Eventually a dim glow appeared overhead, visible first as a glowing red filament of glass, then brightening until I had to look away. Basil stood by one of the dark, lifeless banks of machines, one hand spread against the controls as he slowly fed power back into the lights. He was bruised, the side of his face swelling where he’d struck the wall, and his clothes were scorched, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. The Renewables were ranged on the opposite side of the room, looking around, finding each other. One was on the ground, bleeding heavily from his shoulder where Oren had scored a hit.
Wesley was half-propped against the monitors, arms wrapped around himself, white-faced and sunken- eyed. I expected him to look away in fear and loathing, but instead he met my eyes. He was shaking, his muscles tight and noncompliant, but with an effort he nodded just a little.
One of the Renewables—Curio—helped me lean against the bottom of the catwalk railing. He had a row of parallel scratches across his chest, torn right through his clothing, but they were shallow. He seemed otherwise unscathed. When I looked away from him, trying to ignore the allure of his magic as the newly awakened monster inside me stirred, he retreated.
I closed my eyes. All I wanted was to sleep, to go somewhere my arm wasn’t on fire, where I hadn’t almost killed Wesley. I heard a buzz of wings, and a small weight landed on my good shoulder. Nix said nothing, but its tiny metal body was warm from the friction of its mechanisms, and it huddled close against the hollow of my throat.
Then a commotion jerked me awake again.
“Where is she? What did I—oh god, is she—”
Oren was back. They must’ve dragged his unconscious form away from me, because his voice came from some distance away. I opened my eyes in time to see him shove one of the Renewables aside hard enough for him to bounce off the railing, stunned. He saw me and came sprinting over, his long legs eating up the distance between us hungrily.
He threw himself down at my side, making me wince for the fate of his knees on the metal catwalk. Nix buzzed at him, irritated, and Oren snarled back, knocking the pixie off my shoulder. But he did it gently, I noticed —and the pixie gave an annoyed click of its wings and retreated to the railing, watching.
“Are you okay?” His voice was hoarse. There was blood on his face, on his clothes. When he reached out to touch my face, his fingers were tacky and warm.
“I think my arm is broken,” I whispered. “But I’m okay.”
“Did I—I remember you, in the darkness, I remember wanting to—” His voice broke, and he felt at my face, at my throat, checking me for injuries.
“You didn’t.” I wanted to reach for his hand, but my arm wouldn’t move right. “You could have, and you stopped yourself.”
He stared at me. “How?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. All your training. You controlled it, all on your own.”
Oren swallowed, brushing my hair out of my eyes with his fingertips. “When I saw you up there—I knew you were going to jump. How could you be so—” I could tell he wanted to grab me, touch me somehow, demonstrate his frustration with my foolhardiness, but he was afraid to hurt me. Instead he just gazed at me helplessly.
“I didn’t realize it would affect you. I’m so sorry, Oren, I didn’t—”
“You idiot!” he interrupted. “I meant, how could you be so stupid as to jump off a three-story catwalk? You could have broken your neck.”
“I had to stop Adjutant. He would’ve killed us all. I knew the impact would set off the blackout device and —”
Oren’s fingers were exploring my face, and as they reached my lips, my voice stuttered to a halt. I wondered what I must look like—bruised, battered, bleeding in various places. But alive. Alive.
“Just don’t ever do that again. Not when you’re too far away for me to save you.”
“I’ll try,” I whispered back.
Oren leaned down, brushing my hair aside, his lips touching my forehead for an instant before he broke away with a jerk. As if he’d forgotten himself, overcome—and now, remembering he wasn’t supposed to touch me.
It hurt, muscles all over my body screaming a protest, but I leaned up anyway, brushing my lips against his. It wasn’t much of a kiss, my arm radiating agony, his weariness evident in his every movement. But when I fell back again, hissing for my broken arm, he gazed at me, the pale blue eyes unreadable except for the surprise there.
“You’re bleeding,” he whispered, reaching out to trace his finger along my lip, where I’d bitten it in my agony.
I had to laugh, even though it was more of a groan than a laugh. “Now you know what it’s like to kiss someone who tastes like blood.”
Oren stared at me for a breath, and then, against all odds, he smiled—just for a moment, but it was there, and it was all for me.
CHAPTER 29
There are worse ways to recover from bone-shattering injuries than in a warm room, attended by an entire horde of resistance fighters who think you’re a hero. I got so much attention I had to start forcing people to leave me alone just so that I could get some sleep. Olivia came to see me, and while her face was solemn and tired, I knew now that she didn’t blame me for what happened to Nina, who’d been showing signs of regaining consciousness. Maybe the budding friendship was gone, but at least she didn’t hate me.
There was still fear among the rebels—I was pretty sure none of them would ever fully trust me again. I was, in their eyes, something uncontrollable and dangerous. But I’d faced Prometheus and won. They were free. And every one of them wanted to come and see the girl who’d made it happen. Even when I got everyone else to leave, Nix stayed, perched on the bedframe, watching over me, criticizing me for staying in bed, chastising me when I tried to sit up.
But the healers among the rebels knew what they were doing. The healing sessions were agonizingly painful as they encouraged the bones of my arm, broken in two places, to knit together. But after only a few days I could get up on my own, move around, go to the bathroom by myself. This was of particular relief to Olivia, who was on Lark-can’t-take-careof-herself duty. As she put it, “If I never have to stand there awkwardly while someone pees again, I’ll die a happy girl.”
With Prometheus “dead” and CeePo under Wesley’s interim command, the resistance fighters in deep undercover had come out of the woodwork. Only those of us who’d fought Adjutant knew the truth about what had happened there, about who Basil was. Wesley and the others had decided it would be best if the city knew only that Prometheus had gone mad with power and died. There was no identifying Adjutant’s body—it was little more than ash and bone, only the scorched copper emblem of a flame to say that he’d been wearing Prometheus’s robes.
Eventually I was able to come out of my room for good, learning to dress myself one-handed, operate doors with my left hand. The splints made moving awkward, but they kept my arm still, which the healers said was critical to my recovery if I wanted to ever have full use of my arm again. The idea of being one-handed like this forever was enough to make me listen.
Four days after the battle for Lethe, as it was coming to be known, the ache in my arm woke me from a nap and sent me restlessly down the corridor. The rest of my injuries had all but healed, the gashes and scrapes treated with bandages and, in a few places, stitches. My splint itched, but I ignored it, channeling the restlessness into movement.
I was looking for Wesley and the others in the War Room, but when I got there, I found only Basil, sitting
