The stairs are a challenge. My injured leg won’t take my full weight, so I have to climb one agonizing step at a time with my good leg, dragging my bad one up behind. We encounter nothing on our way up, but as soon as we reach the next floor we’re caught in the vortex of the battle. The Drau are so numerous and so bright here that the humans fighting them are merely dark silhouettes that pirouette and surge and dance away.
There’s no time, no chance to make a plan. There’s only me with a stranger at my back, shooting, turning, shooting again, trying to stay on my feet even though my thigh’s screaming in agony with each step I take.
I don’t know where Luka and Tyrone are, or Lien and Kendra.
Or Jackson.
I don’t even know if he’s here. But if he is, if he was sent here to this version of hell, I can only hope he’s safe.
Instinct makes me duck. Too late. I arch back, my arms surging up, and pain gouges my back, my spine. I’ve been hit. I turn. Tom’s going down, crumpling to the ground. Light comes at me. Adrenaline slams me like a train.
Grabbing the hilt of my sword, I drag it free of its sheath once more. My attack lacks finesse and any pretense of skill. I hack, I chop—ugly, short movements that get the job done. And still they come. The more I cut down, the more surge forward to take their places.
Their weapons discharge, shards of light piercing me, making me scream, the agony searing clear through my flesh and muscle and bone.
I sink to my knees, and still I fight.
My head jerks up and in that never-ending second, I see the Drau in front of me lift its weapon. I see the flare of the muzzle, burning bright. It fills my vision, fills my mind. I’m frozen, too shocked to even be afraid. I don’t want to die here, kneeling on the floor. I don’t want to die.
The bright surge comes straight at me and there’s nowhere for me to hide.
Then a shadow blocks the light.
“Miki!”
The shadow is Jackson, throwing his body in front of mine, taking the full brunt of the hit in the dead center of his chest.
My heart stops.
Jackson.
He stands there for a second, not moving, not making a sound, and then he crumples to the ground as if his bones have turned to paper.
“Jackson!”
He doesn’t answer. He just lies unmoving on the floor in front of me.
A red haze rushes across my vision. Hatred rushes through my heart. With a scream, I come to my feet and shoot and shoot. The lights snuff. Another. Another. I’m like a beast guarding her injured mate, snarling and feral, shooting and hacking at any threat. Until there is nothing left to shoot. Nothing left to kill.
Panting, I stand in a sea of broken chunks of furniture and fallen walls and bodies that lie still and lifeless. The rush of adrenaline that kept me on my feet ebbs. My leg collapses under me. I reach down and feel the swelling through my jeans. I think my femur’s broken, and I don’t even know when, or how, that happened. Maybe when the chunk of desk hit me.
It doesn’t matter. All that matters is Jackson.
I scooch forward, gritting my teeth against the pain.
“Jackson,” I say, glancing around, wary of attack. But nothing moves. No people. No Drau. Not a sound. Nothing. “Jackson,” I say again, the word broken, my voice broken. But he doesn’t answer.
With a groan, I shift so I can reach his head. I turn his face toward me. His glasses are gone, knocked off at some point in this fight. Or maybe he took them off. Maybe he used his Drau eyes against them. Sweat and dirt streak his face. His hair is matted. Blood traces a thin line along his cheek. To me, he is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
I reach for his neck and lay my fingers there, holding my breath, willing to give anything if I can just feel a—
Yes. There. Weak and slow, but there, a pulse.
The sound that escapes me is part sob, part cackle.
I grab his wrist and turn it so I can see his con.
Horror congeals in my gut. It’s almost red. No, that’s not true. No almost about it. It’s red with maybe the faintest hint of orange clinging at the edge. He’s dying. Jackson’s dying.
I look around, panicked, ready to cry for help. From whom? Who will help us? I don’t even know if there’s anyone left alive. Luka? Tyrone? My heart feels like it’s been shoved through a meat grinder.
“Jackson,” I say again, holding his cheeks between my palms.
His eyelids flutter. Tears blur my vision. Then his eyes open and he’s staring up at me.
“Miki,” he breathes, and the edge of his mouth curls in a whisper of a smile. “You’re okay.”
I’m not. I’m not okay. I’ll never be okay if he dies here in my arms.
“Don’t you die on me. Don’t you fricking die on me,” I snarl.
“Tsss . . . language . . .” His eyelids close. “What . . . makes you . . . think . . . you get a . . . choice?”
My heart stops. “Jackson!” I tap his cheeks. “Jackson!”
His eyelids flutter open again and I stare into his beautiful eyes. Drau eyes, which can steal energy. Eyes that saved him once before.
“Look at me,” I order, my voice hard as diamond.
His eyes widen, and he holds my gaze.
“You take what you need. Do you hear me, Jackson Tate? You take what you need.”
For a second, I think he doesn’t understand what I mean, and then he does. His expression turns to one of horror.