Page 18 of Storm Caller

I spy a lone Keeper approaching a group of soldiers. She moves in that slow, stilted way, her eyes shining like amethyst fireflies.

They surround the woman while giving her space.

I notice the glint of a needle. Someone carefully approaching. A moment later, the Keeper goes limp, collapsing to the ground. The group scatters, moving toward the next attackers while someone remains behind to tie up the unconscious Keeper.

“What will they do with her?” I ask as the soldier picks the woman up and slings her over his shoulder.

“We have facilities for them,” Rook says. “Somewhere safe they can go.”

“Facilities?” Skepticism colors my voice. We have facilities, too. Claiming it’s somewhere safe sounds a lot like Extinguisher language.

“They’re not like the ones in the city,” Rook says, clearly reading my thoughts.

“Okay,” I say, not sure if I believe him.

“C’mon,” Rook says. We reach another hatch buried in the ground. He drops to his knees and starts turning the crank. It eases open with a hiss, and then he lifts the top.

“This way,” he says. A ladder leads into a dimly lit space.

“Really?”

“Just until the attack is over,” he answers. “Please.”

I don’t really want to climb into a strange, dark hole, but I guess I have no choice.

With some difficulty, thanks to my injury, I lower myself and snake down the ladder, dropping onto a concrete floor before I sag against a cold cinderblock wall.

Rook follows a moment later, closing the hatch behind him before jumping down.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut.

“I’ll be fine. I just need to sit.”

He slides his hand in mine, tentatively enough to feel like a nervous gesture. I look up, staring at our linked fingers and then at him. It’s warm and safe. Exactly what I need right now. His solid presence. His confidence. Just . . . him.

But I almost snatch my hand back.

He must notice me flinch, because a question passes over his expression.

After a moment of hesitation, I leave my hand where it is. Maybe it’s a foolish thing to do, but I can’t find the will to pull our fingers apart.

“Lead the way,” I say softly.

He nods, relief replacing his uncertainty. I want to tell him this hand-­holding thing is only temporary because I’m hurt and scared and confused. But I don’t.

Then we’re winding down a narrow hallway lit with caged bulbs.

“Rook,” I say as we walk. “Can you please tell me something? What’s going on?”

He stops and looks up and down the hallway. It’s empty as far as I can see.

Then he leans in close, and I back up, hitting the wall. He places his palms on either side of my head and tips in closer, his mouth against my ear.

He clenches his jaw before saying, “I never meant for any of this to affect you, Poet Graves. I thought I’d go into New Manhattan and get out. Then you came along and . . . Well, things didn’t go entirely to plan.”

His body presses against mine, his solid warmth protecting me from the tunnel’s cold air.

“You’ve entered the Tiera Frais. A land built from the ashes of the Wastes and centuries of struggle. Scattered across the continent, you’ll find numerous encampments, plus the Kindred in the wilds, and the Neo-Cities that thousands call home.