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“Maybe you’re not so good at your job,Elivander.” I tug at my cuffs to get away.

He clenches his teeth, a low growl slipping through them as he pulls me into him, my fists against his abdomen. “It’s Eli.”

I look up at the loaded sky and back to him as the clouds finally give in. “Not to me.”Not out loud, and not as long as it keeps pissing you off.Rain scatters over our cheeks.

“Doesn’t your little boyfriend care when you trip and fall?”

I shove against his stomach, instantly regretting it at the feel of solid muscle, the way it affects me. “He’s my friend.”

“That’s it? Why? He doesn’t think you’re as fuckable as I do?”

I expect to see that smirk find his face, but his brows draw together instead, his jaw straining.

Why? Because…he’s Kelt.I could say that, but something about this man brings out the side of me that I let shrivel up, the side that doesn’t fear rejection or judgment, that fights back and crosses lines…the side of me that will burn down a house.

I give him a placating smile, braving the return of my hands to his belly and the warmth between my legs that comes with it. “He knows how fuckable I am, but his cock has some self-control, unlike yours.”

“That only makes him a pussy. And so does leaving you face down in the dirt.”

I’m still scrabbling for a response when Kelter glances over his shoulder at us and gives me a knowing look, but he doesn’t get it.

He can’t see me.

He doesn’t know I have visions, doesn’t know how many times I’ve watched him die and mourned the loss of my only friend. I’ve never told him. He’s only seen me on the outside, frozen or fallen on my ass with no explanation. He could tell I had another episode, as he calls them, because of all the times he’s been there with me—holding my hand, standing me up, cupping my cheek…and looking at me as though I’m broken, like all the rest. Even though it’s true. He doesn’t know that look, that pitying, sundering look, hurts worse than dying.

Chapter

Eight

With every step deeper into the village, my nerves heat, the unknown strumming them until they catch fire. It’s not only the open landscape that’s different. There are no rows of houses and businesses along the streets, no flashing traffic lights, no print shop to buy map paper, and worst of all, no aroma of roasting beans wafting out the propped-open door of a coffee shop like where I work. Orworked. I could always smell it from my room upstairs.

A few people in gray jumpsuits are out walking, and it seems that’s the only way to get around here.

“Welcome to the village,” Kaleida says, even though we’ve been in it for a while. She rises onto her toes in excitement and pride, gesturing to the scattered buildings, all facing differentdirections. “It’s nothing like it was before the Separation, but it’s still home.”

“Separation?” I ask and unstick my boot from the muddy path that winds between the dreary buildings, each one distractingly unique. Most are made from various types of raw stone, others with unfinished wood, crooked and leaning, as if built on an afternoon whim. Each one is only big enough to house a person or two with no space for a kitchen or living room, and definitely not a garage. None of the roofs match the supporting walls, as if tacked on as an afterthought. I try to see inside, but opaque glass covered with a constellation of scratches is fitted into every oddly shaped window.

Kelter walks with his head down, not bothering to look around. He must be as scared as I am to face the Centress.

Kaleida lets go of Kelt’s cuffs to fix her tied up bunch of curls. “Oh, you don’t know. The Separation—”

Eli groans and roughly pulls me along by my cuffs. “What are you running your mouth for again? Now we have to listen to one of her stories.”

“You love my stories, Eli.” Kaleida elbows him in the arm. Her round cheeks rise with her smile. “You remember them better than anyone, sometimes better than me.”

He huffs and pushes wet hair from his face. “Your prisoner, Kaleida.”

Kelt cocks his head toward Eli, flaring his nostrils before shoving his arms at Kaleida. Flipping one hand about as she talks, she takes hold of his cuffs with two fingers, as though that might restrain him.

“Why would you be willing to tell me?” I ask. She’s too nice, suspiciously so.

Her face scrunches. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because everyone else wants us dead,” Kelter answers for me.

“I didn’t grow up here with thesesavages.” She looks at Eli, grinning, then reaches up to tousle Kelter’s golden hair. “I’m a storyteller—the last one from the destroyed village of Lirica up north.”

A storyteller? That’s a thing?