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A slow tingle began to spread in my limbs. I shook out my arms and adjusted my stance to help my blood flow. What was taking Mills so long? My mouth was drying up like a smoker’s skin with every breath.

And then, everything spiraled.

I gripped a numbing hand to my constricting chest as I struggled to force air into my vacuous lungs. My innards heated with each passing second. They were ablaze, every nerve-ending feeling singed.

Finally, Mills slid the tumbler of apple pie moonshine down the bar to me, his brows pinched in concern. “Thanks,” I wheezed out before I guzzled down the liquid fire to sate the severe thirst. It didn’t help. Given Mills’s worried expression, I assumed I looked as shitty as I felt.

Tunnel vision threatened to close in, while my head felt like it was in a vacuum. My muscles turned to mush, making standing an intense challenge as I barely held on to the bartop with my declining strength.

I cursed to myself as my knees buckled. Twenty-four hours hadn’t even passed since I was stabbed and recovered from the injury. What was happening to me?

My ears rang, blocking out the music and boisterous revelers. The beat morphed into my desperate pulse that throbbed in my ears, pounding the death knell of my fading life force. A hard surface slammed into my kneecaps before it caught my face. My body was numb, but like on the train, my insides felt like they were being incinerated.

I was blind, and the only sound I heard was the hammering in my head. All I could do was focus on slowing my labored breathing as panic set in. Every time I tried to grasp onto a single thought, it slipped from my reach, leaving me wheezing for its return.

I caught distorted and muffled voices through the beating drums in my ears. “Gray…” I heard. “Help me get her, Cotton…” It was difficult to place the familiar voice, mainly because it sounded like it was melting.

The darkness once again tried to claim me with a vicious snatch to its depths—more determined this time. It wouldn’t fail; its willpower was potent. The shadows’ claws sank into my soul and yanked, not before I heard a melting voice drip the words, “She was poisoned by the king.”

Chapter 7

Griffin

“Be ready.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I drawled, taking in the deserted cityscape around us where lichen climbed the buildings. We stood between decaying skyscrapers, shielded by the shade from the setting sun. Both of our hoods were pulled far over our faces, blocking us from anyone’s view.

The man next to me snorted. “She’s gonna breeze right by here, completely oblivious to her surroundings. She’ll be sporadic, so watch out,” he said as if he knew her, as if he’d trained with the princess in the past.

I knew I should’ve remembered him—trusted him, even. I understood he was important to the plan, and I was aware of what his current role was, but trying to place him from the past and his significance to the part he played today was like trying to grasp air as more memories faded.

I’d received a message that morning indicating a rendezvous point in the alley between the former banking and telecommunications buildings. The madness nearly pulled me under as I had wracked my brain for hours trying to recognize the sender of the message. It seemed like the harder I tried to place him in my memories, the more my mind threatened to fracture for good. The sharp pain slicing through my skull was enough to bring me to my knees, my palms grasping my head.

As I stood next to him now, one thing was for sure: the familiar stranger was a Kinetic.

“Valik wanted me to assure you to have patience. Once everything…”

“What are you talking about?”Valik?I kept my focus straight ahead, staring at the deserted street with weeds growing up through the cracks. A worn shoe lay discarded a few feet away from a hunk of metal on the sidewalk.

“You know…” the man said, apprehension lacing his tone, “with your situation…”

No. I had no idea. “Be more specific,” I snapped.

“Shit. Never mind, man,” he said as if this was information I should know. Was he talking about my affliction? No one knew about that, so I doubted that was the case. Another surge of frustration heated my chest at the loss of memories. Deciding not to push the issue, he added, “Just hurry. I’ll do what I can to help speed things along and get her out here sooner.”

I nodded. “Yeah, do that. I’m ready to go home.” Damn, I missed the serenity of the Hollow. It eased my suffering just enough to be able to hide my spiraling from everyone.

“Just stay out of sight and do what you gotta do. Everything’s at stake.”

With only a nod, I kicked off the wall I had been leaning against and strode away to lie in wait for the princess.

Several hours passed as I hid in an abandoned hookah shop nestled within the city six blocks from the King’s Palace. The blue couch was stiff, dusty, and ridden with bullet holes—pretty sure that was dried blood to my left, too. I leaned forward on the splintered wooden table. It offered enough of a flat surface to get the job done.

After swiping off the dust and debris, I lined up the white powder along the blade of a knife with unsteady hands. I took the wooden straw I’d keptfrom the Hollow—made by some of the earth wielders who specialized in wood—and snorted a third line within a five-minute span. A numbness swelled in my chest, face, and mind as relief then adrenaline flooded me, pushing the affliction aside. My only thoughts consisted of getting the princess and going home—and killing the king. It seemed the only reprieve I could get from my spiraling state was resorting to extreme measures.

The voice was still there, chattering away in the background, but for now, a barrier blocked him from my central focus, acting as a temporary band-aid. The powder clouded the unwanted thoughts while defining the notions I needed to sort through.

Taking a deep breath, I hummed on the exhalation, savoring the brief euphoria that warmed my chest. I sank back into the couch, relaxing my muscles and slumping low into the stiff cushion. A low chuckle rumbled from my diaphragm. It built and built, rising to hit the peak of hysterical laughter. I gripped my stomach from the cramp, but it only fueled me to laugh harder.