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“He needs my help. I feel it. I can’t—I can’t lose him.”
She gets to her feet, standing nearly eye to eye with him, and grips his arm briefly. “You’ll always be welcome with us.”
He nods sharply. “I know. And I’m sorry to leave again.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Myra says, her dark eyes understanding. “Go on. I’ll tell the others.”
He doesn’t linger. His premonition snaps like a whip at his heels, and the relief when he finally scrabbles up the side of the dune and back toward the city almost chokes him. He was alone for years. Then he met Branok and the world seemed to spin into sharp relief—as King of Hell, Branok gave him purpose, fed his hunger, drew him out of the aether. But Branok cared little for the inner lives of those he used, and Nur’s existence was empty of true purpose.
The wind whips the sand into a frenzy as he skids down the dune. If he loses Arsene it will all be for nothing—he’ll be alive, but to live what life? He should be by Arsene’s side to cut down his enemies. To walk across the desert with him. To laugh in his Council’s face. And then, finally, to be free together. That’s his purpose.
The city is dark,lit only by the stars. The errant wind howls as it tears through the empty ruins, chasing Nur like a ghost. Nur walks through the shadows of buildings, away from open spaces that suddenly feel vulnerable. If his premonition is true, whatkind of trouble is Arsene in? It could be anything. He stays alert, even though the city appears empty.
The bond leads him straight into the crater at the heart of the city. He clambers down the bowl through rubble and chunks of half-melted steel, the tug pulling him on. Halfway down the crater, Nur gets the feeling he’s being watched. No gleam of life is visible in the aether. Whoever it is remains well hidden from him. Still, his senses stay on alert.
At the bottom of the crater Nur loses the trail, distracted by the invisible presence of whatever is tracking him. His stalker keeps their distance, never close enough to identify. Nur tries to shake off his concern as he searches for any trace of Arsene. Wherever Arsene isnow—beneath the earth—pulls him in one direction. But he needs to find where Arsene wasbefore, where he entered the underground.
As he searches, the wind shifts, and a faint but familiar scent comes to him.
Primus.
Not Arsene—a different primus. But the scent is wrong. Sour.
He’s dogged, searching the basin of the crater for hints of Arsene’s movements. Slowly, the sky lightens. The strange primus scent fades away, along with the feeling of being watched. His perseverance pays off—traces of his mate whisper to him, leading him to and fro. And finally, to a long, low hump, unassuming amid the rest of the wreckage. Disturbed sand around its base betrays footprints from a pair of familiar boots. On one side the metal wall has been peeled open to reveal velvety black. Barely big enough for an angel as broad and tall as Arsene to crawl inside.
Plenty big enough for Nur to slip through without trouble, though.
Inside the bunker silence reigns. Nur finds his way by touch, not eager to light a torch and broadcast his location. He has noneed to see where he’s going—he lived in the dark for a long time.
He sheds his exhaustion like a second skin and lets instinct take over. For a few hours longer, he can be a hollow. He can slink through the dark and let instinct guide him.
In the black, with nothing to distract him, his premonition grows to an unbearable pressure behind his ribs. It has to be connected to the other primus he scented, but the answer remains frustratingly out of reach. Why would a primus be here? He stalks the maze of interconnected halls, quickly losing track of where he’s been and where he’s going—but it’s fine. A hollow doesn’t care about the past or future. Only the now. His prey, the beautiful soul he saw once, half out of his mind with agony, and longed to taste.Keep him safe, safe, safe,his heart thunders in his ears, deafening him. He hurries on, heedless of stealth now. Debris clatters underfoot. The bond pulls him back and forth.
Where is he?
Then his fingers hit a wall.
He stumbles to a stop, feeling his way along the obstacle. It’s a dead end. There’s a wide metal door in the middle that’s cold to the touch. His heart slams against his ribs, his intuition howling.Here? Is he here?he tries to ask, but there’s too much noise in his head. His foolish senses!
“Damn it,” he growls. The noise echoes back down the hall rhythmically—it, it, it.
Except it’s not an echo. It’s the snap of footsteps on concrete.
Chapter 47
NUR
Caught up in his search,he didn’t notice his shadow return.
He curses, fumbling at the door. There’s no mechanism he can find to open it—his hands fly over the featureless steel, claws scraping the metal. He scrabbles along the seam for a hint, but it’s inscrutable. The tapping grows louder, accompanied by a scrape
Heart twisting to and fro, he claws at the edges of the door to no avail. He has nothing—no weapon, no recourse—and he may as well face his stalker in the light.
The torch flares to life, illuminating the corner he’s trapped in. Featureless concrete stretches before him, then the hallway ends in a T. The door is just as he thought: flat, with no handle or hinge. He slams his palm into it and it gives off a deep ring that ricochets off the walls.
“Arsene!”
The footsteps rise and fall—first moving away, then closer.
