Worth Dying for (A Dying for a Living Novel Book 5) by Kory M. Shrum

the less likely they’ll trace you. Be smart, love.
    God, sometimes he could be an awful lot like Brinkley. His pedantic tendency to instruct, the caring under his orders. It makes my chest hurt to think about it. B’s influence on the boy is plain. If I squeeze my eyes tight and forget the British accent, it’s like Brinkley is still here, looking out for me.
    I never left you, kid.
    My chest compresses tighter. Brinkley couldn’t do what needed to be done, and look where it got him. I won’t be making the same mistake. I’ll do the hard work and I’ll have my revenge. The sensation of Chaplain’s fingers brushing my cheek makes me cringe.
    It’s only a memory, and memories can’t hurt you. Oh, if only that were true.
    I slip inside the library behind a trio of teenage girls. At the information desk, I fork left, past desks offering maps of the place and tour times. I slip into the nearest room and then slide down a row of stacks. I pretend to peruse the spines with great interest until my fingers tingle back to life.
    This gallery is far from empty. People amble in and out of the stacks. Others sit at tables with piles of books so high they threaten to topple over at the smallest bump.
    I grab a book at random. Then another and another, until I have three in my arms. Once I’ve skimmed this gallery, I slip into another massive room, searching for the study nooks where I agreed to meet her.
    An empty research room beckons. I slip inside and close the door. So small. So warm. So quiet. Heaven. I pull off my scarf and coat, and beg the heat to soak into my body. I want my bones to soften like warm butter. I plop down into the chair. Relief washes over me the second my feet are off the floor. So much walking! How do New Yorkers stand it? I place all but one of the books in a tidy pile. Then I open the last, the spine so broken it lays flat on the desk without resistance. Now the scene is set for any nosey passersby.
    Uriel, in all his Lion-O glory, appears beside me. The small space of the study room barely enough to accommodate him. He towers over me, his flaming hair aglow.
    “She is coming. Don’t waste this opportunity.”
    “I’m sorry,” I say, biting down on my irritation. “But I’m not in the mood to be slicing and dicing a girl in a study room today. Wouldn’t you rather I pick somewhere safer? I will die, you know. And when I do, I’ll need a safe place to recoup. I’m hoping I can get her to take me back to her place. Without Gideon, it should be easier to do.”
    Uriel makes no protests to this.
    My wait in the New York Public Library stretches into a small eternity, and I begin to feel restless. I consider shoving things around the room with my mind, but I have doubts that even that will satiate my boredom. No, not boredom. Anticipation. She’s on her way and I’m nervous .
    A soft knock resounds at the door. I look to Uriel, but he is gone.
    “Rach?” A soft voice murmurs. “Are you in there?”
    I stand and push open the study room door. Nivedha gives me a weak smile of relief.
    She’s as petite as I remember, even tinier than Jessup. I could wrap my entire hand around her wrist and my fingers would overlap. Her skin is the color of cinnamon bark and her hair black. Her hazel eyes look brighter because of her coloring. She’s bustier than I remember, but not from implants. Our NRD+ bodies would reject those. Perhaps she is one of those women who benefit from gaining a bit of weight. She is healthier than she was when I saw her last. Her face and hips are rounder. There’s a light in her eyes now that I never saw in Chaplain’s basement.
    I remember the first night Chaplain took her. Each evening we were fed from a metal dish on the floor like dogs. Then we were taken one by one, doused in hot water, scrubbed, and given a thin shift to wear. You would think they’d rape us at every step, but they didn’t. Chaplain said he wanted the terror to be real each time. Real for the camera.