Rowan (Worldwalker 1.50)

Lillian is running away from me, bounding along on her toes in her peculiar way. She runs like a deer, buoyant and graceful, and she’s surprisingly fast for someone so fragile. I chase her, even though it doesn’t make any sense. I haven’t laid eyes on her in a year and I can’t stop myself from following her.

This is crazy. She’s darting from street to street, zigzagging and backtracking like she has no idea which way to go. Where’s her guard? Her mechanics? And what the hell is she wearing?

The streets seem impossibly full of pedestrians all of a sudden, and I lose her. Clever thing—she must have ducked down somewhere. I’ve just passed a nearly deserted alley and I double back. I see a drainage grate up ahead. The refuse around it has been recently disturbed. I slow down to a walk, trying to gather myself. I need to think. Why is Lillian hiding in a filthy hole? And why do I care?

I take a deep breath and let it out, praying for strength. Why is this happening today? Waking with Lillian on my mind is an everyday occurrence, so why did the Great Spirit pick today to twist the knife?

“You know you can’t hide from me, Lillian,” I say. She doesn’t respond, so I reach into her hiding place and scoop her out with my hands. Her skin is clammy and cold. I can’t remember her skin ever being cold before.

I place her on her feet but I’m not sure she’s going to be able to stand on them for much longer. Her eyes can’t focus and her head is lolling on her neck. Her cold skin heats up in an instant, and now she’s burning.

“Who are you?” she asks.

I could strangle her. What game is she playing? “You know damn well it’s me.” Her green eyes are blank. “Rowan,” I say, in case she can’t see straight.

Is she drugged? Her pupils are dilated and I can feel her heartbeat skipping around unevenly. “What did you take, Lillian? Bellad

onna?”

Nothing. She doesn’t understand me. I’ve never seen her like this before. I should throw her back into that drainage ditch, but I can’t. She’s so weak and there’s something off about her. I run my hands over her face, scanning her body. My willstone throbs to be near her again; her dark river of power flows so close to my thirsty stone. I want to dive into her. I need to calm down and go slowly.

I ease into her and hit a giant wall. I’ve never tried to scan her with this new willstone and it feels awkward, like when you put a favorite shoe on the wrong foot. I’m not her mechanic or her claimed anymore, but I’ve scanned lots of people who are not my stone kin. This isn’t normal. Is she blocking me, or is she blocking herself? Her body is obviously reacting to something—erratic pulse, dilated pupils, hot and cold flashes—but I can’t find what it is. There are no toxins in her system. It almost feels like she’s rejecting the pollen in the air, but how can that be? Lillian’s known how to process pollen since she was a kid.

I need to see her willstone. I trace my fingers down her neck and search for the chain so as not to actually touch her stone. I don’t want to be too tempted. I hate that my fingers are shaking, but I haven’t held her stone since that last time we made love. Memories of her skin, her scent, and her sighs are coming thick and fast. Focus, jackass.

I can’t find a chain. I pass my hands down her sides, feeling the pockets of her strange cotton breeches. It’s not there. Her willstone isn’t on her. I feel queasy. No wonder she’s disoriented—I can’t believe she isn’t screaming in pain.

“Where’s your willstone?” I ask, pitching my voice low to keep it steady. How is she even conscious right now?

“Help me, Rowan? Please,” she says.

She’s never said “please” to me in her life. Whenever she wanted something from me she just took it. What is she trying to pull? It won’t work. Not this time. I’ve always followed wherever she’s led, and look what it cost me. I bet she swallowed her willstone to make herself seem like a victim. Then she runs to the same café I go to pretty much every morning, looking desperate and vulnerable. She’s depending on the fact that I’d do anything to protect her and comfort her. That I’ll fix whatever mess she’s gotten herself into like I always did before. Before she murdered my father.

I’m so angry all I see is a white blur. I stab my finger into the bundle of nerves at the base of her throat, knocking her out. Whatever it is she wanted to get from me by staging this whole chase-and-wounded-bird act, I’m not going to give it to her. I’m not the same person I was a year ago.

Lillian’s body goes limp and for a moment I consider letting her thump onto the pavement. Let her wake up with a couple of bruises. But at the last second I catch her and gather her up in my arms.

Oh shit. I’ve just rendered the Salem Witch unconscious. There’s bound to be a law against that. I glance up the alley. People hurry past on the busy main road, oblivious. So far this little encounter has gone undetected, but that stroke of good luck isn’t going to last much longer. Where is her guard?

I have to get her off the street, and there aren’t that many places I can take her. She ran in the opposite direction from my place, but Tristan’s is close. I’d have to take her out onto a crowded boulevard to get to him, but running into foot traffic can’t be helped now. It’s rush hour.

I try to tip her head toward me as I carry her so that at least her face is pressed close to my chest. Her bright hair is everywhere. It obscures some of her features, but it’s also like a beacon, drawing stares. As I hurry past, I see people look at me, recognize who I am, then glance down at the slight redhead in my arms and make the obvious connection.

Their confusion, coupled with the reverence they have for the Salem Witch, is what keeps anyone from stopping me. Still, I move fast, before someone gets it in their head to summon the guard.

Four blocks later, and I’m at Tristan’s building. I don’t have a free hand so I reach out to him in mindspeak.

Wake up.

Go away, Rowan. I’m busy.

Tell her you forgot about an appointment. This is important.

He tries to block me out, but Tristan doesn’t have a fraction of my talent. I don’t stop pestering him until he comes down. He pulls open the door with a blanket wrapped around his bare waist. When he sees me his expression pinwheels from angry to confused to terrified in a moment.

“You crazy son of a—” he says as I barrel past him with Lillian in my arms.

I carry her up to Tristan’s apartment and dump her on his couch. It’s easier to just show him what happened this morning rather than tell him, so I share the memory while he and I look down on Lillian’s inert body. Of course, the girl he brought home the night before picks that moment to come out of his bedroom.