Damaged goods.
His hands formed fists at the thought of Silas saying it.
And if she’s gone when I get there—or if it isn’t her and she’s already dead—I’ll make Silas pay.
Link was wrong about one thing: John Breed wasn’t the only person who knew the location of Abraham’s labs in New Orleans and the Syndicate.
Nox had known from the minute he first saw the stupid embroidered pillow in the Mortal girl’s apartment—the one that looked like a giant yellow sun.
It had triggered the memory that told him where he needed to go and what he needed to do next.
He tried to silence the voice in his head, shouldering past the commuters on the platform waiting for the train, and slipped through an access door behind the elevators. The hallway was dark, the smell of mold clinging to the air. He passed abandoned electrical panels that hadn’t been used since the city upgraded the station almost a decade ago. At the end of the hall, he spotted the Outer Door.
Nox bent down and touched the top of the manhole cover, whispering the Cast to access it. “Aperi portam.”
In other words, open the damn door.
It slid aside easily, and he lowered himself toward what looked like a deadly drop. But Nox knew that the invisible steps were waiting below. Once his feet touched the first stair, he jumped the rest of them, leaving the Mortal world behind.
The predictability of the Caster world was comforting. The invisible stairs were always where the invisible stairs were supposed to be, and the Casts invariably opened the Caster doors.
Aside from the fact that time and distance operated differently in the Caster Tunnels, most of them weren’t much different from the cities and streets in the Mortal world. Sure, some of them looked like you were walking through the pages of a history book—the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, Victorian London—while others reminded him of the fantasy novels he read as a kid.
This Tunnel wasn’t one of them.
As his boots splashed through the rancid water, rats scurried through the watery sludge. Nox was grateful the Tunnel wasn’t well lit. Though he didn’t spend a lot of time hanging out in sewage tunnels, this probably wasn’t far off—which was a depressing thought, considering that the place he was going was far worse.
CHAPTER 4: RIDLEY
Dreaming Neon Black
You remember every second of your death. At least, that was the way it was for Ridley.
If she was dead.
She wasn’t sure. That part was a little foggy.
First came the guitar solo, crackling through the radio. Then sounds and images flooded her mind.
The black truck speeding toward the Beater—
The tires screeching and metal buckling—
Screams ringing in my ears. Link shouting my name—
And smoke, and heat, and flames—
Ridley opened her eyes slowly. She was lying on her back, and her head was fuzzy. Everything was coated in a hazy film like she was looking through a camera lens smeared with Vaseline. A terrifying thought ran through her mind.
Please don’t let me be in a coffin. Seriously. I had epic plans for my funeral.
She blinked hard until she could make out what resembled a blurry bedroom ceiling above her.
Thank god.
She patted around her body and felt a stiff mattress beneath her.
Where am I? And how long have I been here?
And more importantly, where was Link?
She tried to remember the details of the crash, but after the flames and the smoke, there was nothing.
If he’s dead … after all we’ve been through, I’ll kill him myself.
That would be just my luck.
To finally lose my heart to a guy right before his stops beating.
She swiped at her face with her free hand, rubbing away a few stray tears. She hadn’t even felt them coming, but the sudden movement sent a shock wave of pain tearing up her back. Her body felt like someone had taken a hammer to it. Her neck was so tender that it hurt every time she took a breath. Her arms were covered in yellowish-purple bruises, and if the way her shoulders and back felt was any indication, they probably were, too.
“Make sure you let me know when she wakes up,” a man said from somewhere in the distance. “It should be soon.”
Ridley turned her head to the side, wincing from the pain, as she struggled to fight her way out of the haze. She took in her surroundings in broad strokes. An ornate chandelier dripping with crystals provided the only light, and an expensive-looking Persian kilim covered the concrete floor. The stone walls had been whitewashed a pale gray in an unsuccessful attempt to make the room look less like a prison, but the barred door ruined the effect.
I’m locked up in a cell someone decorated like a psychotic B and B. This is Silence of the Lambs territory. Any minute now, some whack-job serial killer will be standing on the other side of those bars, deciding what kind of coat to make out of my skin.
Another man’s voice, harsher than the first, echoed beyond the bars. “You need to figure out where that hybrid went, or it’s your ass. I’m not taking the blame for this. Are we clear?”
Hybrid.
They’re talking about Link.
Maybe there’s still a chance he’s alive.
“You already lost one of them,” the second voice continued. “A mistake he’ll make us both pay for when this situation is under control. Find the hybrid, or I’m throwing you under a lot more than a bus. Understand?” The guy sounded Southern, like Link’s neighbors in Gatlin.
The conversation dissolved into a string of mumbling as the fog wrapped itself around her once more.