The next time he woke, he was shivering. He’d kicked off the blanket, and the sweat drying on his skin had chilled him down to his bones. His throat was raw and burning, and his mouth tasted truly foul.
He almost reached for the glass of water he kept beside his bed in Bryn’s cottage… but then he remembered.
He remembered his plan, coming to London, Gordon’s house, the Shadows trapping him, struggling to get free. But then nothing. The Council had captured him before he even got into the house. It would have been embarrassing if it wasn’t so devastating.
He opened his eyes and sat up gingerly. He was in a strange room. The curtains were closed, leaving him in semidarkness, although a chink of light shining through them suggested it was still daytime. The bed and nearby desk and chair were solid and practical, neutral in creams and grays and polished oak. But the room was still spinning slowly. And everything was surrounded by undulating Shadow auras that flickered in and out of his vision.
James shook his head slowly, trying to clear it without making his pounding headache any worse. Half-remembered dreams of Riley flying—her auburn hair streaming out behind her, haloed by golden sunlight—flashed through his mind. But he let them float away. She was safe in Wales, and he was used to dreaming of her and having to let her go when he woke.
Was he in Gordon’s house? It made sense that the Council would have dragged him inside. This room seemed nice enough, but, if he was being honest, he would have expected something rather more opulent. More in your face. This was a bit too plain and sturdy. Maybe the Council had taken him to a different safe house? Or one of their own homes? Or… God. He really could be anywhere.
He blinked away the disorienting flicker at the corners of his vision and tried to control his rising panic.
What had the Council done with him after they caught him? Had they already…. Bitterness rushed up his throat along with the sudden desperate fear of just what could have happened while he was unconscious.
He flung out a hand and twisted his shaking fingers, working to drag his Shadows into his palm. If they were gone—if he’d been Shadow stripped—he didn’t want to know. He didn’t think he could bear it… but he had to. He had to find out. Not knowing was its own torture.
His Shadows responded sluggishly, stuttering into a misshapen ball. James curled his hand around them and slumped in relief. He still had his Shadows.
But then a new thought struck him, and he lurched back up. Did that mean the Council could use his blood?
James lifted his arms, checking them frantically for puncture wounds or signs that they’d already taken what they wanted. Searching for the moving bruises, the darkness under his skin that would warn him of blood Shadows.
There was nothing. Thank fuck.
The poison he’d taken had done its job and protected him this far. How much longer they’d leave him to sleep, he had no idea. He had to figure out exactly where he was and whether Gordon was here—without being seen—and finally, take this chance to make things right.
He could do this. He sat on the edge of the bed, taking calming breaths as the spinning slowed to a gentle tilt, and assessed his resources. His knife was gone. Someone had also taken his shoes, leaving him in jeans, a T-shirt, and socks. He’d left his phone behind at Bryn’s house, and his pockets were empty.
He stood slowly, balancing with one hand on the bed until he was confident he wouldn’t fall, and then looked around more thoroughly. The room he was in was fairly spartan. A glance in the drawers showed they were empty. He risked a quick peek behind the curtain to see a small garden filled with summer flowers and swathed in late afternoon shadows. The garden was overlooked by neighboring houses on either side and at the back. Even in the fading light, it was clear they were in a row of nondescript suburban houses. He definitely wasn’t in Belgravia anymore.
Nothing about this place felt like Gordon. It was too neutral. Too generic. It didn’t make sense, but it also didn’t matter where he was. The people here meant him nothing but harm.
His muscles ached as if he’d run a marathon, his head was throbbing, and his mouth tasted like something had died in it, but he couldn’t stay.
His heart rate picked up, and a new line of sweat broke out over his forehead, but he ignored his discomfort, focusing on dragging his Shadows into his hands. He needed a weapon desperately.
Dark memories flickered through his mind. Gang members in hoodies crowded into a bus stop. Teenage boys hunched over a box of fireworks and blood. His Shadows twisted into ropes to—
God. He couldn’t bear it. And he didn’t have time to suffocate within those memories now.
He forced them out of his mind and concentrated on his broken Shadows, weaving them into a pair of short stabbing knives. He couldn’t rely on his shuriken, and in a strange way, these blades soothed him. His Shadows were frayed, and the daggers were bent and misshapen, but they reminded him of Kay, and thinking of his friend helped.
He gripped them tightly as he crept to the bedroom door and pressed his ear against it. There was only silence.
Was there a guard waiting on the other side? He sent a ragged tendril of Shadow out into the hall. He didn’t have nearly the skill Riley had, but he couldn’t sense anyone nearby…. which wouldn’t mean anything if the door was warded.
Fuck. He would just have to risk it.
He let one dagger fade for a moment and pressed down on the door handle, expecting to be caught at any moment. When nothing happened, he opened the door a crack and listened carefully. Voices rumbled from somewhere down the hallway. The discussion was too quiet for him to make out any specific words or recognize any voices.
The sensible thing would be to go in the opposite direction to those voices and keep going. But his room was at the end of the house; there was nothing but a wall in that direction.
He snuck down the corridor, trying to cling to the walls. He passed several closed doors, and he listened briefly at each one, sending out his tattered Shadows to look for other people and never finding anyone.
At each new door, he took a shaking breath, gripped his dagger tightly, and looked inside. Bedroom after bedroom. Two bathrooms. All of the rooms were neutrally decorated in creams and grays. And all of them had double-glazed windows that were securely locked. No keys to be found. Clearly, someone had gone through the house to secure it. Which didnotmake him feel any better.
He could try to smash a window—but that had to be a last resort. Far better to sneak out without calling a pack of Guardians down on his head.
