“No!” I began to pace. “I can’t talk to Marsha. You don’t know what happened. You don’t know what she saw. She must think I’m some kind of … demon. I broke things. Her fish tank. She loves her fish. And I destroyed her carpet. And then … I disappeared,” I finished, unsure how to explain what had occurred in Marsha’s living room. “I can’t go home.”
“Wait. You’re not there now?” Her voice took on a new urgency. “Whose phone are you using? Where are you?”
“In a toolshed in somebody’s backyard. Conn chased me, but I vanished, and I ran, but I’m sure he’s still out there, searching—”
“Tell me where you are,” Lily demanded. “The exact address. I’m coming for you. Then hang up the phone and dial 911!”
I turned away from the door and leaned against the wall opposite it. I pressed my forehead against the wooden surface, racking my memory of the past several minutes, trying to figure out precisely where I was. “I think—”
The door flung open behind me. Before I could wheel around, something struck the back of my head.
I blacked out.
16
When I woke up, I was lying on my side, my cheek pressed against a rattling metal floor. I opened my eyes and winced.
I was stuffed in the back of a large, moving vehicle with padlocked doors, and my bandaged hands were handcuffed. Again. My ankles were also bound, with one of those chains usually reserved for cannibalistic serial killers. Except this chain, like my handcuffs, was made of glass. I watched the flames flicker inside the cuffs and decided that I wasn’t going to question this bizarre technology that seemed designed to contain me—me specifically, with my terror of fire.
No. No questions. I didn’t dare open my mouth. I wouldn’t even move. If I did, that would definitely catch the attention of the three hulking men in gray uniforms who surrounded me, armed with dull metal tubes shaped like nightsticks.
And then, of course, there was Conn.
My nerves sang with fear. Conn stood as far away from me as possible, back turned, facing someone who sat before him on a long bench screwed onto the wall. Conn’s body blocked him from sight. I could see only the sitting man’s hands as he riffled through a thrown-open medical kit stocked with syringes and gauze.
Conn hadn’t noticed I was awake, yet the mere sight of him made every weary inch of me instantly alert and ready to flee—except there was nowhere to run, no obvious escape, unless I managed to ghost my way free. But guess what? My vanishing skills were on vacation. Wouldn’t return my calls. Pretended I didn’t exist.
I felt tattered and ragged and raw. All I could do was consider the disaster at hand. To see that I had been hunted and trapped, and to know that the handcuffs meant that Conn’s kiss was a lie.
And the ache deep inside me told one great truth:
Conn McCrea was my enemy.
So I swallowed my fear. I slitted my eyes. I watched, and waited for an opportunity.
Conn’s body shifted. I saw who was sitting before him and caught my breath.
“You sure took your sweet time, McCrea,” said the guy who had grabbed me outside the café. My mind flung back to that night and began to understand things very, very differently.
“It worked,” Conn said. “I made the arrest.”
“And got yourself mauled in the process. My way would have been better.”
“It’s done, Michael. Leave it at that.” Conn reached for the hem of his ruined sweater.
“Don’t.” I watched Michael cut at the fabric until it fell away from Conn’s chest. Once upon a time, the sight of Conn’s bare torso would have filled me with a kind of sore joy. Now it was a slap in the face. His tawny skin mocked me. It reminded me of how stupid I had been.
To desire him.
To trust him.
“Too easy.” Michael glanced dismissively at the bloody hole I’d bored into Conn’s arm. He shook what looked like a can of hair spray and pumped a fine mist over Conn’s bicep. The blood fizzed and evaporated, leaving a clean wound that began to glue itself together. In a matter of seconds, there was a round, white scar.
“Breathe.” Michael pressed his fingers along Conn’s naked, bruising rib cage. Conn gasped. “Thought so. Not much I can do here.” Michael began to unwind a roll of gauze around Conn’s torso. “She broke some ribs. They’ll have to heal on their own.”
Conn grabbed the gauze out of Michael’s hands. “I’ll do that.”
“Sir,” said one of the three lumpy ogres guarding me.
Conn turned toward our corner of the truck. My eyes slammed shut.
“The Shade’s waking up,” the guard muttered.
There was a rustle, then the thump of boots on the metal floor, growing closer. My chest began to heave uncontrollably. The footsteps were measured and firm, so different from the rhythm of my shallow breaths. I could smell Conn’s sweat.
There was no use pretending. I opened my eyes.
Conn was buttoning a gray shirt, a piece of the same uniform the guards and Michael wore, with a high collar and thick, stiff material. But his shirt, unlike the others, had a dime-sized red knot stitched onto the collar.
His frosty gaze flitted over me. I wondered if he could see the hate in my eyes, if I could squelch it, hide it for a few moments, for just long enough to surge to my feet and break my fire-filled chains right across his face.
Conn stepped back. “Hold her.”
The guards seized me.
“Knock her out, Michael,” said Conn.
“Gladly.” He flexed his hand.
“Use a match,” Conn snarled.
“You got creative with her. Why can’t I?”
Conn stormed across the jolting truck, rummaged through the medical kit, and pulled out something that looked like a needle. He flicked a finger against its point and it glowed.
Then he was striding toward me, and I was straining away, pressing against the guards, who seemed safe in comparison with Conn and his smoldering needle. After a quick touch of my neck, he found the jugular and darted the needle in.
A bee sting. A roaring buzz in my ears, and I was smothered by dark, fuzzy sleep.
* * *
“DARCY. WE’RE HERE.”
The truck had stopped. Conn spoke again, and his voice was unyielding. “Look at me.” He was crouched at my side, his elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling down.