And he’d managed to do that. The problem? No clue where he’d ended up.
And when he’d returned to his corporeal form, he’d also meant to be up on his feet, but he failed at that. He was flat on his back—and not like in a hospital bed, or even the bed he used at Shuli’s. This mattress was ice cold, as if he was outside—
He turned his head. The blurry structure next to him was certainly a big house, and there were all kinds of lights glowing everywhere inside. But it was not Shuli’s white, building-blocks mansion.
Bringing up his hand, he—
Why was his whole arm covered in snow?
Craning his neck, he looked down his body. There was snow on top of him, and as the wind gusted, more of it blew over onto his legs and torso, further dusting his leather jacket—and getting into it. Alarm bells started ringing in his head. How long had he been out here? He’d intended to go to the Brotherhood’s garage downtown to be triaged—which was what you were supposed to do for injuries in the field. That was where Rhamp would have taken Shuli.
Where the fuck was he?
And how many hours had he been here?
Forcing his eyes to focus, he… got nowhere with that.
Shouldn’t he be cold?
As his addled mind struggled to assess his body temperature, he let his head fall back into the snow, and as it lolled into an uncomfortable position he realized he had a far more pressing problem.
The first tip was the subtle whirring sound.
The second was the shifting all around the house: Shutters. Coming down because daylight was like a freight train gunning for Caldwell.
Phone. He needed to get his phone—
Good plan, but he didn’t have gloves on and his fingers were stiff as claws.
“Help…” he croaked out. “Heeelp…”
His voice was so weak it didn’t carry over the wind, and all he could do was watch as the glow through all those windows was gradually reduced.
Until it was gone.
The utter darkness was a shock, even though it shouldn’t have been, and he looked up at the night sky. Clouds had rolled in, and he felt cheated that he couldn’t see the stars or the moon—which was probably proof that he wasn’t thinking right. He needed to get to that house, somehow, not worry about what his last sight was.
Forcing himself to roll over, he threw out his dagger hand and shoved his frozen fingers into the snowpack like they were a grappling hook. Using what felt like the last of his strength, he tried to pull his body forward, but he just brought snow to himself—and the same was true when he tried with his left reach.
He wasn’t a fucking quitter, though.
So he paddled uselessly for a while, packing the shit around his head and shoulders.
Time for a breather.
Turning his head to the side again, he laid his cheek down on the snow, his breath whiffling the flakes—
The light of dawn arrived faster than he expected and he closed his lids. His vision was so bad, it didn’t really matter if they were open, and glaring to the east sure as hell wasn’t going to stop the sun from rising and doing what it was going to do to him: Up in smoke. He was gonna be up in smoke.
Not dissimilar to those fuckinglessers—
Wrath.
The sound of his name was such a surprise, his eyes opened again. For some reason, the sun’s brilliant, blinding light seemed to be right next to him, and this was confusing on so many levels. But also, why would the great glowing ball of death be saying his—
Worry not, son of the King. I shall send her. But in return, you must tell them the truth.
Okay, not the sun as it turned out. And what the fuck was this? “Tell… who,” he wheezed.
