Chapter Ari
Sam
From the outside, the building looks like nothing. Old brick and mortar, a shop long gone.
Tell me where to go, she said urgently to Will as they made their escape from the hotel. Back to the estate?
Will shook his head. No time. Take Broadway. Go east. Make sure no one’s following us.
She tears down the streets until they finally pass a row of old warehouses near the Angel City Department of Water and Power, deep in the heart of the city, where the shadows of skyscrapers stretch long and black across the streets.
Here, Sam finally pulls to a stop. Across the road, the department is bathed in yellow streetlight, while the rows of brick shops and gentrified taco stands next door have already pulled their shutters down.
She runs to help Will out of the car. He doesn’t take her hand and he doesn’t tremble when he climbs out, but the color in his face has drained even more now, so in the low light, he looks ghastly white.
She follows beside him without a word, one of her hands outstretched behind his back as if to catch him, should he fall.
One of the shuttered shops’ doors swings open as they draw near. An elderly woman comes out, dressed in a dark brown sweater and black pants, her white hair tied back in a tight bun. She shakes her head at the sight of Will.
They step inside. The door closes behind them, and the night outside turns quiet again.
Inside, the woman works in a flurry. Sam removes Will’s coat and the woman guides him to the back of one room, where she instructs him to lie down on a low table. She flips on a series of fluorescent lamps. They are so bright that Sam squints, knocking against the side of the table.
“Out of the way, girl,” the woman mutters, her attention on Sam for a brief moment before she ignores her again. “I’m going to cut your shirt off,” she tells Will.
He nods almost imperceptibly, his eyes closed to the bright lights.
As the woman cuts the fabric away, Sam hisses through her teeth.
The wound in Will’s side is deeper than she feared—a bullet has wedged in deeply and exploded, and blood has soaked his shirt so thoroughly that the fabric falls to the floor in a heavy, wet clump.
Sam has never seen Will unclothed before, let alone wounded, his bared skin interrupted so gruesomely by a bloody gash.
The woman doesn’t react to the sight, but she is moving quickly, grabbing bottles of solutions that Sam doesn’t recognize. “You,” she says to Sam without looking up at her. “Top left drawer. Bring me all the gauze you can find. Get me a clean towel and hot water from the sink. Move.”
She must be one of those rare people who actually notices Sam.
Sam does as she says without question. The woman’s hands are stained red with Will’s blood, and as she works, she tuts at him through her teeth.
“Not able to perform transmutations at all right now, are you? Thought not, with this blood loss. It’s a miracle you were able to walk.
Every inch of your soul’s just focused on survival now. You’re close to going into shock.”
“I’ll be fine, Demeter,” Will says through gritted teeth, and the woman’s lips tighten.
“Don’t attribute me, little boy, you call me Dr. Amerson like a respectful patient. Now stay with me. This will feel very cold. You, girl.” She snaps her fingers at Sam, and Sam is surprised that the woman remembers she’s still here. “Come here and press hard against that.”
Sam obeys, walking over and pressing both her palms against the wound. She puts her weight against it as gently as she can. Will stiffens beneath her touch at what must be dizzying pain, but when she looks up at him, he doesn’t make a sound. His eyes stay turned away, studying the shelves.
“Now move,” the woman tells her, waving impatiently at Sam’s hand, and Sam does as she says.
Demeter cleans and disinfects the wound, then presses her own hand against it, so hard that a groan of pain escapes through Will’s clenched teeth.
The woman swears under her breath, but her fingers turn against his torn muscle, and Sam sees him shudder.
“What are you doing?” Sam asks, but the woman doesn’t respond. She’s concentrating, brows furrowed as her hand turns this way and that, slowly, with unflinching precision.
A whole minute passes before the woman pulls her hand away. The leak of blood has finally slowed. “Hold the wound again,” she tells Sam. Sam obeys.
“Polemists,” Demeter mutters under her breath as she changes into a fresh pair of gloves. “Always resorting to guns when they want to avoid close combat. I’ve repaired some of the internal damage to his muscles, but the shrapnel is making it difficult for me to work around.”
Sam has never witnessed Will in close combat.
Before she can ask Demeter any questions, the woman heads toward the door.
