“Ugh. I’m so sorry. Dad wasn’t kidding when he said never cross paths with MagiPol.”

We started walking again.

“So,” I said heavily, “the question, then, is whether Lienna and Kit reported our real address. If they did, we’re screwed.”

“And there might be a guild parked outside our apartment,” Amalia agreed. “But it’s only been, what, thirty minutes since Odin’s Eye crashed our ritual, if that? Their guys are probably all still chasing Ezra.”

“I hope they’re okay.”

“Did you see what those mages did in the basement? They can handle themselves.” Her gaze flicked toward the infernus in my pocket. “I’m more worried about us. How long will Zylas need to get back in fighting shape?”

“I don’t know.” His thoughts had gone quiet after we’d gotten away from Nazhivēr, and as much as my panicky side wanted to prod him mentally every two minutes to make sure he was okay, I resisted.

Remembering Nazhivēr pounding Zylas’s head into the pavement, I shuddered, sweaty and nauseous. “Nazhivēr wasn’t trying to kill Zylas. He knocked Zylas out so he could—could take Zylas’s blood. Why?”

Deep creases formed around Amalia’s mouth. “We were using Nazhivēr’s blood to summon another Second House demon. Could Xever want Zylas’s blood to …”

“To summon another Twelfth House demon?” I finished, horror choking me. “Could he use blood to get around not having the Vh’alyir name’s demonic spelling?”

“Maybe. My dad should never have let that scheming bastard know any part of the Twelfth House name.”

Our dreary apartment came into view, and we let the topic drop as nervous tension crackled between us.

We cautiously circled the building, then entered through the back entrance. All was quiet except for the tenant on the second floor who liked to sing country-music karaoke in the middle of the night. The off-key vocalist grew muffled as we crept up to the third level and cracked open the fire door. The hall was empty.

Clutching my impello artifact, which hadn’t had time to recharge fully since our escape from the museum, I unlocked the apartment door and pushed it open as quietly as possible.

“Meow.”

I jumped half a foot in the air, accidentally knocking the door all the way open. Socks let out another loud meow and rubbed against my ankle as she waltzed past, sighting freedom.

Amalia scooped the kitten up before she could escape down the hall. We exchanged half-fearful, half-relieved looks, then ventured into the dark apartment. We quickly checked the bedrooms and bathroom for intruders, then returned to bolt the door.

“We’re good—for now,” Amalia declared. “We don’t want to linger, but Zylas needs as much time as we can give him.”

“I’ll get him into the shower. You should start packing up.”

Nodding, she disappeared into her bedroom, still carrying Socks, who was squirming impatiently.

In the bathroom, I closed the door before turning on the light, not wanting the telltale glow to leak through the apartment windows, then cranked the shower to its hottest setting. Waiting for the water to warm, I peeked at my reflection in the mirror—my face pale and splattered with red droplets. My hair was matted with blood at the back.

My stomach lurched unhappily. Nazhivēr’s blast had hit me like a truck, but my impact with the pavement might’ve done more damage. I was lucky I hadn’t split my skull open.

I held the infernus up by its broken chain. “Zylas? Time for a hot shower.”

Red flared over the medallion and he took form in front of me. My innards twisted with muted horror—bloody gashes crisscrossed his limbs and his cheek was split from Nazhivēr’s knuckles.

“Vayaaanin,” he slurred, reaching for me—then he pitched forward.

I caught him under the arms, bracing against his weight. He staggered, his tail smacking the wall and the barbs gouging a chip out of the paint.

He pressed his hand to the side of my head. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m okay for now,” I assured him, peering anxiously into his face. His eyes were dark scarlet and his pupils were dilated—way too dilated for the bright bathroom. “Zylas, can demons get concussions?”

“I do not know that word.”

I nudged him toward the tub. “Get under the hot water. You need your strength back.”

He grumbled something incoherent that probably wasn’t English and stepped into the tub. The water turned red with his blood, swirling down the drain in macabre patterns. He stood under the spray for a long moment, then sank down, folded his arms over his upraised knees, and rested his forehead on his arms, water drenching his hair.

I washed my hands, then got out my contacts and a bottle of solution. My head throbbed as I put in my contacts. I tucked their plastic case and the solution bottle in my toiletry bag to bring with me when we left for the safe house.

Gazing at the mirror, I pinched a lock of my blood-caked hair. I couldn’t walk around the Vancouver streets like this. I considered the sink, but it was tiny. Time was of the essence, and the fastest way to clean up was in the shower.

My heart gave an extra hard thump as I shrugged my jacket off and set it on the counter. My sweater followed. I toed off my shoes, then tugged off my socks.

I stood with my fingers on the waist of my jeans for a long moment. Zylas’s face was hidden, still pillowed on his arms. Gulping, I popped the button, unzipped the fly, and pushed my jeans down.

Zylas’s head came up. His unfocused gaze swung to me.

My cheeks flushed as I stepped out of my jeans. “I need to wash off and we don’t have time to take turns.”

He blinked slowly. If he hadn’t been suffering from a head injury, I suspected his reaction might have been different.

I tugged my tank top off, shivering as the steamy air met my bare skin. My sports bra and panties were staying right where they were. I’d just have to change after showering.

Dark scarlet-tinged eyes watched me approach the shower. I tested the water, hissed at the scalding temperature, and fiddled with the taps until it was bearable. Then, teeth gritted, I stepped into the tub in front of Zylas.

Water splashed down on my back and I stuck my hands in my hair, intending to scrub the blood out as quickly as possible—but the instant my hands touched my scalp, agony burst through my battered skull. I gasped, inhaling as much water as air. A violent cough racked me and I staggered, tripping on Zylas’s feet.

I pitched forward, reaching out to catch myself—and came to a sudden stop that made more pain shoot through my skull.

My hands rested on Zylas’s shoulders. His hands were on my hips, steadying me, his fingers pressing into the bare skin above and below the thin strip of my underwear.

I stared at his upturned face, my heart thudding, then hurriedly pushed off his shoulders, checked my balance, and kneeled on the tub floor. I gingerly slid my fingers into my hair and began rinsing the blood away.

Zylas didn’t speak, his gaze roaming over me. Down my front, across my thighs. Back up. Lingering around my midsection. Up a little higher to examine my bra.

My face burned, but I couldn’t get my thoughts in order enough to tell him to quit staring. I gently but hastily scrubbed my hair clean, skipping shampoo so I didn’t get it in the cut, then climbed out of the tub. My head throbbed sickeningly as I grabbed a towel, wrapped it around myself, scooped my things off the counter, and slipped out of the bathroom.