Chapter 3

MY TOO BIG SHOES SQUEAK against the vinyl floor of the hallway. I have to stop myself from glaring down at the footwear that’s doing its best to make my attempt at an inconspicuous escape as conspicuous as possible. Luckily, the corridors I’ve been slinking through so far have been empty. I don’t know if I feel relieved by that or dismayed.

I keep my stride even and purposeful, acting like I walk these halls every day. I need anyone who might look my way to think that I’ve got somewhere to be and a job to do just like everyone else. Business as usual.

I didn’t leave an orderly and a healer unconscious and tied up in a bathroom.

Nope.

I didn’t don the scrubs said orderly kindly brought me and then promptly steal her shoes.

Not me.

I’m just another worker on my way to do whatever it is the people in bright blue scrubs do here, not a drake running for her life. I smooth my hand over my hair, hoping the tight bun I twisted it into helps it to be less noticeable. I can’t do anything about disguising the color. I’ll just have to hope it’s not as unusual here as it is in the south.

Adrenaline tries to encourage my feet to move faster and my hands to shake, but I don’t allow either to happen as two people round a corner and head my way. They’re locked in an animated conversation as they pass by, and I casually let out a puff of relief when neither even glances my way.

I sidestep a transport drone and the large floating bouquet of flowers it carries, my stolen shoes mercifully silent as I avoid the speedy magi-tech bot. I’ve seen a few flying around, doing one job or another. If my situation wasn’t as close to fucked as it is, I’d be tempted to grab one or two and take them home with me. Not that The Scorch has enough Source magic to keep the tech functioning, but if we could modify them, they could come in handy.

I shake my head to help dislocate the direction of my thoughts. I’m used to capitalizing on unexpected opportunities, taking advantage of luck when it leans my way, but I remind myself that this isn’t a run for supplies or recon. The stakes are much higher, and I need to stay focused on what’s most important: getting away.

Traversing another corridor, I follow the signs directing me to the elevators. I wind down another hallway and spot my goal at the same time I spot an adjacent nurses station.

A very busy nurses station.

My stomach tightens when I notice a security guard in the corner, although fortune may be in my favor because he happens to be busy chatting up a pretty woman in pink scrubs. I keep my pace steady and my face blank. I may be out of my depth when it comes to a hospital and how it operates, but I’m not out of my element when it comes to sneaking.

Experience has taught me that if you act like you belong somewhere, others don’t usually question it. It’s an actuality that’s served me and my Flight well when we’ve had to leave the safety of our home wards to acquire or kill one vital thing or another out in the world.

Different lab coats and scrubs create a kaleidoscope of colors as staff flit like diligent little worker bees in and around the nurses station. I’m worried one of them might recognize me, but no one looks over as I approach. A receptionist glances up as I walk past her desk, and I offer her a small friendly smile. She quickly returns it and then busies herself with something.

I try not to hold my breath as I close the distance to the elevators and press the button to call the car before stepping back to wait. I didn’t actually think it would be this easy, but I’m not about to invite trouble my way by questioning it.

I wait for what feels like eons, but an elevator doesn’t arrive to quickly and quietly whisk me away. I press the button to call it again, the airy hope for an easy escape I was just floating on disappearing like a popped balloon.

I stare at the button and then at the opaque list of floors above the elevator doors that should light up as a car approaches, but once again nothing happens. Nothing flickers to life on the panel. There’s no whirring of machinery telling me a car is darting to the floor I’m on. I casually look around, searching for another button or panel to try since this one seems to be broken, my heart picking up speed at the unanticipated impediment.

“Ma’am…” someone behind me calls out.

I ignore the polite summoning, hoping it’s aimed at someone else, and impatiently press the button in front of me for a third time.

“Ma’am…” a female calls again.

Shit.

The stairs are probably nearby. Maybe I can plan B it in their direction.

“Ma’am!” the persistent woman behind me barks again, and I can practically feel eyes turning in my direction and settling on my back.

“I think she’s talking to you,” a male about my size, wearing green scrubs declares as he sidles up next to me. He smells like wolf, but there’s an undercurrent of selkie too, and I’m not sure which is his.

I tense. “Oh,” I chirp with faux surprise at his comment, turning to find the receptionist leaning over her desk, her stare trained on me.

“Try your card one more time,” she instructs, gesturing to the elevators. “They just updated the system again, and it’s being glitchy.” She gives me an apologetic look, and it helps to stave off my panic.

“Got it,” I answer, trying not to fumble as I dig into my pocket for the ID card. The one I took off the healer before I knocked him out and tied him up with his own stethoscope and the lines he brought to reconnect.

The male next to me is steadily tapping on his com bracelet, but I pretend I don’t notice the device I could desperately use right now. Instead of ripping it off his wrist and making a desperate run for it, I step forward to swipe the pilfered badge against the black square of glass on the wall that I assumed was a camera until now.

