The voices are getting closer. Deep, authoritative. Official.
“Fuck.” Evander drops his instruments, crosses the room in three strides, and slams the lock home on the door. “They’re here already.”
My stomach drops. “Who’s here?”
Evander whips around, his face grim. “Listen, Robin.” His voice drops to an urgent whisper. “We’ve got maybe twenty seconds. There are people here to see you, probably the head game architect and the Emperor’s high commander. Both awful, powerful men.”
“Who?” I ask stupidly, as if it really matters.
“They’re probably trying to find out what happened. We need to convince them Marco was in the right. Else they won’t hesitate to have him killed.”
“What?” I try to sit up, but Evander shoves me back down.
“So you need to lie down, shut the fuck up, and let me handle this.”
The footsteps are right outside now. Multiple voices, getting louder.
“But—”
“Shut up.” Evander’s eyes are wild, desperate. His fingers dig into my shoulder. “You are now basically dead. You are in a coma. Do you understand me?”
“I—”
“Lie down and shut your fucking eyes! Coma! Got it?”
I nod, heart beating impossibly fast. “Okay.”
I collapse back onto the table, force my breathing to slow.Coma. Coma. Coma.I squeeze my eyes shut, then let every muscle in my body go slack.
The lock rattles. Someone pounds on the door.
“Open up! Emperor’s orders!”
Evander takes a shaky breath, then unlocks the door.
Multiple feet burst through. Five men. Maybe six.
“We’re here for Robin Shore.”
“He’s here.” Evander’s voice is steady now, professional. “But as you can see, he won’t be able to talk to you.”
A different voice, colder. Older. “We’ll see about that. The Emperor has been fed a tall tale, by the sounds of it.”
“What tale?” Evander steps closer to my table—I feel his presence like a shield. “Robin was brought to me several hours ago, half dead. We have no idea who attacked him. Who sabotaged today’s match. I presume a full investigation is being launched?”
A scoffing sound. “Players play their match no matter what condition they’re in. You know that.”
“But he’s unconscious,” Evander says. “He’s in a coma. That wouldn’t have made for a very interesting match, would it? Thank goodness Marco had the sense to quickly save the match, else there would be hundreds of thousands of disappointed citizens today.”
“He was fine yesterday,” the man says, suspicious.
From across the room, Cas speaks up, his voice tight with pain and contempt. “Yes… he was fine…yesterday…” His tone drips condescension, like he’s talking to a child. “And then someone beat him to a pulp. I saw Marco carry him in here, barely breathing. He couldn’t even stand. It’s only thanks to Evander that he still has a pulse.”
“Caspian, on this occasion, is correct,” Evander confirms.
Silence stretches between them all. I force my breathing to stay shallow, even. The weight of multiple gazes burns through my closed eyelids.
“You say he’s in a coma?” That voice. Why is that voice familiar?
