“I owe you one,” Nox said as he picked the slivers of glass out of Sampson’s hand with a pair of tweezers. He had so much gauze stuffed up his bloody nose that he wasn’t sure if Sampson could understand what he was saying.
After they’d ditched Silas’ men, Nox had bought a first-aid kit from the nearest Duane Reade drugstore. Now they were parked in a seedy long-term lot near Penn Station, and it was the best Nox had felt all day. He could almost see out of one eye, and Silas’ thugs hadn’t knocked out any of his teeth.
It’s the little things.
“One?” Sampson winced as Nox pulled out a big piece of glass. “You owe me three or four by now, boss,” the huge Darkborn said.
“You don’t have to call me that anymore. The club is gone, and opening another one would be like sending Silas an invitation to kill me.”
“You mean another invitation?” Sampson didn’t smile.
Nox ignored him, tossing a piece of glass on the dashboard. “So I hope you didn’t risk your life for a job.”
Sampson’s jaw tightened. “There are other cities. And if you think I saved your ass and stole one of Silas Ravenwood’s cars because of some crappy job, you don’t know me very well.”
Nox felt like a jerk. “Sorry, Sam.”
“Forget it. You’re just lucky those guys didn’t kill you before I got there.”
Nox knew Sampson was right, but he didn’t feel lucky. Alive was different from lucky. A guy had to be pretty unlucky to lose the only girl he’d ever cared about.
Nox tipped the bottle of peroxide over Sampson’s gnarled hand. “I think it’s all out.”
“Just wrap it up,” Sampson said. “Darkborns heal pretty fast.”
Nox wound a whole roll of gauze around his friend’s hand until it looked like a prizefighter’s.
Sampson pointed at his face. “You better clean out that cut on your cheek, stitch it up. Pretty boys don’t look so pretty with scars.”
“Yeah?” Nox flipped open the mirror on the visor and cringed. He looked like crap. Silas’ punch had left a gash across his cheek. “I don’t know, I think I look good. All things considered.”
“Good for a hamburger, maybe. A rare one. Now sew that thing shut.” Sampson screwed the top off a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “You’re out of peroxide. Time to man up.”
Nox found a needle in the first-aid kit and poured alcohol all over it. He was looking forward to the pain.
But the moment Sampson flicked on a lighter and Nox saw the flame, he felt something else. The alcohol stung Nox’s skin, and the world faded away….
The sight of a flame triggered Nox’s Sight, and the vision hit him all at once.
The fire …
Ridley’s screams …
The fear.
This time he heard the impact.
Metal crushing.
Brakes squealing.
It was the last sound that hit him like a kick in the gut. A song—“Stairway to Heaven.”
Nox had seen hints of this before in his visions, but the details had never been clear enough. It had always been a vague future. But it had become a reality.
This was the outcome he’d been desperate to avoid. If only he’d put the pieces together sooner.
So he hadn’t saved Ridley from dying in a fire. He’d saved her from dying in one particular fire—the one at Sirene—only to let her die in another, the one at the car wreck. He’d done everything he could to keep her from meeting the fate he’d seen laid out for her in his dreams, and he had still failed.
I gave up too easily. I shouldn’t have let her leave with that idiot hybrid. I should’ve asked her to choose me.
He’d sacrificed everything to protect Ridley—his club, his safety, even his heart. And it had been pointless. He hadn’t protected her from anything.
Then I pushed her right into another guy’s arms.
I thought he could protect her. I thought he was better for her. Safer.
Who’s the idiot now?
“What’s wrong, Nox?” Sampson asked.
“Everything.” Nox could barely move his jaw, but he forced the words out somehow. “She’s in trouble, Sam. We’ve gotta go. Now.”
Finding the location of the crash was the easy part; in Nox’s vision, the flames were already melting the road signs, which meant he’d gotten a good look at them in the process. “Hurry, Sam. We don’t have much time.”
What if we’re already too late? Nox thought.
Nox stared out the window in a daze, trying to blot out the images of the fire and the sound of Ridley’s screams. He pressed against his stitches, trying to feel the pain. At least his pain distracted him from hers.
She’s not dead. I’d know. I would’ve felt it.
Right?
He pressed harder.
Sampson didn’t say a word, but the speedometer inched up past ninety, and he covered a hundred miles in less than an hour.
By the time Nox spotted the cloud of black smoke, he was practically jumping out of his skin. The wind blew the dirty air through the SUV’s broken window as they approached the flashing lights—two police cars, a fire engine, and an ambulance on the shoulder of the highway—behind a perimeter of orange cones and flares. One of the cops stood in the road, waving cars past the crash site. Traffic slowed as drivers rubbernecked while passing the wreckage.
Nox scanned the area for any sign of Ridley or a blue and white medical examiner’s van.