My thoughts are stewing and rotting and twisting when, far ahead, a red bulb appears in the dark.
It starts as small as a firefly against a black sky—then it grows. Like fire. Like flames eating another part of our world.
The more it grows, the slower we move.
Samick’s solid arm shoves into me, redirecting me, and our soft bootsteps go in a new direction.
Must be another unit.
Another town burning.
And for whatever reason, we’re avoiding it.
I’m steered back into darkness.
I’ve learned to predict the gradual slowing down of our walk in the dark, and usually it comes with the raising of torch flames.
But we’re not with the unit, so there are no flames that magically ignite before the sound of boots hit what sounds like stone steps.
Hours and hours of walking, and finally we’re stopping.
The door groans shut behind me, and only then do I flick on the torch.
I’m greeted by an old hotel lobby.
Red carpet, old brown wooden panels climbing up the papered walls, lampshades that probably house a thousand dust mites each, and the musty smell.
My nose crinkles against it.
But my throat tickles.
I slip out the inhaler from my pocket and take a precautionary puff, just in case the old stale air in here, the smell of the leather seats older than me, burrows forever into my damaged lungs.
My cheeks puff with a slight cough. I hide it in the crook of my arm.
Arwyn starts up the staircase for what I guess is a sweep of the place. Samick goes through the double doors on the left.
It’s a hotel, so they might be a while.
It’s a break I’m glad for.
I don’t want Samick around right now. Or Arwyn. I want Mika, alone, because she talks too much.
I need her to talk to me without the ears of others around.
With a long sigh, Mika peels the strap off her shoulder and lets her bag hit the floor.
She rolls her shoulder against invisible tension—a tension I feel in my own shoulders with my bag straps digging into me all the time.
But I keep mine on for now and ask, “Is Arwyn really your brother?”
Loose down her back, her sharp, glacier hair glares in the torchlight. It bounces the light onto the old, scratched counter.
If she’s surprised by my sudden question, she doesn’t show it. She just rolls that shoulder over and over. “Brother. Yes.”
I wander to the service counter. “But you’re not the same kind of fae.”
Slowly, she angles to face me—turning more as I draw closer to the desk. “Not same.”
