Page 40

A t midday the next day, I find myself standing beside one of the dark gray lampposts at the entrance to Saber Lane, a street where the buildings hail from different time periods.

I’ve arrived later than I planned.

On my way, I stopped at a thrift shop to get myself a new T-shirt and jeans since the ones I have are blood-stained.

Before I left the old cabin, I tried to brush my hair, but it’s too matted from months of neglect, so I pulled it into a bun instead. My snakes don’t mind. They’re happily curled up within the bun like it’s their own bird’s nest.

I sense the watching eyes along the lane, which is paved and wide, a passageway for people rather than vehicles.

I’m certain that the empath who lives in the diner across the way will have sought some kind of a protective spell in anticipation of my visit. My pain hurt him when I first came here, but it was his compassion that saved me.

In the distance, I make out the bookstore where Hunter and Slade live and, nearby, the apothecary that appears to hail from the 1800s. A dryad lives in the 1950s-style bakery on one side of the street, and I wonder if he’s met Lucinda yet and?—

Damn, why is it so fucking hard to take a step forward right now?

Why are there so many fears crowding into my mind?

So many doubts—not about needing to see Striker, I’m certain of that—but doubting he would want me here when he has no agency, no power to decide for himself, and he’s at his most vulnerable.

I tell myself that if I get any kind of sense that I’m overstepping boundaries, I’ll leave.

With that thought firmly in my mind, I step through the wash of the protective magic at the entrance to the Lane and toward the brownstone on the corner where Tanzanina Grey lives.

I’ve barely knocked when she opens the door, her black dress swishing around her legs.

“Peyton,” she greets me. “Come in.”

“Blessings on your power and your home,” I say as I step inside.

She smiles and gestures me up the stairs. “It’s good to see you.”

I nearly miss a step. “Is it?”

“It is.”

She isn’t lying. Some of my tension eases as she directs me up the staircase and to the right. The door is slightly ajar, but I hesitate, listening to the rhythmic beeping of a machine, a sound I wasn’t expecting.

“The Legion supplied all of the medical apparatuses,” Tansy explains, her voice low, her hand on the door as she pauses beside me.

“So that we can monitor him. But the medicine hydrating him and sustaining his body is a unique mix of magical potions specifically created to feed him and his hellhound.”

Still, she pauses. “I want you to be prepared. It’s hard seeing someone you care about like this.”

I nudge the door open and step inside.

It’s homey and warm. If it wasn’t for the medical bed, the machine beside it, and the pole holding the intravenous fluids, it would be a really comfortable bedroom. Far cozier than any room I suspect Striker would have ever rested in.

He’s covered in a cotton blanket up to his waist, wearing a shirt that buttons up the front and looks to be made out of soft material. His arms are at his sides, his hands resting outside the blanket.

His eyes are closed, his face is pale, and his hair is longer than it was when we were in the maze, so I guess it grew. It’s messier, too.

A plush armchair sits beside the bed with a book resting on it.

“We take turns reading to him,” Tanzanina says, following my gaze to the book, “because too much silence isn’t good.”

Never let anyone silence you.

I clamp down hard on my lower lip, biting to stop the sadness welling within me.

“One of the Legion’s nurses comes every day to administer physical therapy to keep his muscles healthy and prevent bedsores.” Tanzanina talks as she heads to the drip and checks it. “I monitor the potions and, every day, I try new healing spells, but…”

She glances over at me, and her shoulders sink. She’s quiet for a moment before she says, “How about I give you some privacy?”

She glides to the door, but I call out softly before she can leave.

“Tansy?” It’s the first time I’ve called her by the name that her friends use, and I’m not sure if I’m allowed to, but I’m about to step into something I have no right stepping into, so I figure I can’t make it worse. “About Alexei Mason, the Master of the Dominion.”

Her expression instantly closes off, but she can’t hide her thoughts from me, just as Alexei couldn’t hide the way he looked at her outside the maze. He is renowned for being unfeeling, logical, and brutally efficient in dealing out death, but the spark between them is undeniable.

“Don’t give up on him,” I say.

The tension in her shoulders eases. “I won’t.”

Her eyes glisten with tears I’m certain she won’t allow to fall in front of me before she closes the door behind her.

I take myself to the chair, every step feeling leaden.

Over the past month, each time I went out into the night, I heard the whispers among supernaturals. The assassins are all human—or supposed to be—but they are fully aware of the magical and supernatural world, and their entire network seems to have spread the story about what Striker did.

The whispers talk of him doing the impossible, defeating a primordial being. But every whispered rendition of the story ends with Striker’s death.

Picking up the book, I settle into the chair, open it to the page marked by a well-loved bookmark, and begin to read.

I read and read until the light changes outside the room, and the words start to jumble on the page because it’s too damn difficult not to let my tears fall.

So I stop and let the silence settle before I reach for Striker’s hand, slip mine beneath his, and rest my cheek on top.

“I won’t,” I finally say, answering his final request to me. “I won’t let anyone silence me.”

Lifting my head away from his hand, I brush the tears from my cheeks.

“I’m coming back tomorrow.” I clear my throat. “But I’m bringing a different book. Something with more sunshine.”

Placing the book firmly back on the chair after I rise, I consider if the thrift shop might have an offering of literature. I’m sure I saw a row of bookshelves along one of its walls.

“When you wake up, you can choose which books you want me to read to you,” I say. “Until then, I’m afraid you’re stuck with my choices. And my choices will be based on my moods, so…”

I take a final swipe at my tears as I make my way to the door, forcing myself to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, maybe start planning the extremely delicious dinner I’ll eat from a can tonight, preparing myself for the dark hours of hunting?—

“I choose you, Fury.” The soft growl sounds behind me. “I will always choose you.”