Time stretches afterward. I can’t measure any of it accurately.
Lix stays close, his arm firm around my shoulders when my balance, even when sitting, wavers.
Stan crouches in front of me, repeating assurances that try to reach me.
But I keep replaying the chess match I had with Idris instead. The arrangement of pieces. The way Idris guided the game. The moveshe let me make. How he let me win while I paid no heed.
I should have listened to him more closely. I should have asked him what he meant. I should have noticed something was wrong before Darius cut into him. The pattern feels obvious now, assembling itself too late. There were other moments too, when Set said “slow down” and when Idris shared his worries about Darius with me. Pieces I didn’t question. Gaps of information I simply accepted.
I catalog them compulsively now, going over every detail that led to this very moment, where my heart’s hammering so hard that I can no longer pay attention to anything else.
Damon’s arrival tears my thoughts apart. He’s speaking quickly about how Set’s staff returned, how they helped Set and Darius escape, but Damon placed trackers on their cars before they left the estate.
I nod as if I’m filing it all away into my overstuffed mind.
A door opens. A doctor steps out and looks around, scanning until her gaze finds us. “Would you like to see him?” she asks.
My breath leaves me all at once.
We follow the doctor down the corridor.
Idris’ room smells sterile and is far too bright. Machines drone around his bed. Tubes run where they shouldn’t need to, monitoring what can’t be trusted to function on its own. He looks weak lying there, color drained, lashes dark against his cheeks. But he’s alive. His heart monitor says so.
Damon stops at the door. So does Stan. Lix hesitates for a second, squeezing my hand before stepping back with them.
I move to the bedside, careful and aware of every sound I make. I take Idris’ hand. It’s thankfully warm, his pulse faint but pumping blood efficiently enough.
His fingers grip mine. The movement seems to be more effort than strength, but it draws my full focus.
Idris’ eyes open, though they struggle to stay that way. It takes time for them to find me. When they do, his brow creases, relief flickering there, even when fatigue drags at it.
“Em,” he says.
My name scrapes out of him. He swallows afterward, breath shallow, chest rising with effort.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “Spare your energy, Idris. You don’t have to speak.”
He winces when a laugh leaves him. “I do, sparingly.”
My shoulders lower. I’m certain he’d prefer to be able to speak, so as my eyes trace the line of his IV, I find the button that pumps in more painkillers into his system.
To distract him for a moment, my hand in his moves to his chest, where sure enough, there’s hard metal where his heart should be. My other hand glides by his side, clicking the release of more painkillers that will help him get through the next while.
I wait for his words, even though I want to counter that we can talk at another time. But then I recall the regret I had a mere moment ago, how I wished I listened to him. So I intend to do that now.
His eyes drift shut for a moment before opening again. His pupils turn into near-pinpoints, a sign that the painkiller’s working through his system.
“Set,” he says, voice thin. “He’s been harvesting organs. Renowned surgeon, so he gets away with it.”
I keep still. My breathing becomes heavier as if my body is bracing for impact.
“He wants hearts,” Idris says. “Compatible ones.”
My breath stutters. I feel it catch high in my chest.
“Suspect his is failing,” he finishes.
The pieces come together slowly. When they do, the weight of it presses down behind my ribs. “His heirs,” I whisper.
