Zola has her face nestled against my back. I can feel her little chest pounding.
—He’s two miles down the forest road—
Two miles? That’ll take less than a minute.
And lo and behold, up ahead, through the thick curtain of pine, I see a faint glow of car lights.
I burst out of the treeline like a myth coming to life. River is leaning against his car and looks like he’s about to shit himself.
Not surprised. I’m four legs with a heartbeat of pure thunder.
"Donovan?" he gasps, clutching the hood.
"Who else could pull off a stallion like this?" I say, carefully lowering to the ground, so Zola can dismount. Deciding River looks a little overwhelmed by my magnificence, I shift back to human-Dono.
The dude is still gaping like a goldfish.
“Get it together, Bloomhower. This is Zola…” I open the back door of his sedan, place her inside and make sure she’s buckled up. I notice River has a box of snacks and a blanket on the back seat.
Good job, buddy.
“We’ll try and keep in touch as much as possible, Zee,” I tell her, ruffling her hair. “And once it’s safe, let's have a date. We can go birdwatching and look for queenfishers, sound good?”
She smiles and nods. “Please,” she whispers.
“Now, be a good kid for Mr. and Mrs. Bloomhower, but don’t let them boss you around too much.” I shut the door then pat the roof of the car. “Get going, and let us know as soon as she’s safely there.”
River nods, his face set with determination, but still mixed with a little shock.
As the car speeds away, Zola looks back through the rear window, and waves the wooden bird at me.
I wave back, then exhale, feeling a little exhausted if I’m telling the truth.
—She’s clear— I think out to the group —The princess-fisher has flown the nest.—
21
Ashaft of morning sunlight wakes me.
I sit up and stretch, noting the scents of the sickbay: disinfectant and the sour, rotting tang of black magic.
Wes’s heart monitor beeps in a steady rhythm, but Wes himself is on shaky ground.
Last night, he stopped responding to all stimuli. The healers are murmuring about brain death.
I don’t believe he’s in a vegetative state; I think whatever his parents did has forced Wes to retreat so deep into his mind that he’s become unfindable.
Except, perhaps, to one person.
The morning-shift healer bustles in and immediately begins unhooking wires.
“What’s going on?” I ask, getting to my feet. “Why are you unhooking him?”
“We’ve orders to move him to a satellite infirmary in Electus Tower.” Her mouth is set in a hard line. “The Conclave wants Elite patients segregated from Ordinarii and remedial kids.”
I don’t blame her for the scowl. A sick person is a sick person, regardless of hierarchy.
But as I watch her work, I realize the Conclave’s elitism is finally playing in our favor. Getting Theo into an Electus sickbay will be a hell of a lot easier than smuggling her into here.
