“You are no captive. You may leave us whenever you see fit. However, we must make haste and leave this place before the soldiers free themselves.”
“I am ready for your fingerprint, m’lord,” Tyrin said.
I strode to the terminal and accepted the portal fatigue charge.
“What is your name?” Tyrin asked.
The boy swallowed the last of his rasher. “Jameson. Jameson Crawford.”
“Can you provide a fingerprint?” Tyrin asked. “Or does your touch destroy electronics?”
Jameson removed his glove. “I don’t have enough juice to zap a fly. I’m drained. Like I was when they brought me here.”
The numerous questions flooding my mind would have to wait until we reached safety. Tyrin helped Jameson accept the charge, and a small crackle of electricity sparked when he touched the screen, but it beeped and ejected a ticket.
I teleported first.
My vision blurred and then reformed around unfamiliar surroundings. This station was cleaner, more modern, and mercifully more populated. I reached for the artifact’s thread and exhaled. Closer. Much closer.
Wardens ushered me off the platform and directed me toward my possessions, but I held my ground, awaiting the others. Jameson materialized a moment later. He managed to remain upright for precisely one heartbeat before his eyes rolled back andhis legs buckled. The nearest warden sighed as though the unconscious child was a personal inconvenience, and the look I gave him must have communicated my thoughts on the matter, because he took a swift step backward.
I mounted the platform and gathered the boy, mindful of his covered hands. He weighed almost nothing.
Tyrin materialized shortly after I moved Jameson, swaying a step. He steadied himself and then joined us. “Thank the Allfather it will only last four hours this time,” he grumbled.
Regardless, adrenaline pumped through my veins, and my muscles tensed. Al Mukalla was no wasteland. The scents and sounds of the busy city, along with its many threats, overwhelmed my exhausted senses. I raised my mental shields and blocked out the background, narrowing my focus to my immediate surroundings.
“We need to find shelter,” I said to Tyrin, keeping my voice low.
“Indeed, m’lord. Let me see what I can do.”
With Jameson asleep over my shoulder, we retrieved our belongings and headed for the exit. The warden stationed at the door had the body of a human, yet he watched our approach with tar pits for eyes.
Tyrin stopped in front of the warden. “Excuse me. Will you please point me to the nearest inn?”
I shifted Jameson’s weight, and the boy’s head lolled against my shoulder.
The warden’s gaze swept over Jameson—taking in the boy’s worrisomely blue feet, the back of his bloody shirt, and the bruise on his exposed cheek—before locking with mine. “Did you do that to the child?”
“No,” Tyrin blurted, leaping to my defense. “He would never?—”
My húskarl needed not to defend me further, because Jameson stirred, then tapped me on the back and said, “Let me down.”
I cautiously lowered him to his bare feet. Sweat beaded across his brow from the exertion of standing on his own two feet, yet he met the warden’s fathomless gaze with nary a flinch when he announced, “They didn’t do this. They rescued me from the wankers that did.”
The warden studied each of us in turn before finally answering. “The Peace Council maintains lodging across the south bridge and on the right.” He opened the door, letting in a blast of sandy humid heat as he pointed us in the right direction. “Look for the green door with the Council seal.”
We thanked him and shuffled out the door.
The morning sun beat down mercilessly, even though high-rises blocked most of its glare, casting shadows across the street. Sand particles coated every visible surface and hung suspended in the air, turning each breath intolerable. Within moments, they collected in the corners of my eyes and settled on my clothes.
Jameson coughed beside me, covering his mouth with a mitten-covered hand as he limped along. “Why’s there so much sand in the air?”
“We must have just missed a storm,” Tyrin replied.
The boy moved as though his own skeleton was conspiring against him, each step a battle between will and failing muscle. I wanted to carry him. Every protective instinct demanded it. But this city set my scales prickling beneath my skin, and instincts of a different kind demanded I keep my hands free and my senses sharp.
The sand was only one assault on my nostrils. Beneath the grit, the humid air carried a dense wall of spice. Cumin, cardamom, and something sharp and unfamiliar lodged in my sinuses and threatened to provoke an undignified sneeze. I pressed my knuckles against my nose and resorted to breathing through my mouth, a solution that merely exchanged one unpleasant sensation for another.
