here.
I saw no way out, though. There were no exterior doors, and the windows I did see—even the smashed-out ones—were barred.
Claustrophobia crept in on me, a sensation I was far too familiar with, as I realized I might never get out. Each breath become harder and harder to find, and the walls began to narrow just as the ceiling suddenly seemed like it was pressing right on top of me.
I told myself it was all in my head—the hallway hadn’t changed—but I ducked all the same.
I had to get outside.
I had to feel air . . . real air . . . fresh, nondusty air . . .
My feet continued to tear and heal . . . rip and repair . . . split and mend in an endless rhythm. I tried to concentrateon that rather than the part where I was suffocating.
I reached a corner near the end of a seemingly endless corridor, and stopped as something caught my eye.
Ward 14 was painted high on the wall in faded blue paint. I’d probably passed other wards and never even noticed the numbers.
My heart bucked when I heard something. A voice.
I waited, to hear it again. For someone to shout for me to stop, or to call for reinforcements.
Instead, when it finally came again, it was ragged and weak and not at all a cry for backup. It was one tired simple word: help. Just that, “help” coming from behind a doorway I’d just passed.
I froze, trying to convince myself in a million different ways to keep going, to . . . ignore it . It wasn’t my problem. I couldn’t save anyone if I didn’t save myself. Someone else would come . . . someone else would help .
Not. My. Problem.
But who was I kidding? What kind of person would I be if I sneaked away and pretended I hadn’t just heard that? What kind of monster . . . ?
I dropped my chin to my chest and took a step back. My feet bled as the cracked tiles beneath me sliced them again, and I had to hope whoever was in there wasn’t human, or else I’d already sentenced them to death—maybe not this second, but within a day or two. And knowing the way Tyler had suffered, they’d be begging for the end to come.
But it wasn’t a human I found, at least not a full human.And I couldn’t decide whether I was glad I’d come back when I realized who was trapped in the room.
The idea of leaving, taking off the way he had when Blackwater was attacked, became real again. Make him someone else’s problem.
Except he didn’t look like the Judas I’d thought he was. I’d been sure Thom had been the one to send out the message, letting the Daylighters know I existed, sending them our coordinates.
But here he was . . . tied to the same kind of ancient table I’d been strapped to, so I had to wonder . . . had we been wrong? Was Thom a victim too?
“Thom,” I whispered, keeping my distance.
“Kyra?” His voice sounded like a dried-up riverbed. No way that could be faked. This wasn’t a trap. He’d been tortured too.
“It’s me.” I went to him, but my fingers shook as I unfastened his neck and his hands. If you’d have asked me five minutes ago, I would have called Thom a backstabber. Now . . . now, I was setting him free. His skin was cold and I wondered if that was a bad sign. He didn’t have electrodes or machines hooked to him. No IV. But he seemed weak. “Are they drugging you?”
“They were,” he said as I worked to get him upright. His shaky grip clutched my shoulder. “Do you have water?” Even his whisper was feeble. “They haven’t given me water in”—his black eyes searched the room helplessly—“I . . . I don’t know how long.”
The Returned might not need as much food, but that didn’t mean they—that we —could survive without it. Same went for water. If Thom had been here since the raid of Blackwater, which, if I’d counted right, had been at least five days ago, maybe more if they’d kept me comatose through any other sunrises, then no wonder he was so weak. He wasn’t hooked up to an IV the way I had been.
“Come on. Let’s get you outta
I saw no way out, though. There were no exterior doors, and the windows I did see—even the smashed-out ones—were barred.
Claustrophobia crept in on me, a sensation I was far too familiar with, as I realized I might never get out. Each breath become harder and harder to find, and the walls began to narrow just as the ceiling suddenly seemed like it was pressing right on top of me.
I told myself it was all in my head—the hallway hadn’t changed—but I ducked all the same.
I had to get outside.
I had to feel air . . . real air . . . fresh, nondusty air . . .
My feet continued to tear and heal . . . rip and repair . . . split and mend in an endless rhythm. I tried to concentrateon that rather than the part where I was suffocating.
I reached a corner near the end of a seemingly endless corridor, and stopped as something caught my eye.
Ward 14 was painted high on the wall in faded blue paint. I’d probably passed other wards and never even noticed the numbers.
My heart bucked when I heard something. A voice.
I waited, to hear it again. For someone to shout for me to stop, or to call for reinforcements.
Instead, when it finally came again, it was ragged and weak and not at all a cry for backup. It was one tired simple word: help. Just that, “help” coming from behind a doorway I’d just passed.
I froze, trying to convince myself in a million different ways to keep going, to . . . ignore it . It wasn’t my problem. I couldn’t save anyone if I didn’t save myself. Someone else would come . . . someone else would help .
Not. My. Problem.
But who was I kidding? What kind of person would I be if I sneaked away and pretended I hadn’t just heard that? What kind of monster . . . ?
I dropped my chin to my chest and took a step back. My feet bled as the cracked tiles beneath me sliced them again, and I had to hope whoever was in there wasn’t human, or else I’d already sentenced them to death—maybe not this second, but within a day or two. And knowing the way Tyler had suffered, they’d be begging for the end to come.
But it wasn’t a human I found, at least not a full human.And I couldn’t decide whether I was glad I’d come back when I realized who was trapped in the room.
The idea of leaving, taking off the way he had when Blackwater was attacked, became real again. Make him someone else’s problem.
Except he didn’t look like the Judas I’d thought he was. I’d been sure Thom had been the one to send out the message, letting the Daylighters know I existed, sending them our coordinates.
But here he was . . . tied to the same kind of ancient table I’d been strapped to, so I had to wonder . . . had we been wrong? Was Thom a victim too?
“Thom,” I whispered, keeping my distance.
“Kyra?” His voice sounded like a dried-up riverbed. No way that could be faked. This wasn’t a trap. He’d been tortured too.
“It’s me.” I went to him, but my fingers shook as I unfastened his neck and his hands. If you’d have asked me five minutes ago, I would have called Thom a backstabber. Now . . . now, I was setting him free. His skin was cold and I wondered if that was a bad sign. He didn’t have electrodes or machines hooked to him. No IV. But he seemed weak. “Are they drugging you?”
“They were,” he said as I worked to get him upright. His shaky grip clutched my shoulder. “Do you have water?” Even his whisper was feeble. “They haven’t given me water in”—his black eyes searched the room helplessly—“I . . . I don’t know how long.”
The Returned might not need as much food, but that didn’t mean they—that we —could survive without it. Same went for water. If Thom had been here since the raid of Blackwater, which, if I’d counted right, had been at least five days ago, maybe more if they’d kept me comatose through any other sunrises, then no wonder he was so weak. He wasn’t hooked up to an IV the way I had been.
“Come on. Let’s get you outta
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