I continue down the path, leaving campus proper behind me. To my left, the swath of trees that surround the eastern edge of our school starts to thicken. Soon I’ll be nearing the edge along the park and street that leads to Domovoi’s. Still no sight of Roark yet.
What if I don’t find him in time? What if I already missed him?
My lungs burn. The stitch in my side throbs with every pounding step down the sidewalk. A pain worse than my body’s complaints goads me, threatening to tear me apart.
Around the final sweeping turn, the path opens up into the cross street. The trail continues across the way as little more than a dirt jogging path that our track teams use for practices. Suddenly my plan of running after Roark without knowing where I’m going seems a little foolish.
But then, a hint of movement through the trees far ahead of me.
There.
Roark stands by an innocuous tree on the edge of the path. That must be where he’ll pass back into the sídhe. Roark turns and glances at the horizon. It’s nearly dawn now. His back’s to me, but I know that square set of his shoulders, his straightened spine.
He’s leaving me.
“You asshole!” I bellow. It comes out as more of a gasp since I’m sucking for air. Sprinting. I doubt Mom meant literally running, but here I am.
He doesn’t turn. More likely, he just doesn’t hear me.
A car comes down the street, but I don’t slow my pace. Either the car will pass before I hit the street, or I’ll slide over its hood and continue on my way so I can catch Roark before he steps through that damn hidden doorway.
“Roark!” I throw what little air is left in my lungs into the call, willing him to look up. To look back at me.
He jerks. Turns. So fucking stubborn. Unable or unwilling to show me his true face. I know it now.
I point as I bear down on him. “I remember! I remember everything, you son of a bitch!”
He pales. His eyes widen. Those perfect, sneering lips part and—
His mouth twists when the car pulls to a stop in front of him. I don’t know why it’s stopped. Why men are clambering from it. Why they’re wearing ski masks.
The world slows to the rush of blood in my head, my ragged breathing. Too, too silent.
Roark faces the first man who approaches.
I know what happens next. He’ll twist his hand and ice will trap the man. The second guy hurrying in will adjust, but Roark will turn, catch him in mid-step. Probably freeze him and then gut him with the rapier he conjures from thin air. The car will squeal away as the driver flees a losing battle.
Except, when Roark reaches out his hand, the ice doesn’t come. And the first man is wearing leather gloves. He whips an aged chain forward, wrapping it around Roark’s bare neck.
Roark yells and I scream with him, but it’s too late.
The second man swings a heavy, ancient club at the back of his head. The yell cuts off and Roark drops.
The men ignore me. They load Roark into the car.
I reach into the earth and search for the ley line. I need it now, to keep my leg muscles from tearing as I force myself to run faster.
Why isn’t it there?
Cold and fear sap my strength, weaken my knees.
The car drives away. I chase it, yelling uselessly for someone, anyone, to help me. Help him.
God, I’m losing him.
I claw for the ley line, beg for it to help. There’s a sluggish stirring in the depths of the earth.
The car speeds up as it heads down the road. It turns and vanishes from sight.