dashing for the truck. I left her leaning against the wall, shouting my name a second time.
six
The ride back to the garage passed in a blur. I considered sneaking up on it, but if something had happened to Drey, my own safety didn’t really matter anymore. So I barreled straight there, driving like a maniac until I screeched to a stop in front of the garage.
I hoped he would be out driving the usual city route without me, but one of the wide, rolling doors was open when I arrived and Drey’s truck was already parked inside. He’d probably come back to look for me after I didn’t meet him outside the Athenaeum. Or at least that was what I told myself as I leapt out of the pickup and raced up to the open door.
There I stopped. It was too quiet. Of course, the other guys were out driving the second truck, but still, something wasn’t right.
Maybe because there was a trail of blood snaking from the driver’s side door of Drey’s truck toward the back of the garage, the red as vivid as the bright yellow walls. Drey had chosen that paint because he said I needed more sunlight in the garage.
My foot took a mechanical step forward. “Drey?”
There was a groan from within. I broke into a run down the aisle between the wall and the truck, and then whipped around the front bumper.
I would have stopped dead in my tracks, but a puddle of blood made me slip and fall to the floor—near Drey, who was seated in the center of the mess, his back against some shelves.
My hands and knees slid on the wet concrete as I crawled over to him. “Gods,” I said, looking over the ragged red hole in his shirt, which burrowed right into his stomach. I had a hard time catching my breath. “Oh, Gods. Someone shot you?”
Drey opened his mouth to speak, then coughed his usual frightening cough—except this time, blood bubbled on his lips. “Herio,” he said. It took me a second to remember that Herio was the Word of Death. “Surprised me while I was waiting for you. Athenaeum security blockaded the parking lot, but they were no match for the truck.” He coughed again. “The only reason they haven’t followed me here now is because they’re probably using me as bait. You have to leave.”
So a bullet hadn’t made that wound—the Word of Death’s finger had. How Drey had managed to drive himself back to the garage in this condition was beyond me. He could hardly move now, his lips pale and bloodless where they weren’t bloody.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, but Drey clawed it out of my hands and smashed it against the ground. He groaned at what the effort had cost him. “Don’t use that. They’ll trace your number here.”
I didn’t care. I scrambled away from him, tracking red handprints across the concrete, then launched myself at the video phone in the corner of the garage. I practically hammered on the emergency button Drey had programmed years ago, leaving red prints on the screen.
“Idiot,” Drey murmured from his slouch. “They’ll definitely know you’re here if you use that.”
I didn’t hang up when someone answered, or even bother hiding from the video camera since my voice was more than enough to identify me. I just gave our address as quickly as possible and added, “Drey Barnes has been shot, and he’s … he’s … hurry!” before I hit the button to end the call.
“They know it was you who took Khaya,” Drey said. “They want her back.”
“But why did they do this to you?” I crawled back over to him, my hands and legs feeling almost too weak to support my weight. The slippery floor didn’t help. “Everything is insane! Dr. Swanson watching me, and now … this. What do you have to do with these people?” The question came out forcefully, almost like an accusation, maybe because the words were getting caught in my throat.
Drey took a ragged breath. “Because I used to work there … for Dr. Swanson.”
“Wait … what?” I halted, leaning over him. I wasn’t sure what
six
The ride back to the garage passed in a blur. I considered sneaking up on it, but if something had happened to Drey, my own safety didn’t really matter anymore. So I barreled straight there, driving like a maniac until I screeched to a stop in front of the garage.
I hoped he would be out driving the usual city route without me, but one of the wide, rolling doors was open when I arrived and Drey’s truck was already parked inside. He’d probably come back to look for me after I didn’t meet him outside the Athenaeum. Or at least that was what I told myself as I leapt out of the pickup and raced up to the open door.
There I stopped. It was too quiet. Of course, the other guys were out driving the second truck, but still, something wasn’t right.
Maybe because there was a trail of blood snaking from the driver’s side door of Drey’s truck toward the back of the garage, the red as vivid as the bright yellow walls. Drey had chosen that paint because he said I needed more sunlight in the garage.
My foot took a mechanical step forward. “Drey?”
There was a groan from within. I broke into a run down the aisle between the wall and the truck, and then whipped around the front bumper.
I would have stopped dead in my tracks, but a puddle of blood made me slip and fall to the floor—near Drey, who was seated in the center of the mess, his back against some shelves.
My hands and knees slid on the wet concrete as I crawled over to him. “Gods,” I said, looking over the ragged red hole in his shirt, which burrowed right into his stomach. I had a hard time catching my breath. “Oh, Gods. Someone shot you?”
Drey opened his mouth to speak, then coughed his usual frightening cough—except this time, blood bubbled on his lips. “Herio,” he said. It took me a second to remember that Herio was the Word of Death. “Surprised me while I was waiting for you. Athenaeum security blockaded the parking lot, but they were no match for the truck.” He coughed again. “The only reason they haven’t followed me here now is because they’re probably using me as bait. You have to leave.”
So a bullet hadn’t made that wound—the Word of Death’s finger had. How Drey had managed to drive himself back to the garage in this condition was beyond me. He could hardly move now, his lips pale and bloodless where they weren’t bloody.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, but Drey clawed it out of my hands and smashed it against the ground. He groaned at what the effort had cost him. “Don’t use that. They’ll trace your number here.”
I didn’t care. I scrambled away from him, tracking red handprints across the concrete, then launched myself at the video phone in the corner of the garage. I practically hammered on the emergency button Drey had programmed years ago, leaving red prints on the screen.
“Idiot,” Drey murmured from his slouch. “They’ll definitely know you’re here if you use that.”
I didn’t hang up when someone answered, or even bother hiding from the video camera since my voice was more than enough to identify me. I just gave our address as quickly as possible and added, “Drey Barnes has been shot, and he’s … he’s … hurry!” before I hit the button to end the call.
“They know it was you who took Khaya,” Drey said. “They want her back.”
“But why did they do this to you?” I crawled back over to him, my hands and legs feeling almost too weak to support my weight. The slippery floor didn’t help. “Everything is insane! Dr. Swanson watching me, and now … this. What do you have to do with these people?” The question came out forcefully, almost like an accusation, maybe because the words were getting caught in my throat.
Drey took a ragged breath. “Because I used to work there … for Dr. Swanson.”
“Wait … what?” I halted, leaning over him. I wasn’t sure what
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