Page 82

Silver had made him the Page of Swords to build bridges with humanity, or so he’d claimed. Adam wasn’t certain that the king understood that bridges worked two ways. They were holding back on him—he felt certain of it—and it made his scars itch that he couldn’t fully trust them.

The panel beside the apartment door began to beep as soon as he opened it. He’d forgotten to check the app to see if someone was waiting for him.

He wanted to freeze, but he only had a minute to turn off the alarm. Forcing himself to take a breath, Adam punched in his birthday but it kept beeping.

Oh yeah, the pound sign.

He pressed it, but the thing kept beeping. He took a breath. It hadn’t been a full minute. What would happen if it passed? Would the system call the police? Vic?

Adam entered the code and hit the pound sign without pause.

The light on the panel turned green and the system fell silent.

Shit.

It hadn’t gone off. He’d gotten to it in time.

The system might help when he got used to it. It wasn’t like he didn’t appreciate what Vic was trying to do, but in some ways having the alarm and the app—all of it just made the situation worse. It was a constant reminder of Wilcox and the hotel.

And still he hadn’t checked to see if he was safe.

Bringing up his phone, Adam confirmed that no one had entered the apartment since they’d left.

Still, he wandered from room to room, checking the closet and behind the shower curtain for lurking killers.

Confident that he was alone, he texted Jodi.

Hey. How is she doing?

We’re at her place. She’s better, but still pretty shaken up.

Thank you for being there for her.

Of course. Let me know if anything happens.

Obvs.

Adam showered and realized his shirt was toast. The hole from the banshee’s cut couldn’t be mended, even if he could have gotten the blood out. It marked the back of his jeans too, but he really didn’t want to throw them out. He’d try scrubbing the stain after soaking it in cold saltwater.

“This,” he said to the laundry basket, “is why Batman wears black.”

The joke did not lift his spirits.

He wiped the steam from the mirror and twisted to get a look at his new scar. A nickel-sized ring of angry red marked his back. Adam shrugged. What was one more in the growing gallery? The lines on his chest and arms were pale now, almost white. At least the cut on his forehead hadn’t left a mark.

This was one of those moments when he’d force a hug from Spider, but the cat was out, having slunk off through the planes to do whatever psychopomps did.

There was homework. Always. Or he could rally and go talk to the Lost Ones. He should check on Lily. Carl had said she was sick. That was what a hero would do, which is what everyone kept calling him, but his confidence had fled and taken his motivation with it.

Adam pulled on a sweatshirt so he didn’t have to look at his scars and soft pajama pants with a dancing skeleton pattern before flinging himself onto the bed.

Time passed. He could nap, but didn’t.

He could write it all down in his book of shadows, his journal.

The entry could start with Dear Diary, I killed two banshees today . . .

Writing anything by hand did not appeal in the moment.