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“Karoly was in Paris,” Moreau emphasized. Ripping off my other wing. “But he left without trying to rescue you. You’re on your own, Zaquiel.”
I dug my fingers into the armrests. “I see.”
“Bien.” He reached for his cigarette again. “So, do we have an agreement?” He blew another smoke ring.
I waited until the smoke spread out and disappeared before replying. Saving face by pretending to think it over. We both knew I didn’t have any choice but to accept. “Yes.”
Moreau gave a small smile. “Reaper will go with you, of course. To make sure you reach New York without any…difficulties.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Nevertheless, you may need help.”
Like hell. Moreau wanted to send her to spy on me.
“No. If I show up with a slayer, my father won’t let me get within a mile of him.”
“This isn’t a negotiation. You’ll do as I say.”
I opened my mouth to tell him no fucking way.
Reaper stirred. “This is non-negotiable, Zaquiel. Don’t worry, no one will know I’m with SI.” She bent over and murmured in my ear, “You need my help, you ass. In the shape you’re in, how far do you think you’ll get?”
She was right. I gave in, for now, anyway. “Fine. She can come with me.”
“We’ll leave ASAP.” Reaper drew me to my feet and urged me to the door.
After that, things became a blur. Blaise and Ines escorted us back to my cell and left, closing the door behind them. The adrenaline that had carried me through the interview with Moreau evaporated. I leaned my back against the wall and slid to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut, my legs too weak to support my weight any longer.
Reaper stared down at me, her brows a ferocious inverted vee. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
I rested my head against the concrete. “Don’t worry, slayer. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
I don’t know how long she was gone, because as soon as the door shut behind her, I curled up on the floor, dozing. When she reappeared, she’d changed into a gray T-shirt and green tactical pants and covered her short blond hair with the ugly brown wig from the airport. She had a backpack slung over one shoulder and an open bottle of blood-wine and two sandwiches.
I sat up and reached for the food, but she shook her head, setting it on the floor.
“Let’s clean your wrists first.” She showed me a bottle, telling me it was filled with a salt-water solution. “The salt will wash away the silver and neutralize it.”
I nodded, because I knew that. I also knew it was probably too late—the silver was all through my body now.
She helped me to the sink and uncapped the bottle. “Ready?”
“Do it.” I stuck my hands out.
The salt water hurt like a sonuvabitch, but I gritted my teeth and bore it. Fuck if I’d let her see how much pain I was in.
But she knew—and she rolled her lips in like it upset her.
She finished and waited until I sank back to the floor. “Here.” She handed me the wine and one of the sandwiches. “But make it fast. I don’t trust Moreau not to change his mind.”
I unwrapped the sandwich. My mouth watered. She’d brought a big, juicy burger—rare. My stomach growled, and my damn hands started shaking. I was so weak and hungry. The blood-wine I’d drunk hadn’t been nearly enough.
I wanted to shovel the whole burger into my mouth at once, but I hadn’t forgotten how I’d almost thrown up the wine. So instead, I took a small bite. The flavor exploded in my mouth. The juices ran down my throat.
I swallowed a groan of pure animal pleasure and took another cautious bite.
On the third bite, my shriveled stomach protested. Nausea washed over me. I stopped eating and concentrated on breathing.
