Page 75 of Because I Killed Him
He replies instantly:“We’ve got Lady Charlotte.”
I sink into the seat, my head tipping back as I let the weight go. My eyes close, opening only once we’re in motion. The Speakeasy shrinks to a smear of amber light as it fades behind us. The farther we drive, the easier it is to breathe. The adrenaline that’s been coursing through me all night finally burns out, and for the first time, I allow myself to believe the danger is over. Charlotte is safe. I’m safe in Edmund’s entourage.
But I don’t feel safe.
I feel something is deeply wrong.
Heat rises under my skin, sharp as a sparking fuse, then vanishes just as quickly, replaced by a wash of deadening cold. Numbness prickles down my arms, stabbing through my hands until even my fingertips tingle with static. My chest feels squeezed. Crushed. My heart beats too slowly, and the world around me is too loud and distant all at once. I try to take a breath, but the air feels too thick in my throat.
That’s when Edmund turns his head toward me. His forehead creases, and his voice sounds muffled, as if he’s talking underwater. “You’re going into shock, Miss Waldsten.”
He dims the cabin lights and slides a hand around my waist, gentlycupping my head to lower me onto the seat. He unbuttons his suit jacket, reaches inside, and pulls a platinum pocket watch from a chain looped through his vest. The watch rattles as he leans over the seat and presses it into my hand. My fingers barely curl around it.
“Hold it tighter,” Edmund says. “Use it as an anchor.”
My body starts to shake, but I squeeze until the platinum’s coldness bites into my skin. I focus on the watch’s midnight blue dial, where rhodium-plated indices gleam under the overhead lights, each set with a brilliant sapphire. The subdials tick in perfect rhythm, tracking nine time zones across the Civilized World.Altimor.I don’t recognize the brand, but the watch keeps me here, even if I feel only half-conscious.
In. Out.I focus on the second hand’s movement, the ridged bezel pressing against my thumb, and the fact that I’m still alive. I didn’t die. Someone else did. My grip on the watch loosens as I struggle to push away the memory of the student’s swinging corpse.
Then the world slips sideways.
And I black out.
A familiar scent draws me back: bergamot, orange blossom, and something bitter beneath. I can’t remember where I first smelled the scent, but I know I hate it. It punches into my skull like a blade, and I gag.
I jerk upright, and my forehead slams into something warm and hard. I think I hear a bone crack. A loud grunt rings out, followed by an even louder curse. I blink through my blurred vision until the shape across from me comes into focus. Edmund is holding a cologne bottle in one hand and his nose in the other. Bright blue blood streams over his fingers, dripping onto the seat.
“I-I’m sorry.” My voice slurs. “Your face was right above—”
“Shit, woman.”
I wince as guilt flares. He tips his head back and tries to slow the bleeding. “I said I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Why were you leaning over me like that?”
Edmund tosses the cologne bottle onto the carpet. “To bring you back before they stuck a toe tag on you.”
“You didn’t have to be close enough to steal my air.”
“Be grateful I bothered to make sure you had air to steal.”
The change in his language finally registers. “I am grateful,” I say. “For your help and for finally speaking to me like a normal person.”
“This is how I always talk.” Edmund pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, chin lifted as he scrubs the blood away.
“I was sure you kept your nose too high in the air for that.”
“Is that why you broke it?” He shoves the handkerchief into his jacket with a grunt. “You will maintain all the rules of formal speech, Miss Waldsten, even if I choose not to.”
I shrug, pretending I’m not irritated enough to duck and roll out of the moving hovercar. “That is not a problem, Mr. Prew.”
While Edmund works to stop the bleeding, I turn away and rub my throbbing temples, vaguely aware of shapes blurring outside. The hovercar is still gliding over a cliffside road, so I was probably out for only a few minutes. Cypress trees rush by, distorted by the salty ocean wind, their branches clawing at the dark. Up ahead, a formation of security drones hovers in a phalanx formation, guarding a massive stone door embedded in the cliff face. The drones’ sensors scan us as we slip through the opening door and descend deep into a mountain tunnel.
I glance around the brightly lit shaft, confused. The Grandmaster University map says the Speakeasy can be reached only by hovership, but that’s clearly false. This road isn’t meant for students or even staff. It’s a secret path reserved for Blues like Edmund, and probably the Coppers as well. But if this road exists, how many more are out there? How many passageways twist beneath the campus, whole arteries of status running parallel to ours, just out of sight?
Nausea hits me, and I let my head fall against the window. I barely notice the sudden weight in my palm until I look down. A tube of rejuvenation cream, left there by Edmund. His nose has stopped bleeding, with only a slight redness remaining.
“Thank you,” I murmur, unscrewing the cap and spreading the cool cream over my injuries. The sting fades as it’s absorbed into numbness.
Edmund nods, retrieves the Altimor pocket watch from the seat beside me, and clips it to his vest. Then he leans back far enough that his shoulders sink into the cushions.
