Rans slowed down for an almost sedate left turn, then twisted the throttle and rocketed onto a freeway onramp, making my body slide back sharply before I caught myself. He merged with traffic and accelerated, speeding along, passing cars right and left—even moving all the way over to the center shoulder to swerve around a few.
The city flew by in a blur as we screamed along the expressway.
Rans zipped through a gap and sped down an off-ramp, exiting the freeway after what had probably been only two or three miles. I was clutching him so tightly that I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull my fingers loose once we eventually stopped. My joints felt frozen in place. Petrified.
But... it appeared we had lost our tail.
Rans drove the bike through a narrow alley somewhere behind Enterprise Center. The bike jumped as we left the pavement and drove along the verge running beside the train tracks, gravel spitting from beneath the flying tires. I fretted silently about possible dead-ends or unexpected drop-offs, but there was method to Rans’ madness. The next thing I knew, he’d followed a concrete culvert up a gentle slope and hopped onto the I-44, heading west.
My chest hurt. My head hurt. Everything hurt, but for that moment, I closed my eyes and rested my forehead on Rans’ uninjured shoulder, just breathing. In, out. In, out. In, out as the wind whipped past us.
After a few minutes, I chanced raising my head and recognized where we were. This was the Central West End, site of many of the city’s tourist attractions. Rans exited the interstate and drove sedately through traffic, heading toward a fashionable apartment building across from Forest Park, near the Zoo and Art Museum.
Rans turned into the driveway and headed down a ramp leading to a secure basement parking garage. He stopped to punch in a code at the gate, and the barrier lifted.
“Almost there, Zorah. Stay with me for a bit longer.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. All I could do was hold on as the bike pulled into the underground parking area, my head swimming now that we were no longer speeding through the night. Finally, we came to a complete stop, the engine rumbling into silence. Rans braced the motorcycle upright and deployed the kickstand, letting out an audible breath.
We sat there quietly for a few seconds before he finally spoke.
“You can open your eyes now.” A hint of dry amusement colored the words.
I scowled at his back. “Shut up. They’re open.”
God. I’d almost forgotten what that accent of his did to me. I knew I should still be terrified out of my mind. Yet something about being here alone in this anonymous basement garage with him settled my nerves. I felt surprisingly safe. Protected, for pretty much the first time in the last two days. It was a feeling I’d almost forgotten in that short space of time.
“Are they, now? I’m glad to hear it,” he said. The amusement was still present, but tempered now with a hint of tightness around the edges. “In that case, you can do me a favor.”
“Hmm?” I hummed, lost in my post-adrenaline haze.
“Be a dear and pull the knife out of my shoulder, would you? It’s an awkward angle to get it myself.”
That woke me up fast. I stiffened, straightening away from him despite the screaming protest from my body. “What? I... don’t—”
“Grab the handle, and pull straight out. One smooth movement,” he said patiently.
My stomach churned its displeasure at this idea, but what else was I supposed to do? I gingerly wrapped my fingers around the burnished wooden handle and tugged. The blade slid free with a terrible sucking sensation.
“Cheers,” he said, as though he didn’t have a bleeding hole in his shoulder. “You might as well hold onto it, now that you’ve got it. Silver’s not much use against Golden Boy and his ilk, but that much of the stuff will be worth a few quid, at least.”
I stared at the dagger stupidly. It was a work of art as much as a weapon. The rivulets of crimson that stained the blade resembled rich brushstrokes of paint on a master’s canvas. My gut twisted. Something about the thing gave me a milder version of the feeling I got when I was around Werther.
“Is this seriously made of silver?” I asked in a faint voice.
He snorted. “Oh, yes. If it had been steel, my shoulder wouldn’t feel like it’s burning from the inside out.”
“I don’t like it,” I said, still staring at the finely crafted knife.
“Really?” he replied. “That’s rather interesting.” He rummaged in a pocket and passed a clean handkerchief to me. “Believe me when I say I’m not too chuffed about it either... but hold onto it for me anyway.”
It took me longer than it probably should’ve to understand that the handkerchief was so I could clean the blood off the blade. I tried to pretend I was wiping down a kitchen knife after slicing some kind of juicy red fruit. It didn’t help. When I was done, I handed the stained square of cloth back to him awkwardly, not sure of the proper handkerchief protocol under these sorts of circumstances.
The freshly cleaned silver gleamed in the overhead lighting of the garage. My backpack was long gone—abandoned somewhere in the parking lot behind the bus station. I was afraid if I tried to put the dagger in my raincoat pocket, it would slice through the material
