Page 3 of The Only Way Out Is Up

The door opens after only a million years and Somi sticks his head out. He gives an involuntary jerk backward at the sight of all the blood and swears under his breath.

“Moon above, Taj, are you okay?” He shakes his head before I can answer. “Stupid question. Sorry. Come inside before you wake Spike.”

Too late. There’s a clatter of feet on the stairs, a pair of eyes and a mop of unruly hair at the end of the hall.

“Is that—” Spike cuts off with a squeak when she gets a look at me.

“Go back to bed!” Somi shouts, grabbing me by the arm.

I want to shake him off, but now that I’ve made it back all the strength seems to have drained out of me. It’s all I can do not to hang off him as we limp inside. It’s clear I’m not going to manage the stairs, so we settle for the big metal table in the kitchen.

“What happened?” Spike says, ignoring Somi’s instructions and following us in.

“Got stabbed,” I deadpan.

“By a Twisted?”

I wince as Somi shifts my legs up onto the table. “Nah, it was an elf riding a unicorn.”

Spike rolls her eyes, too old at age twelve to believe in fairy stories. Somi leans forward and picks at the charred edges of my armored trousers around the wound.

“This looks burned,” he mutters.

“Lost a bit of blood,” I say. “Figured I’d be better off not losing any more.”

He sucks in a breath. “That’ll heal ugly.”

“What’s one more scar?”

Somi frowns, clearly disapproving of my flippant tone. He glances at Spike.

“Make yourself useful and grab the sewing kit from my bedroom.” He picks a big knife from a rack, and she gives a gulp and darts away. Somi sighs and starts carefully cutting the trouser leg away from the wound.

“Don’t say it,” I mutter.

Somi doesn’t look up. “I’m not saying anything.”

“I can hear you thinking it.”

“Maybe you should use your psychic powers to keep yourself from getting stabbed.”

“Fucker was hiding in the wall. Even Star missed it.”

Somi lets out a shuddering breath. “Moon and stars, Taj—”

“I’ve got it!” Spike sings out from the doorway. “If Taj dies, can I have his room?”

“He’s not going to die,” Somi growls.

“But yes,” I say.

Somi snatches the battered toolbox from Spike’s hands and glares at her. “Upstairs.”

This time, she decides not to cross him. He flips the box open and roots around.

“Seriously,” I venture, “if—”

“Shut up.” He shoves a steel rod wrapped in leather into my mouth, already stippled with the bite-marks of previous patients. “And hold still.”