placated him. Turner the Eagle Scout.
As soon as the first drop hit her eyes, she knew she’d made a bad miscalculation. She felt instantly energized, ready to move, act, but the basso belladonna did nothing to ease the pain, only made her more aware of it. She could feel the places where her broken bones were pressing that they shouldn’t, where the blood vessels had burst, the capillaries ruptured and swelling.
The drug was telling her brain that everything was okay, that anything was possible, that if she willed it, she could heal herself right now. But the pain was shrieking panic, banging on her awareness, a fist against glass. She could feel a splinter starting, her sanity like a windshield that wasn’t meant to break. She’d been called crazy countless times, had sometimes believed it, but this was the first time she’d felt insane.
Her heart was thundering. I’m going to die here.
You’re fine. Through how many late nights and long afternoons had she said that to someone who’d smoked too much, swallowed too much, snorted too much? Breathe through it. You’re fine. You’re fine.
“Meet me on Tilton,” she told Turner, pushing to her feet. He was beautiful. The basso belladonna had lit his brown skin like a late-summer sunset. Light bounced off the short stubble of his shaved head. Medication, my ass. The pain screamed as her broken ribs shifted.
“This is a terrible idea,” he said.
“The only kind I have. Go on.”
Turner blew out an exasperated breath and went.
Alex’s hyped-up mind had already plotted a route down the back hall and out onto the rickety landing. The air was cool and moist against her fevered skin. She could see every grain of the weathered gray wood, feel sweat blooming on her cheeks and turning cold in the winter air. It was going to snow again.
Down the little row of steps. Just hop them, said the drug lighting up her system.
“Please shut up,” gasped Alex.
Everything seemed to be coated in a smooth, silvery sheen, painted in high gloss. She forced herself to walk instead of run, her bones scraping against each other like a violin bow. The blacktop of the alley behind Tara’s apartment glittered, the stink of garbage and piss like a thick, visible haze that she had to push through as if she were underwater. She passed between two row houses and onto Tilton. A moment later, a blue Dodge Charger rounded the corner and slowed. Turner hopped out and opened the back door, letting Alex slide into the back seat.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Il Bastone. The house on Orange.”
It was almost worse to lie down and stop moving. All she could think about as she sank into the new-car smell of Turner’s leather seats was the pain rolling through her. She stared at the bits of sky and rooftop passing by the window, trying to follow their path to Il Bastone in her head. How much longer? Dawes would be there. Dawes was always there, but could she help? It’s my job.
“Oculus isn’t answering her phone,” said Turner. Was Dawes in section? Somewhere in the stacks? “What was I seeing back there?” he asked.
“Told you. Portal magic.” She said it with confidence, though she couldn’t really be sure. She’d thought portal magic was used for traveling big distances or entering secure buildings. Not getting the jump on someone in a beatdown. “Portals are Scroll and Key magic. I thought Tara and Lance might be dealing to them because of Colin Khatri. And Tara’s tattoo.”
“Which one?”
“Rather die than doubt. From Idylls of the King.” She had the strange sense that she’d taken Darlington’s place. Did that mean he’d taken hers? God, she hated being this high. “Lance said something when he was kicking the crap out of me. He wanted to know who hurt Tara. He didn’t do it.”
“Do I need to remind you that he’s a criminal?”
Alex tried to shake her head, then winced. “He wasn’t bullshitting me.” In the panic and fear of the attack, she’d thought she was being hunted again, like with the gluma. But now she wasn’t so sure. “He was interrogating me. He thought I’d broken in.”
“You did break in.”
“He wasn’t there for me. He came back to the apartment for something else.”
“Yeah, let’s talk about that. I explicitly told you not to go anywhere near—”
“Do you want answers or do you want to keep being an asshole? Lance Gressang didn’t kill Tara. You have the wrong guy.”
Turner said nothing and Alex