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“And, uh, if you do happen to see him …” His voice drops to match mine. “You tell him that Antonio is looking for him.”

They finally go, but I don’t relax until I hear the car start again and pull away.

“They’re looking for Sasha, aren’t they?” Queenie asks.

“Yes.” My pulse quickens. “And they’re never going to find him.”

CHAPTER

EIGHT

SASHA

Wilde introduces me to Booker, then turns on his heel and leaves. I watch his large frame duck out the front door, then turn slowly to Booker. “That was weird.”

He unfurls a slow smile my way. “Not really.”

“Aren’t you friends?”

“Not really.”

I drop his steady gaze and take in the room instead. There’s a small table with two chairs by a door to another room, but the rest of the space is all medical equipment. It looks like every doctor’s office I’ve ever visited.

“If you’ve come to ask me to hurry up in my decision, Lynx beat you to it,” he says. “And he’s far more intimidating than you are.” Great. If Lynx can’t even make him agree to trade himself for a mechanic, I’ll probably be stuck here for a while.

“No, Wilde just said I should know who you are.”

“Why?” His brown eyes run over me. “You planning on getting hurt a lot?”

“No.”

The interest in his gaze fades. “Pity.”

That’s the most undoctor-like response I’ve ever heard. “Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Booker doesn’t answer me, just goes on staring. I pretend like it’s not creepy and pace around like I’m curious about all his equipment. And I am, in a way. The way the medical system is that line between life and death pulls to me in a morbid way that I know isn’t healthy. Like most of my fascinations.

“I don’t have insurance anyway,” I tell him as I run my fingers over the medical bed. “If I hurt myself, I’d just suffer through it.”

He’s still staring. “Wilde’s End operates under a universal system. I don’t charge for my services.”

“That doesn’t sound smart.”

He shrugs and looks away. “I don’t need money.”

“What do you need?”

Like most people I’ve spoken to here, I expect him to be evasive, especially after the long pause. But when he answers me, it’s clear he was actually thinking of the answer. “Knowledge.”

“Don’t you go to college for that?”

“Not the knowledge I’m after.”

A small laugh bubbles from me. “That’s cryptic.”