attention.
“What is it?” Wyatt asked, shoulder to shoulder with me.
“It just occurred to me,” I said, blinking at my reflection in those shiny doors. “The last time I was here, I was running from the morgue in oversized sweats and then stole a doctor’s car.”
“You stole a car?”
Had I left that out? Probably. Figures it was the one thing he’d focus on. “More important than that, Wyatt, at least two of the doctors here saw me as a cold, frozen corpse, and then as a walking, talking, living person.”
“Then we’ll steer clear of the morgue.”
“Easier said than done if one of those doctors decides to take a stroll.”
“Evy, this is the biggest, busiest hospital in thirty miles, with hundreds of people coming and going. The odds of running into two M.E.s in the middle of all that is minuscule.”
I groaned. “Not now that you’ve jinxed us by saying it.”
He nudged my elbow. “Let’s go. We’re wasting time.”
My guard never let down as we navigated our way through the lobby, toward a bank of elevators. The strong odor of disinfectant followed us everywhere, mingling occasionally with someone’s aftershave or body odor. We joined another young couple at the elevators, each clutching the other nervously. An elderly woman approached and used a gnarled finger to punch the already-lit button. The scent of whiskey wafted from her.
The elevator arrived and spilled out half a dozen passengers. We stepped on and moved toward the back so the others could load. Wyatt hit the button for 4, the young couple for 5. The whiskey matron just stood there, slightly hunched. As the doors started to shut, a voice from the lobby shouted, “Hold it!”
The young man hit the Open button, and the doors retreated. A blur of blue scrubs and red hair skidded to a stop near the old woman, a stack of medical charts pressed close to her chest.
“Thanks,” the latecomer said.
I shivered. Gaped at her skewed profile, barely able to see her chin and nose. I’d never forget that voice, though. The other doctor had called her Pat. So much for Wyatt’s minuscule odds.
Pat turned her head in our direction. Shit. I grabbed Wyatt’s shoulder, spun him to face me, put my head down on his chest, and started to fake-cry. He tensed, probably unsure what the hell was wrong with me, then wrapped his arms around my shoulders. I ignored the warmth of his embrace and the gentle circles he was rubbing on my back, and I concentrated instead on bringing some good tears. Just to add a little realism to the act.
But I never counted on my thoughts wandering to Alex. Real tears stung my eyes and closed my throat. God, hadn’t I cried enough for ten people yet? No, it was more than just my grief for Alex. Chalice missed him, too.
“Oh, dear me,” a raspy voice said, probably the elderly woman. “Is she all right?”
“Her, ah, uncle is dying,” Wyatt said. “They were close.”
“The poor thing. It’s so sad when someone we love is taken. God took my Henry from me last year, and I’ve just not been the same since.”
“Your husband?”
“My German shepherd.”
Laughter bubbled up through my sobs, and it came out a strangled gasp. Wyatt held me a little tighter. The elevator stopped and dinged. Doors scraped.
“Our floor,” Wyatt said.
I kept my head low and let him guide me out of the elevator. “God be with you both,” the old woman said to our departing backs.
He hadn’t been around much so far, and I doubted he’d be around today.
Wyatt pulled us to the side, near a polished water fountain. I held on to the laughter generated by that daft woman’s dog comment and used it to drive the grief away. Pound it into the back of my mind, where it needed to stay for a while longer. Wyatt cupped his hand beneath my chin.
“What was that about?” he whispered.
“That was my M.E.,” I replied softly. “The one I scared shitless the other day. It was her.”
He blanched. “Whoa.”
“Yeah, so I had to do some hasty theatrics before she got a good look at me and pulled her fainting act again.”
“I didn’t realize you were that good an actor.”
I wiped my cheeks, cleared my throat, and hoped I didn’t look as weepy as I felt. “I’m not,” I said, and started striding down the hall. Intent on room 419.
Past a nurses’ station, two waiting areas, and at least two dozen rooms, we finally landed in the 410s … 411 … 413. Another waiting area, this time a windowed room with all the blinds drawn. Inexplicably, the door swung open—inward, or it would have cracked me in the face good and hard—and Gina Kismet stepped out.
“You call that making it fast?” she asked, and then after a beat added, “You got it together?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “What’s the emergency?”
She backed up and let us inside. Five people were in the room. Two of them didn’t surprise me, since Kismet was there. Tybalt Monahan stood just inside the door, back against the wall like a sentry. His jeans bulged around the middle of his right thigh, hiding bandages from wounds he’d taken during that morning’s battle. He spared me a nod, and I mirrored the gesture. Directly across the room was Felix, one of his Triad teammates—another young, puppy-dog-eyed face battling at Olsmill that morning. Our paths had crossed occasionally over the last few years, most notably on the occasion two years ago that I now distinctly remember punching Tybalt in the mouth.
Two of the other folks whose presence actually surprised me were seated in chairs opposite the door. Amalie and her bodyguard Jaron, so different from when I’d seen them in First Break, offered polite smiles. They called the human bodies they inhabited aboveground “avatars,” a means to pass among humans without being noticed—if Amalie called being in the body of a tall, leggy wannabe model unnoticeable. Likewise, Jaron had the build of a pro wrestler, which amused me since sprites (in their true form, anyway) look decidedly female. And were the height of your average human toddler.
I’d seen their avatars twice in my life; if they were here, then something big was up.
The fifth person was a stranger. He was sitting with his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. He had a narrow build, salted black hair, a long and narrow face not unlike a horse, and he wore a dark blue suit, sans tie. He looked like an off-duty cop.
“I shouldn’t have doubted you, Evangeline,” Amalie said. The voice was of the sprite I’d met yesterday, royal and small, unbecoming the larger body from which it came. “You succeeded in protecting First Break.”
Behind us, Kismet closed the door. She circled to stand nearby, her expression guarded.
“I don’t like to lose,” I said.
“No one does,” Amalie said. “But often with success comes compromise.”
I blinked, unsure of her last statement. I glanced at Kismet, whose attention was on the far wall. Tybalt and Felix were also looking elsewhere. The trio across from me seemed, for an instant, like a firing squad. “We stopped Tovin and contained the Tainted One.” A tiny splash of panic hit me. “It didn’t get loose, did it?”
“No, it did not. We are creating a new containment spell to strengthen the old. The Tainted is not why we are here.”
Okay, I felt a little better. “Then what’s there to compromise on? Who gets credit for it?”
Amalie shook her head in measured sweeps. “No, your victory against Tovin is not in question, nor is the deficit you created in the ranks of the half-Bloods and goblins. Rest assured of that.”
Rest was all I wanted to do, only no one was letting me. I reached desperately for another explanation. “The goblins are rioting? Calling for my head because of Kelsa?”
I swore Amalie almost smiled. “Rumor has it they are decidedly upset at the loss of one of their Queens, but no. They are not an immediate threat.”
“Another matter has been brought to the attention of the Fey Council, via the Assembly of Clan Elders.”
Clan Elders meant the weres. I gazed at the stranger, every instinct suddenly rising to the defensive. I sensed an ambush. The man was far too calm and self-assured for it to be anything else.
“This is about the Owlkins, isn’t it?” Wyatt asked. He stepped forward, immediately on my right. To my left, Kismet shifted, fists clenching by her sides. Her Hunters remained stiff, watchful.
