the torture has weakened his defenses. I drag him onto the makeshift bed. I sit back on my heels, looking at him.
He is a mess. Thorne’s men didn't just beat him. They worked on him. His shirt is torn to ribbons. Through the gaps, I see burns. Cigarette burns? Taser marks? His wrists are raw circles of red meat where the chains dug in. And his shoulder... the dressing is gone, ripped away during the escape. The wound is angry, weeping fresh blood.
I open the medical kit Nyx packed. It’s comprehensive. Better than the car kit. "Okay," I whisper to myself. "Surgical precision."
I cut his clothes off. I have to. They are filthy. I strip him naked. The sight of his body—usually so powerful, so perfect—breaks my heart. Bruises bloom across his ribs in shades of violet and black. There is a deep laceration on his thigh. His knuckles are shattered. He looks like a fallen god. A statue toppled by vandals.
I take a bottle of antiseptic. "This is going to burn," I whisper, though he can't hear me. I pour it over his chest. He flinches in his unconscious state, a low hiss escaping his teeth. I clean theburns. I clean the cuts. I stitch the thigh wound. My hands are steady. The tremor is gone. It died in the factory when I pulled the trigger.
I move to his shoulder. It’s a mess. The bullet wound is infected, but the bleeding has slowed. I flush it. I pack it with fresh gauze. I wrap it tight.
Then I attend to his wrists. I apply salve to the raw skin. I wrap them in soft gauze. I hold his hand for a moment. The large, calloused hand that played Rachmaninoff. The hand that pleasured me. The hand that killed for me. I kiss his palm. I taste the salt of his sweat and the metallic tang of the iodine.
"I've got you," I promise him. "I'm the Keeper now."
I cover him with the remaining blankets. I turn off the flashlight to save the battery. The moonlight slices through the open door of the boxcar, strobing as we pass trees and telephone poles. I sit with my back against the wall, the HK416 rifle across my lap. I watch the door. I watch the night.
I am exhausted. My body aches in places I didn't know existed. My feet are blistered. My arm throbs. But I cannot sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Thorne’s head snapping back. I see the light go out of his eye. I see the blood on my hands.
I killed a Senator. I killed a tactical team. I am a murderer. A terrorist. The most wanted woman in the state. And I don't care. I feel... light. Unburdened. The expectations are gone. The pressure of the conservatory is gone. The weight of my father’s disappointment is gone. There is only survival. And him.
Hours pass. The train slows, winding through a mountain pass. The air gets colder. Alaric stirs. "Water," he croaks.
I scramble over to him. I lift his head and hold a bottle to his lips. He drinks. He coughs. He opens his eyes. They are hazy, unfocused, but they find me. "Elodie," he whispers.
"I'm here."
He tries to lift his hand to touch me, but he’s too weak. His hand falls back onto the blanket. A look of pure devastation crosses his face. "I couldn't..." he chokes out. "I couldn't... stop them."
"Shh."
"They touched you," he says, his voice rising in panic. "At the factory... did they touch you?"
"No," I lie. "I didn't let them close enough."
"I was helpless," he confesses, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. "I hung there... and I listened to the guns... and I couldn't protect you." He turns his face away, hiding his shame. "I failed. The Director... failed."
