Page 83 of Flickerstate

But I need his help. And he deserves the truth.

I hold my breath. My heart bangs against my ribs.

I push up the sleeve.

Vik’s eyes trace the tooth marks circling my bicep: six open wounds, six domed scabs, and one—the circle’s highest point—like an old-time projector’s light stuttering off and on.

Before he came, I promised myself that if he bolted, I wouldn’t block the door and beg him to stay. I would let him make his choice.

He doesn’t bolt. His jaw muscles coil tight. “When?”

“Before the Academy.”

He thinks. “You heard the rumors about Highwall. You came for the Archive.”

“My dad—” Ghostly images rise before me, all the deaths I saw. “A swarm hit us. He has nine bites.”

Vik hasn’t stopped staring at my marked arm. “Norah…”

“There’s a cure in the Archive,” I say. “There has to be. Highwall was bitten during her Nobel speech—you can almost see it on the video—but she lived for decades afterward. No one with an active bite lives for decades.”

Vik looks so hurt, like my wound has torn something red and vulnerable inside him. “If Highwall had found a cure, why would she keep it a secret? Why would the Academy? Hundreds of thousands of people around the world die from beast-bites every year.”

“You wouldn’t keep it a secret? For any reason?”

He shakes his head.

“Even though the Academy could retaliate if you stole the cure and gave it to a journalist or something? Expel you, sue you, bankrupt your family?”

“It’s something that you—thatmillionsof people need.”

“So you’ll find it for me?” I press. “I mean, you’ll look?”

“Of course.” He stares at the tooth marks in my arm like they’re digging into his own flesh. His hand rises as if to brush his fingers gently over my wound—but he stops, making a fist, like once he touches me, he doesn’t know where it’ll end. “I was worried you were… I don’t know. Not this.” He laughs, ironic and broken. “Ireally wanted to help you.”

“You can,” I tell him.

He nods, shoulders squaring. Determined. It makes me feelstrange,like my guts are snakes that have started slithering around.

“Why aren’t you angry?” I ask.

He frowns. “About what?”

I don’t want to spell it out. But I have to. He needs to understand the risks. “My bite. Being—near you. With a bite.”

His frown deepens, puzzled. “The data on increased risk of death for peoplenearthe bitten doesn’t prove anything. It’s never been conclusive.”

“Right. Which means it doesn’t prove there’snorisk.” I’m speaking quietly—I don’t know where Candace and Bree are, and I don’t want them overhearing this conversation—but a hiss enters my voice. “Besides, nobody cares about data. You saw how everyone treated Candace before they saw her bites were healed.”

Vik’s eyebrows pull together. “Areyouangry?”

Kind of. Apparently. I want him to display a smidge of selfishness, of self-preservation. If he were less generous or less brave, I’d feel less guilty. Also (and this is more embarrassing), I want him to guess that I broke things off because of the bite, not the trials. I want him to declare that he doesn’t care about danger, pledge his devotion, sweep me into his arms, etc.

Judging by his perplexed eyebrows, pledging and sweeping haven’t crossed his mind.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, which is both the truth and a complete dodge. “You’d be doing me a huge favor. You knowthat, right? You know you don’t have to?”

Nowhelooks angry. “I know what a wound means. If I can help, I do have to. Anybody would.”