against the cushions. Turning to look at his rescuer took all the strength he had.
Streetlights swept rhythmically across tinted windows, revealing his face in flashes. Strong cheekbones, deep-set eyes, a wide, amused mouth. A face Blake would have itched to paint a month ago; now the thought left him cold and unsettled. The white robes he’d glimpsed in the palace were gone, replaced by a tailored dark suit.
“Is your name really Seker?” It wasn’t what he’d meant to say.
The words scraped out of his aching throat, slurred as if he was drunk. The thought of drinking reminded him how painfully thirsty he was.
“It sounds silly here in the real world, doesn’t it?” His voice was as deep and rich as Blake remembered. He said real as though it were a private joke. One hand slipped into his inside pocket, slowly enough that Blake didn’t flinch. He took the offered card and tilted it toward the light. Shadows lined the embossed letters. Sebastian Sands, it read, beside a stylized scarab. On the back, in smaller type, was a phone number.
Sands reached down into the darkness and Blake tensed, but when the man straightened he held a bottle of water, its plastic seal still intact. Anything else he could have refused, but his tongue curled at the sight. Condensation slicked his hand as he accepted it; he didn’t notice the chill. He shuddered as the first swallow soothed his throat and lined his hollow stomach with cold.
“Thank you.” Plastic dented under his fingers as he lowered the half empty bottle. “For helping us.”
Seker—Sands—dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Your friend did most of the work. My assistance was minimal.”
“Liz. Is she—”
“She’ll be fine. She has people to take care of her. You, however, look terrible.”
Even in the dark car that much was obvious. His hands were pale and gaunt around the water bottle. Shadows pooled between bone and tendon. A crust of blood stained his left wrist where he’d ripped the IV out, and a fresh bruise purpled beneath it; his groin still ached as if he’d been racked. His palms and knees were dark with grime, jeans clinging damp to his legs. The water couldn’t entirely rinse away the lingering taste of bile. Over the aroma of leather and citrus cologne that filled the car, he could smell himself—greasy hair and skin, piss and sickness. Humiliating, but he was too tired and raw to feel the sting.
“Would you like something to eat?” Sands asked.
Blake swallowed. A drink of water. A cup of coffee. A hot meal. Then the snare of debt would close around him.
“Why?” he asked before Sands could go on. “Why did you help us? Why are you helping me now? What do you want?”
“I wanted you out of Carcosa. Now I want to keep you alive. Which would be easier to manage if you’d eat something, but we’ll skip that for now.”
Every mention of food reminded him how hollow he felt. How long had machines pumped paste and fluids into him to keep him alive? Plastic creaked as his hands tightened.
“That’s all? Simple altruism? Just like Rainer?”
Sands sighed. “Morgenstern is a fool, little better than a dilettante. Though in fairness, he never meant to hurt you. He merely courted you with gifts he didn’t understand.” He tilted his head, one eye flashing as light slid across his face. “As for my altruism, I wouldn’t call it simple. More a long-term investment. Some day I’ll ask for your help. But for now I want you safe, and away from Carcosa and its king. Can you accept that?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Sands’ mouth quirked, a hint of a smile in the shadows. “You always have a choice. You can refuse to help me, when I ask. Though I hope that you’ll at least consider it. Tonight, however, all I want is to be sure you don’t end up dead in a gutter.”
Blake turned back to the window, leaning his forehead against the glass. The chill soothed the band of pain that circled his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut as they turned onto Lions Gate Bridge; water was the last thing he wanted to see.
Blake dragged a hand across his eyes, pretending it was fatigue instead of tears he fought. “What happened to us at the cabin?” he croaked, swallowing the taste of salt. “Where did the monsters come from?”
“From the dark places between dreams,” Sands said after a moment. “They’re hunters.”
“Hunting who?”
“They came to stop Morgenstern’s invocation. But now—” He