The endearing comment nurses a flicker of remorse in me, but I quickly bat it away and make a show of looking down at the wet spots on my scrubs.
“It’s okay,” I offer, fighting back a laugh as one of the cleaning drones vacuums too close to the end of the gnome’s neckbeard and starts to suck it up. “I’ll go get dried off and be right back.”
I leave the poor guy fighting to reclaim his facial hair, and head for the bathroom. Exhilaration quickly dams up all the stress, worry, and heartache I’ve been wading through. Just like escaping the hospital, that was easier than I thought it would be.
I have to keep myself from running for the bathroom as I slip the pilfered com bracelet onto my wrist. The door to the ladies room squeals noisily when I pull it open, and by some small miracle, there’s no one else inside. Hastily, I open the closest stall, my heart hammering as I lock the flimsy door behind me and tap open a line on the com screen.
A transparent keyboard floats above the magi-tech on my wrist, and I hurry to scribe in the number I’ve repeated to myself like a mantra for the past four months, hoping one day I’d be calling it again.
The keypad disappears and a holoscreen flashes into place. Three dots appear in the center as the call tries to connect, and I start to pace in the stall.
Two steps, turn. Two steps, turn.
Pressing a shaky hand to my mouth, I breathe through the rush of desperate anticipation that floods my system. The com screen disappears and the keyboard pops back up in its place, indicating that the call wasn’t answered. I rush to dial the number again, my heart feeling like it might explode in my chest when the three dots on the screen appear once more.
“Come on, Enslee. I know you don’t know the number, but answer it anyway.”
For a second time, the com screen drops away and the keypad appears. I swallow down a frustrated growl and just barely stop myself from punching the metal wall of the stall. Reining in my temper, I scribe in the number one last time, my mind whirring with what to do if she doesn’t answer.
The next phase of my plan relies heavily on someone picking up the burner com and helping me navigate a way to get back. Something, I’m realizing now, that might have been a bit delusional. I know better than anyone how careful we have to be.
It would be one thing if there was a Flight out in the field; a call from an unknown number might be expected then. But I guarantee that Enslee’s locked everything down after my Flight was ambushed. If she’s given up hope on me and Ren, they’d have no reason to be monitoring this line.
My chest aches as I watch the three dots on the screen. They do their rhythmic little dance as the call waits to connect, but it all feels like some cruel taunt. My stomach drops, knowing the screen is going to disappear at any moment, the call once again unanswered. My eyes start to sting as I wait for the keyboard to pop back up when suddenly the com screen chimes and a face appears.
“Who the fuck is this?” a gruff, no-nonsense voice barks, and as much as I try to stop it, emotion overwhelms me.
There were so many times I wondered if I’d ever hear any of their voices again, see their faces. He looks the same. Dark skin, black hair that’s twisted back from his face, scar bisecting one side of his hickory brown gaze.
“Craith,” I croak, my throat suddenly dry.
“Who the fuck is this?” he asks again, more menace in his tone as he leans closer to the com screen.
I realize that my video is aimed at my chest, and I quickly twist my wrist so the camera on the bracelet can capture my face.
“Craith, it’s Ever, I need Enslee,” I rush to tell him, fighting back all the sentiment trying to rush me even though there’s no time for it.
Craith’s eyes widen and he reels back from the screen like it’s threatening bodily harm. “Can’t be,” he whispers hollowly. “You’re dead.”
“Do dead people tell you to go fuck yourself?” I ask wryly, but there’s a flutter in my tone exposing the effect his statement has on me. I assumed they would think the worst. I guess I wasn’t as prepared to have my conjecture confirmed as I thought I was.
My response seems to slap Craith across the face with authenticity, and he rallies. “Get the queen,” he shouts at someone off-screen.
He must decide that’s not good enough, because he starts running, the com screen bouncing around as he sprints to wherever Enslee must be.
“Where are you? Are you okay? Is Ren with you? Are you compromised? What happened?”
I blow out a grateful breath, relieved that Craith is taking this seriously, that help isn’t as far off as I feared. I open my mouth to answer the barrage of questions, and then it hits me, I need to be very circumspect inhowI answer them.
I had a lot of time to think while I was stuck in a cell. Hours upon hours spent ruminating over how we were attacked. Endless minutes devoted to scouring through every detail of the night my Flight was taken by surprise and Ren and I paid the price. The only conclusion I’ve ever been able to come up with is that we were betrayed.
I’ve spit the vile taste of such a notion from my mouth more times than I can count, but the more I question it—the more I try to reject it and see some other possibility—the more reality sinks its razor-sharp talons into me.
We were set up.
What’s worse is that it would have been by someone very close and very trusted. Someone part of the inner circle. Someone whose loyalty is without question. And the problem is, I can’t figure out who, let alone why.
“Blood brokers,” I finally answer, addressing his last question first. The one he already knows the answer to but wants confirmed. “We were taken by a group of sorcai. I’m in some town called Lairwood, and…I’ve been better.”