“Mine goes on the fritz too every time they admit someone high profile on the floor and update the clearances,” the guy next to me volunteers, nodding at the card I tuck back into my pocket. “I think I spend more time talking to the magi-tech team about my access than I do actually doing my job.”

A chime goes off and the elevator doors finally slide open. I step into the car, and the male in the green scrubs follows.

“I heard some nurses whispering about a dragon that was admitted,” he offers conspiratorially as the elevator doors shut and it starts a painfully slow descent. He runs his hand quickly through his golden hair as though ensuring it’s sitting the way he likes.

Agitation prickles through me, but I keep my face neutral and shrug indifferently at his revelation. “That’s none of my business,” I respond, courteous but dismissive.

My nerves start to settle and the taut apprehension that’s been sitting in my stomach like an anvil disintegrates into an eclipse of ruffled moths. I bite back a sad smile at the thought. That’s what Ren always called the uneasy feeling that flutters in your stomach when you’re worried. She always said butterflies are for good things, moths are for situations that could go one way or the other, and wasps are when you know you’re fucked.

“You’ve seen her, haven’t you?” the male demands excitedly, pulling me from my thoughts.

I tuck away the loss that unfurls at the thought of Ren and focus back on my unwelcome elevator companion. The car suddenly slows and comes to a stop. The doors slide open and in floats a cart. I move to the side to make room, studying the contents of the new arrival as the doors once again shut and the elevator resumes its unhurried, sloth-like descent.

A jolt of excitement perks me up when I realize that the bot that just joined us is packed with food. There are rows of covered plates and a basket of what looks like wrapped sandwiches, with drinks tucked into a nook at the back.

“I knew someone important had been admitted. They cleared out the entire east wing of the floor, and everything has been very hush-hush. I’ve only ever seen them do that once before when one of Lord Quall’s guests was sick and his personal Healer was unavailable. But, wow, an actual dragon…here,” the male marvels, oblivious to the fact that I’m too busy calculating whether I can consume this entire food cart before the elevator reaches the lobby to give a flying shit about his dragon fixation.

“Just tell me if it’s actually a female dragon,” Green Scrubs pleads. “The nurses were whispering about it, but I didn’t actually think… Is she as big as the males?”

The car slows once more, approaching the floor the guy selected and saving me from having to answer him. Or at least I thought it would, but when the doors open, Green Scrubs doesn’t get off the elevator. Instead, he presses a hand to the door and gives me a dogged stare that tells me that he has no intention of moving until I answer him.

I debate once again denying that I know anything at all, but I obviously didn’t do a good enough job of lying in the first place, or I wouldn’t be in my current hostage situation with Green Scrubs. I level him with an exasperated look, careful not to let the sudden violent nature of my thoughts bleed through at the way he’s cornering me. I can tell he’s not going to budge unless I give him something, and as much as I’d like to give him a broken jaw right now, time is of the essence and I need to behave.

I sigh and roll my eyes, not having to fake the irritation I feel at giving in to his inappropriate demand. “She’s huge, ugly as they come, and a bitch.”

A smile quickly stretches across his face, and he nods like I’ve just imparted some great pearl of invaluable wisdom.

“I bet that’s why they never let the rest of us Arcs see their women. They’re probably uglier than bog goblins,” he whispers and then laughs while finally stepping out of the elevator and letting the doors go.

“Worse,” I call after him as the metal doors cinch closed. I chuckle, amused.

Let the gossipmongers feast on that.

Fingers crossed it will help with my head start. That asshole will be busy spreading misinformation, and when they finally realize I’m gone, the staff will be looking for a big, snarling, repulsive bitch drake instead of me.

I focus back on the cart floating next to me, looking up at where I suspect cameras are hidden in the ceiling of the elevator car. I know they’ll eventually check this footage, but I don’t technically need to be invisible here. What’s a little food theft on top of what I’m already up against?

Deciding it’s worth the risk, I grab two wrapped sandwiches and a large container of water. No alarms go off when I relieve the cart of some of its bounty, and I internally fist pump with satisfaction. The elevator stops on floor three, and the cart floats out while I expeditiously scarf down one full sandwich and wash it down with a third of the water.

Thankfully, no one else interrupts my ride down to the first floor, and I step out into a bustling beige lobby. Late afternoon light glitters on the floor and walls, and I step into the heavy foot traffic, aiming for the wall of windows and the two sets of sliding glass doors that whoosh open and closed as they admit and expel visitors and employees alike.

Slipping out of this place has proven to be even more anticlimactic than I thought it would be. I should be relieved by that, but all it does is stoke my worry. Looking around, I expected an alarm to go off or a herd of security guards to be running my way. I figured someone would have found the employees tied up in my bathroom by now, or they would have managed to get free and sound the alert that I was making a break for it, but nothing happens. I unwrap the second sandwich and consume it at a more reasonable pace while I practically waltz out the front door, feeling lighter and more hopeful than I should for someone who has no money, no communicator, and no clear way to get home.

