I scramble for it, hands splashing in shallow puddles. The second my fingers fumble over it, I’m feeling along the metal for the switch.
I flick it—and spin around to swerve the beam of white light over the road.
I expect Samick to be standing there.
But it’s Arwyn who’s towering in front of me. His back to me, he is a solid wall of ice, the ice that prickles over his hands, crisps along his fingers.
I tilt onto my side, submerged in a cold puddle, my lips already shuddering—and I see what’s coming up the road towards us.
Three fae stand with their backs to me.
Samick.
Mika.
Shark.
But there are others. Three more.
The shadows that were racing away from the earthquake weren’t just fleeing, they were chasing us—and now, they come to a stop on the road, puddles at their boots.
A fae with a ribbed scar twisting over his mouth, like his lips have been sewn together, a permanent snarl I’ve noticed around the unit.
Then the one who looks like that orange drink, Fanta, if it were a fae. Bright orange hair, eyes to match, and so many pale brown freckles that his face looks like fizz.
But the one who hooks my gaze—and the aim of my torchlight—is the one who bolts my heart to my chest.
The one who freezes me.
Rust.
The raging flare of his gaze is locked onto me.
It pins me to the asphalt.
I can’t look away.
I’m stuck, rooted to the road.
Rage curls his lips into something feral.
Still staring me down, he shouts and points a jagged black dagger right at me.
A chill ripples down my spine.
His words prickle through the cold, sharp air. That unfamiliar language I don’t understand, sounds I can’t make with my own throat—but I get the gist of it.
Hand her over.
Give her up.
She’s nothing.
I swallow back a lump in my throat, then turn my watering gaze on Samick.
He stands tall against the threat.
Rain hangs in the air like a mist, stagnant, and it glistens his leathers against the spanning darkness, an ocean rippling at night.
