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Tromping through the drifts was vaguely satisfying; the cornstarch crunch of her boots in the snow was virtually the only sound she could hear, and even her enhanced senses didn’t overreact to that. Skye curved around the school grounds, grateful that the staff had thoroughly salted the paved path and steps. All she had to do was cut through Battlefield Gorge, and she’d be at Café Keats within seconds. The only reason she couldn’t already see it was the blinding snow—
He’s scared, he doesn’t know what to do, war isn’t like this in the books or the prints Mama showed him. There are no straight lines, there is no one telling him what to do. There are only men running at him to kill him, and he has to kill them or else. Why did no one tell him how sad he would feel to kill someone?
Damned musket! The whoreson thing won’t reload and the damned frogs are on him now!
The bullet through his head feels like a blow—like his mother boxing his ears—but he doesn’t die right away. He has time to put one hand to the side of his head, or where the side of his head used to be, before the real pain begins and turns the world black.
Skye staggered back, assaulted on every side by the visions of soldiers (in red coats, in blue, some Native Americans in homespun) shooting, being shot, knifing, being knifed, screaming in pain that shot through her in waves.
Battlefield Gorge, she thought. She’d known it her whole life and never thought about it twice. Never once had she wondered how it got that name.
The paths of the bullets through her body were bright, hot lines of pain. The terror and fury and agony of the dying rose up inside her, a thousand times worse than anything else her powers had ever shown her.
Skye couldn’t see, couldn’t think. She was neither conscious nor unconscious; her mind no longer belonged to her. She didn’t even have the strength to keep herself from toppling over into the thick snow. The flakes fell faster, it seemed, the better to cover her forever.
Chapter Nineteen
“YOU OWE ME ONE FOR THIS, MISTER,” RICK BOLlINGER said as he took over study hall from Balthazar.
“Name your price.” Balthazar kept a smile on his face, but all he could think of was how badly he needed to get out of this school now, right now.
“How about, oh—hmmm—chaperoning the Valentine’s Dance?” Rick suggested, mock innocently.
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“That’s me. The consigliere of Darby Glen High.”
“Fine. I’ll do it. Thanks again.” Balthazar managed to leave the library and let the door shut behind him before he broke into a run.
The shortcut, the shortcut—that had to be the gorge. None of the kids went that way because it wasn’t cool or something like that. That meant nobody would be there to help Skye, as if they even could. It was up to him.
He didn’t even tug on his coat until he had dashed halfway down the walk leading to the gorge. The cold didn’t matter; he didn’t care if he froze. But he needed his hands free to fight for her.
As he stood at the edge of the gorge, though, he realized that no other vampires were near; he hadn’t felt them. Then his sharp eyes picked out a patch of color amid the nearby snowdrifts—the sapphire blue of Skye’s winter coat.
Balthazar ran toward her, the scene unveiling slowly before him because of the snow: Skye lay unconscious (not dead, please not dead) just off the path in the hollow of the gorge. He saw no blood, nor any sign of a struggle. It was as if she’d simply fallen over—fainted dead away.
Someone must have died nearby, and died horribly enough for it to have overwhelmed her. Balthazar reached her, went on his knees, felt for her pulse at her throat. Skye was alive.
Relief washed over him, not enough to submerge his fear but enough to focus him again on action. Balthazar swept her up in his arms and ran with all his speed toward his car. He needed to keep her with him. To keep her safe.
Skye remained unconscious the whole way back, even after Balthazar had placed her on his bed and started the fire, but her breathing was deeper and more even. He thought now she was more asleep than knocked out, and that her body probably needed the rest.
After shaking off his snow-wet coat, Balthazar reclaimed his phone and called the person who had warned him that Skye was in danger.
“Balthazar?” Lucas sounded tense. “Did you find Skye?”
“Found her. She hadn’t been attacked; it was another of her visions, I think. Skye’s still unconscious, but I think she’ll be all right after she warms up and rests a little.” Balthazar breathed out heavily. The need to sigh didn’t go away with the need to breathe.
“You sound shaken up. Sure everything’s okay?”
“I’m not sure of anything. But—she took a risk today. Because of me, I think. If she’d gotten hurt today, or if she’d—if anything worse had happened, it would be my fault.”
“Mea maxima culpa, huh?”
Balthazar frowned. “Since when do you speak Latin?”
“I did go to Evernight for a while, remember?” Now Lucas sounded more amused than anything else. “It’s just interesting how much you’re beating yourself up about this.”
