Page 92 of Stealing Embers
“Oh, yeah, that could be it.”
He’s not wrong. The first time it happened, the Forsaken were about to kill Steel. This time, I was terrified Steel was dying under the weight of those rocks and boulders.
My transformation wasn’t premeditated either time; I simply reacted. In that way, my phasing is similar—I’m most likely to slip into the spectrum world while under duress.
“All right, let’s get you both back. Steel needs to get checked out, and I need to have a talk with Sable.”
“Um . . .” I shake out my wings, still getting used to their weight. “Small problem.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The sun’s bloated orange belly sits on the horizon as the three of us trudge back to the academy. Citrus streaks dash through the sky behind the western range. A dark bruise of clouds rolls in from the east, ready to swallow the last bit of the day’s light.
Steel stomps forward, reminding me of the darkness above. The powder-covered ground muffles his footfalls, but I’m surprised I can’t feel the aftershocks of each impact. He’s that agitated.
It took close to an hour for me to phase out of the spectrum world.
Deacon encouraged Steel to leave several times—his wounds needed tending—but he refused. I have no idea why. I may have been able to phase sooner if he hadn’t been distracting me. By the end of the first half-hour, the fresh blood that had stained Steel’s clothes and trickled down his face was dried and congealed.
Saying he was a morbid sight wasn’t an overstatement.
He’d spent most of that torturous hour pacing, muttering under his breath and putting pressure on his side-wound.
Hovering makes me self-conscious.
Deacon was trying to get me to meditate on the mortal realm—hoping visualization would help me gain control over phasing—when Steel stalked over and sandwiched my face between his palms and ordered me to morph back.
Annoyingly enough, my body obeyed.
The change was blessedly free of pain this time. Heat swept over my form, melting my wings away, but the discomfort was muted. For that, I was thankful.
The moment we phased, Steel snatched his hands back and hoofed it toward the academy. Deacon observed the exchange with a keen eye and stoic silence. After a minute, he pounded after Steel and gestured for me to follow.
We’ve received the silent treatment from Steel the whole walk back. Which I can’t say isn’t nice, but if anyone is allowed to be aggravated, it should be me. Needing Steel for anything is degrading. Both times I morphed, he’s had to help me return to the real world—a fact I hate deep into the depths of my soul.
Skirting the last hill, the rear of the academy comes into view.
“Steel, head to the med wing,” Deacon orders.
Steel throws up a hand to let Deacon know he’s heard him and plods ahead, his strides quickly eating up the space between him and the school’s side entrance. The wooden door creaks when he shoulders it open and disappears without a backward glance.
“I need to talk with Sable,” Deacon explains before following in Steel’s wake.
Thank goodness.
My bones ache and my muscles shake from fatigue and leftover adrenaline. All I want is to find my pillow, kiss it, and sleep for a couple of days.
Rounding the corner of the mammoth building, I plot a course for the main entrance. It isn’t until I’m standing at the bottom of the front steps that I notice a figure. She’s curled in on herself, her head bent over something and leaning against the pillar that supports the archway.
Nova hasn’t seen me yet, and for that I’m glad. It gives me a beat to collect my thoughts.
She’s been a ghost the last few days; when I’ve spotted her, she’s disappeared again before I could reach her. If I was lucky, I’d catch the withering glare she’d lob my way before she vanished.
I want to believe her absence is coincidental, but I know better. Something is off.
I study Nova as I scale the stairs, forcing one foot in front of the other. I long to talk to her as much as I dread it. Since the day two weeks ago that Steel announced his intention to watch over me, there has been a wall between us. Until I find out exactly why, I’m never going to be able to kick it down.
Her feet are resting on the top step and she’s hunched over a book or a pad of paper in her lap. The pencil in her hand drifts in lazy arches, making me think she might be drawing. Her hair is twisted up in a messy knot at the top of her head. Her fingers and the bridge of her nose are smudged with black, and she wears plain black leggings and a muted blue puffy coat that hides most of her curves.