I’m not a sitting duck for The Horde anymore though, and that’s something at least. They’ll be on my ass soon enough, but one thing at a time.

A wave of heat sweeps over me as I step out into the sun. The sweltering warmth clings to me in a familiar sticky way, but the tidy grasses, full trees, and rainbow of colorful flowers planted all around are a far cry from the cracked, sunbaked terrain I grew up in.

The only things that thrive in the harsh, arid air of The Scorch are cacti, tumbleweeds, and a rousing call for retribution from the castaways that are forced to call it home.

I’ve visited a number of southern cities in my lifetime, but with zero access to jump portals, I’ve never been able to travel far from the cloying reach of the desert. Not until now anyway. I wish I had time to marvel at how different things are on this side of the divide, but every second I waste admiring the plants and flowers is a second that brings The Horde closer. However, it’s harder than I’ll admit to tear my attention away.

Learning about the lush fertile lands that grow around a Source and seeing them are two very different things. I’ve always known just enough to understand exactly what I was missing being raised in the harsh and unforgiving Scorch. Lairwood isn’t a Source City, but judging by the look of things, it’s not on the fringes either. Definitely far from the deadlands I’ve called home.

Finishing my sandwich, I down the rest of the water and drop the trash in a compactor as I get the lay of things. I’m surrounded by a cluster of tall buildings, each about thirty stories high, give or take. Glancing up, I take in the wide, distant airway, teeming with traffic that surrounds what I suspect is Lairwood’s city center.

Air gondolas, atmo coupes, and other sky craft zip around the airway and then breeze down the smaller windways that twist between the tall buildings. The map of windways above is mirrored on the ground by flyways for smaller, single-user vehicles, cycles, and public airtrams. They’re bordered by throngs of pedestrians on sidewalks and smaller buildings that are a mix of apartments, shops, restaurants, and a myriad of other random businesses.

I start walking, picking my way down foreign streets with no other goal than to get away. Away from the hospital. Away from The Horde. And away from everything that’s happened to me over the last four months—although I’m sure the last one will linger for far longer than I’d like.

I put more distance between me and what I’m running from, but instead of feeling relieved or reassured, I find myself feeling hunted. I nonchalantly look around, but I can’t identify anything that could be directly responsible for the feeling. And yet with each step I take, I feel more and more exposed.

With a creeping dread, it dawns on me that I’ve been so focused on trying to get away from The Horde that I haven’t given much thought to the Tainted and their blood broker goons.

The guards that chased me saw me jump. They more than likely assumed the same thing I did when I flung myself off that cliff, that I’d die. But if word got back to them that I made it, I don’t know if they’d try to take me again.

I’m not sure exactly how long I was unconscious at the hospital, but it’s not like the healers and staff were tight-lipped about my existence. Now that I’ve abandoned the safety of the healers and nurses, have I made myself an easier target?

I slow my stride and carefully start studying the faces of those around me. My chest constricts with anxious anticipation, and my heart kicks up a beat.

Do I recognize any of them?

Could the stranger walking next to me be someone who dragged me out of one cell just to throw me in another? Could that shop patron be the guard who liked to dump my food just out of reach?

Subtly I search the faces of the unknown pedestrians around me, looking for anything that sparks recognition. Several males that wander by are wearing suits, but none of them have the expensive flare that fucker Wistan favored.

Stupidly, I wrote the bastard off as a threat the first time I met him because of his perfectly tailored suit. He oozed old money and prestige, and because of that, I assumed he wouldn’t be the type to get his pretty little manicured hands dirty.

Fuck, was I wrong.

I rub a hand over the scars on my arm, forgetting that the charm on my ankle has temporarily magicked them away. A tendril of fear tries to flicker up the back of my neck, but I shake it off while I look around for any sign of Wistan’s aristocratically angled face. I don’t spot even a hint of his flawlessly styled sorrel brown hair or the weaselly mustache I used to dream about ripping off his face.

He could torture me for days and still look as fresh and clean as he did when he first walked into my cell. In the hours between pain and oblivion, I often tried to puzzle out if he wore a spell to keep from getting dirty or if he was just so proficient at torment that he expertly knew how to avoid the messes he loved to make.

A cold understanding settles heavy in my gut. If Wistan knows I survived, he’s not the type to let me go. Being bested by the likes of me would be unacceptable to him. He would do absolutely anything to get me back in a cell and once again at his mercy.

I’ve been worrying about what would happen if the dragons got their hands on me, but Wistan could be hunting me right now too, and for a chilling, breathless moment, I don’t know which fate would be worse.