I hope Zara picks up the cups before they leave water stains.
That’s all the time and energy I give to the manipulators and abusers who hurt me and Striker and the people we cared about so badly.
Those abusers deserve not one more thought from me.
I rise up into the night, preparing my heart for tomorrow.
36. PEYTON PRICE
At midday the next day, I find myself standing beside one of the dark gray lampposts at the entrance to Saber Lane, a street where the buildings hail from different time periods.
I’ve arrived later than I planned.
On my way, I stopped at a thrift shop to get myself a new T-shirt and jeans since the ones I have are blood-stained.
Before I left the old cabin, I tried to brush my hair, but it’s too matted from months of neglect, so I pulled it into a bun instead. My snakes don’t mind. They’re happily curled up within the bun like it’s their own bird’s nest.
I sense the watching eyes along the lane, which is paved and wide, a passageway for people rather than vehicles.
I’m certain that the empath who lives in the diner across the way will have sought some kind of a protective spell in anticipation of my visit. My pain hurt him when I first came here, but it was his compassion that saved me.
In the distance, I make out the bookstore where Hunter and Slade live and, nearby, the apothecary that appears to hail from the 1800s. A dryad lives in the 1950s-style bakery on one side of the street, and I wonder if he’s met Lucinda yet and?—
Damn, why is it so fucking hard to take a step forward right now?
Why are there so many fears crowding into my mind?
So many doubts—not about needing to see Striker, I’m certain of that—but doubting he would want me here when he has no agency, no power to decide for himself, and he’s at his most vulnerable.
I tell myself that if I get any kind of sense that I’m overstepping boundaries, I’ll leave.
With that thought firmly in my mind, I step through the wash of the protective magic at the entrance to the Lane and toward the brownstone on the corner where Tanzanina Grey lives.
I’ve barely knocked when she opens the door, her black dress swishing around her legs.
“Peyton,” she greets me. “Come in.”
“Blessings on your power and your home,” I say as I step inside.
She smiles and gestures me up the stairs. “It’s good to see you.”
I nearly miss a step. “Is it?”
“It is.”
She isn’t lying. Some of my tension eases as she directs me up the staircase and to the right. The door is slightly ajar, but I hesitate, listening to the rhythmic beeping of a machine, a sound I wasn’t expecting.
“The Legion supplied all of the medical apparatuses,” Tansy explains, her voice low, her hand on the door as she pauses beside me. “So that we can monitor him. But the medicine hydrating him and sustaining his body is a unique mix of magical potions specifically created to feed him and his hellhound.”
Still, she pauses. “I want you to be prepared. It’s hard seeing someone you care about like this.”
I nudge the door open and step inside.
It’s homey and warm. If it wasn’t for the medical bed, the machine beside it, and the pole holding the intravenous fluids, it would be a really comfortable bedroom. Far cozier than any room I suspect Striker would have ever rested in.
He’s covered in a cotton blanket up to his waist, wearing a shirt that buttons up the front and looks to be made out of soft material. His arms are at his sides, his hands resting outside the blanket.
His eyes are closed, his face is pale, and his hair is longer than it was when we were in the maze, so I guess it grew. It’s messier, too.
