Page 117 of Falling Princess

You promised me. Don’t you dare die.

* * *

Lorcan did not return the next day, nor the next evening. Cata drove me to campus for class and waited at the back of the room. No one dared to say anything about the change. After nearly two years, I remained as socially isolated as the day I’d arrived.

“Do you think he’s okay?” I asked on the return trip home.

“If he’s not okay, we’d have had police on our doorstep by now. That kid can take care of himself.” But there was worry etched on her forehead and a tense set to her shoulders.

* * *

On Thursday morning, I was sleeping lightly and trying to ignore the wan light seeping in around the curtains, when I heard a barely audible click from the front door. I kicked back the blankets and padded down the stairs, only to stop halfway.

Skía. In Cata’s house. I recognized the dark woolen hat, the shapeless black coat, unmemorable in every way, but seared into my mind after the attack in Edinburgh. I made a startled bleat and was about to dash back up to awaken Cata, when he looked up. Cerulean eyes meet mine.

Lorcan.

I darted down the rest of the stairs and tackled him with a hug. He grunted and stumbled back. The fabric of his coat was rough on my bare arms. He smelled of cold air, wet wool and a metallic tang I couldn’t quite place.

“Miss me, Princess?” He sounded strained.

I sobbed and hugged him harder. Lorcan winced.

“You know I did. Where did you go?”

“Manchester.”

I plucked the cap from his head. His hair stood up in every direction.

“Manchester. What, pray tell, were you doing there? Or do I want to know?” He shook his head in refusal. “Let’s get this off you.”

I tugged at his coat. Cata came down then, taking it and the hat and putting them in a paper bag. There’s no point in asking what she intends to do with them. I suspect it involves the fire pit out back.

Beneath his thick sweater, Lorcan’s shirt was stained with blood. Alotof blood. I gasped. “Lorcan. What—”

“I’m fine, Princess.” He staggered a little on his feet. There was a clammy paleness to his skin. He was not fine. Not one little bit.

“Zosh, call Raina. Get her over here, right now. Have Bashir drive her. No cabs.”

Plausible deniability. He cannot be caught for whatever he’s done. I unlocked my pink-cased iPhone and dialed. The clock read 6:03. She picked up on the third ring. I explained the situation in a few terse sentences.

“I’m on my way.”

In the kitchen, I found Lorcan perched on a stool next to the sink, one foot on the floor, the other on the lowest rung, leaning against the counter with one arm. His shirt was off. I haven’t seen him this undressed since the swim season ended.

A raw, red gash ran crossways over his ribs from below his left shoulder blade to the taper of his waist. Blood trickled down in a thick rivulet to the waistband of his pants.

“How—what happened?”

Lorcan glanced over at me. He looked exhausted. If he’s slept since he left us two days ago, it couldn’t have been for more than a few hours. “Skía hideout. I was only supposed to observe, but I went in.” He winced. “Got caught.”

I felt my eyes widen. “How many did you...Wait, I don’t want to know.”

“Five or six.” Lorcan grunted. “I think.”

“I really should not find that admirable, Knight.”

The electric kettle clicked. Cata poured the hot water into a bowl with herbs. “Nasty cut you got there, kid.”

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