“Keep your hands on the wound,” she says over her shoulder.
“After a minute, I want you to soak the towel in hot water and wash the wound, as gently as you can. Take a generous amount of that ointment—just scoop it with your whole hand, like this.” She demonstrates the gesture.
“Don’t forget to use the gloves, girl. Then take the gauze and wrap it around his waist. Tightly, but mind you, not too tightly. Can you remember all that?”
“I remember everything,” Sam says, and the woman snorts, like she just told a joke.
“I need to get my medicine,” she says. “I’ll be right back.” And then she’s gone. Moments later, Sam hears the door in the hall outside click shut.
Sam presses against the wound without a word. Will says nothing. His eyes look glassy.
In the oppressive silence of the room, without the woman’s orders to distract her, Sam’s thoughts pivot helplessly to Ari.
He could have killed her, right then and there.
When they didn’t return on time, Diamond would have sent Hanover to investigate and would have found Will dead in the car, blood coagulated in a puddle under his shoes, and Sam’s body on the sidewalk.
At the very least, Sam would have been captured and taken back to Lumines. Everything could have changed tonight.
Why didn’t Ari do it? She’d seen the thought in his eyes, and yet he had let her go.
The secret beach. Full moon.
The echo of his words sends a fresh jolt of anger through her. What did he mean by that? Does he want to meet her there? Is it some new way for him to trap her? But he already had her in his grasp back at the hotel—why would he let her go just to spring a trap again?
Will winces, his lips twisting in a slight grimace, and Sam’s thoughts jerk back into the moment. She lifts her hand cautiously, then soaks the towel in the hot water. When she looks at him, she notices how his gaze is searching for a place to land.
Sam washes his wound gently and puts on the ointment.
Blood is still dribbling from the gash, although it has slowed significantly.
She helps him sit up against the low table, then pulls the gauze as tight as she dares, afraid it will hurt him.
But Will doesn’t react. Each time she wraps the gauze around his back, it brings her close enough to him to feel the warmth radiating from his body.
She keeps her eyes downcast as she works; he stays very still.
For a while, they continue this quiet rhythm.
She can tell the pain is still restricting him to shallow breaths, can feel his abdomen rising and falling in a tense rhythm beneath her touch.
At last, when she’s nearly done, she looks back up to find that he has closed his eyes. His head is bowed, and he sways in place.
“Will?” she says, suddenly alarmed. Her hands come up to hold the sides of his face. His skin is cool and clammy. “Will, stay with me.”
He takes one of her wrists and pulls her forward. Suddenly, they are very close. He sighs, his brows furrowed, and leans his forehead against hers.
“Sam,” he whispers weakly, delirious, his breath hot against her skin.
He has never called her Sam before. Her heart leaps in panic, and she wonders if he’s about to kiss her.
They linger in this intimate state, foreheads against each other, lips barely brushing.
His breaths are faint and rapid, his lashes curving against his cheeks.
She struggles to stay in the reality of this moment.
Will is a solid, harsh figure. She can’t reconcile this vulnerable version of him with the man she knows.
Then he releases her hand, and they move away from each other so that they are no longer touching. His eyes are still closed, but the color in his face seems a little better. Sam swallows, shaken and tingling, her cheeks burning hot.
After another second, she hears the door open and close again, and the alchiatrist bustles back into the room. Sam draws away from Will. The last of their curious moment fades like a fever dream, the faint imprint of it scalded into her memory.
Demeter nods in approval at the way Sam has wrapped the wound, then fills a syringe with liquid from a bottle she’s brought with her. “Does Diamond know?” she asks as she works.
Sam shakes her head. “Not yet.”
The woman takes a moment to look closely at her. “You must be Sam Lang. Mozart.”
Sam doesn’t ask how she knows her name. “Yes.”
Demeter narrows her eyes, then turns her attention back to Will. “Let her help you walk. Do you understand me? Put as little pressure on that wound as possible.”
“I know what to do,” Will says, with a resigned air that suggests this is an old conversation.
“I know you know. The question is what you’ll actually do. I’ve transmuted the shrapnel out of your wound, but you’re fortunate, Will. An inch to the left and you’d be dead by now.”
“Lucky me.”