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He's looking at my mouth, and I'm close enough to see the faint orange glow beneath the skin of his throat. One of his arms is around my waist, his other hand still covering mine against his chest. I'm sitting sideways across his thighs, with my knees tucked against the arm of the chair.

All I'd have to do is lean up.

And holy shit, I want to.

There's a knock on the open door.

Kit stands there with a steaming mug. Behind her is William, his enormous wings folded close to fit through the hallway, a black first-aid bag in one clawed hand.

Merek looks toward the door, then back at me. For a second, neither of us moves.

Finally, he loosens his arm around my waist.

“Think you can stand?”

“Yeah.” I'm not sure I want to, but my legs are working again.

He helps me to my feet and takes the mug from Kit. Then he puts it in my hands.

“Drink that.” He turns to William. “Check her over. I need to look at the freezer door.”

He's gone before I can say anything.

William sets his bag on the desk and pulls up a chair.

“Sit,” he says.

I sit.

He examines my fingers, toes, and ears with careful, clinical attention. He makes me stand and walk to the door and back, then watches while I finish the tea. He doesn't say much, but when he presses two cool fingertips against my wrist to check my pulse, his jaw tightens.

“You can walk,” he says finally. “You can feel your hands. If either of those changes tonight, you come and find me. Not later. Then.”

“Okay.”

“Say it back to me.”

“If it changes, I come find you.” I almost smile. “Then.”

He nods, as though I’ve signed something.

It takes another twenty minutes before I can work my fingers properly. I sit in the desk chair with the space heater blowing on my shins and listen to the kitchen clatter on the other side of the wall.

When Merek comes back, he’s different.

I can’t say exactly how at first. He fills the doorway the same way, and his voice is the same when he asks how I’m feeling. But the ember lines under his skin have dimmed to a dark, banked red, almost black at the edges, and his tail isn’t moving at all. Every other time I’ve seen him, it’s been flicking or curling or tapping against something. Now it hangs perfectly still.

“What was wrong with it?” I ask.

“Bad linkage,” he says. “Old door. I’ve shut that whole corridor until it’s fixed.”

That makes sense. Old buildings break. The release didn’t work, and the outside handle didn’t work, and nobody heard me because the dish machine is loud. It’s a run of bad luck on a bad night. That’s all.

But he keeps watching me, and when Kit comes back to the door he says something to her too quietly for me to hear. She nods once and walks off fast.

My phone says eleven-forty. I have a dog in a car who’s been waiting for too long.

“I need some air,” I say.