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“Shit!”
And yeah. But then the noise from downstairs suddenly elevated, and we were out of time to debate it. “Run,” I suggested.
It was seconded and carried, leading us to pound down the hall and up some more stairs, narrow back ones this time. It looked like they were only used by servants, which was fine—unless we got caught on them with no room to maneuver. But we didn’t, because the guys chasing us were coming from behind, and the few people we saw going up made no effort to hinder us.
Which would have been great—if we knew where we were going.
“Look for guards!” Caleb told me as we passed a tiny landing leading to an expansive hallway. “He’ll have some on his door!”
But there weren’t any guards on any doors on that floor, or the next, or the one after that. I tried to tamp down my panic, but it wasn’t working. This place hadn’t looked so big from the souk, but up close was a different story. It would take hours to search it all, if Rian had even been telling the truth about Pritkin being here, which I wasn’t placing any bets on right at the—
I crashed into Caleb, who had abruptly stopped, one foot on the next flight going up, in order to look at someone down the hall. Not a guard, although the guy was in blue. And not a servant, although he came staggering backward out of a room as if somebody hadn’t liked the dinner entrée.
Or his face, I thought, as Casanova hit the wall and bounced off, only to meet a very familiar fist on the way back to his feet.
“Pritkin!” Caleb and I yelled together, and the irate blond who had just followed Casanova out the door looked up, and then did a double take, fist still clenched. And then clenched the other one as a scowl to beat all scowls spread over his face and took up residence there. He stared at me, and he looked pissed.
Only no, that didn’t really cover it.
He looked like I’d felt when I woke up on that damp, burning hillside, only to find that he’d just given up the independence he’d worked so hard for, had suffered so much for, in trade for my life. When I realized that he’d just destroyed his future to save mine even though I hadn’t asked, and would never have asked, him to. The same impotent, all-consuming, helpless fury was on his face that had been on mine that night and I was suddenly, viciously glad of it.
And then he jerked Casanova off the wall and dragged him inside and we ran after them and slammed the door. Which was stupid, because it wasn’t like everybody didn’t know where we’d gone, and I didn’t think a flimsy piece of wood was going to hold them off for long. But it felt good to slam it, so good that I almost opened it and did it again.
I settled for glaring at Pritkin as he glared back, and dared him to say it. Dared him to tell me off for doing the exact same thing he’d done for me. Dared him to say anything.
“You broke my node!” Casanova screeched.
“You brought her here!” Pritkin said viciously, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Not willingly, you insufferable—”
“Where’s Rian?” I demanded, cutting him off, but staring at Pritkin. He looked different. The hair was longer, to the point it could actually be styled like a normal person’s. He was shaved and his skin looked soft, with a slight shimmer to it like the people’s downstairs. He was wearing some flowy, desert sheik caftan thing in a dark green that highlighted the breadth of his shoulders and brought out his eyes.
He looked terrible.
Pritkin’s idea of a beauty regimen included soap and deodorant; I’d never even smelled cologne on him before. But I was smelling it now, something wild and seductive and—and wrong. Pritkin smelled like sweat. He smelled like burnt gunpowder. He smelled like nasty potion ingredients and too-strong coffee and those little licorice candies he snuck around to eat because he didn’t want to set a bad example for my sweet tooth.
Only not now.
Now he smelled like this place.
Now he smelled like nothing.
“Where do you think?” Casanova said bitterly. “She told me we were coming here to look for John, but as soon as we arrived, she started asking after Rosier. When I demanded to know why, she left me and went to look for him on her own. And stupidly, I tried to warn—”
“I knew it was you,” Pritkin told me, quietly furious. “Before he said a damned word. As soon as I heard the bells, I knew—”
I slapped him. Hard. It came out of nowhere, to the point that I didn’t even realize I was going to do it until his head snapped back, until he was glaring at me over the imprint of my palm on his left cheek.
“I—we’ll talk later,” Casanova said, and slunk off somewhere.
“How’s it feel?” I asked, voice low and shaking. And I wasn’t talking about the slap.
“You—” Pritkin cut off and clamped his lips tight, as if he was afraid if he started he wouldn’t know where to stop. Which was fine by me. My adrenaline was pumping, my pulse was pounding, and anything he could throw—just any damned thing—
Except that, I thought, as I was dragged against a hard chest.
“You son of a bitch—” I began, only to have my voice choked off by something caught in my throat. It wasn’t sentiment. It was too dark for that. I thought it might be hate.
