Chapter 7

  He’d learned all he could from the safety of his room. Now it was time to live a little, to test what he could actually do.

  Tires crunched on the driveway outside. His were parents leaving. That was his signal.

  He rose from his chair, set his mouse down, and felt the rush of adrenaline already surging through him. He needed to calm down, to avoid the inevitable crash.

  He stood still for a few seconds, breathing slow and steady. “One, two…one, two,” he whispered with each inhale and exhale. As his heart rate eased and a thin layer of calm settled over him, he moved toward the hallway. Walking stick in hand, hoodie pulled low to hide as much of his face as possible. People would talk. It would get back to his parents eventually.

  On the way out, he detoured into the kitchen and reached for the knife block. His dad’s Japanese knife slid free, cool and familiar. He sheathed it in its leather cover and tucked it away.

  Perfect. It wouldn’t cut anything until he wanted it to.

  As he closed the door behind him, he made sure to lock it. He didn’t know how long he’d be gone, and if his parents got home before him, he needed the house to look normal—like he’d just gone for a walk.

  The air outside was fresh, the sun warm on his skin. A proper summer day.

  His cane swept out in front of him, tapping a rhythm he knew by heart. The rest he did from memory. He hadn’t brought his phone or anything else; he couldn’t risk losing another one. A shiver ran up from his leg to his skull as he imagined his mother’s reaction.

  He shook the thought away and kept going.

  A few streets in, he wondered if he should be testing his new pain-precognition thing. He lifted the cane a few centimeters off the ground—still close enough that no one watching would think anything was off.

  Seconds later, his toe caught on an uneven brick and he went sprawling forward, sliding along the pavement. Footsteps hurried toward him.

  “You okay?” a woman’s voice asked. She smelled like lavender and honey.

  “I’m fine. Thanks,” he said.

  She helped him up by the arm. Once he had his balance again, he pulled in a breath. “Thanks. I think I’ve got it from here.”

  He would’ve liked the company, honestly. But he had a mission.

  “Okay. Have a nice day,” she said, footsteps fading away down the road.

  He waited until the sound vanished before moving on.

  “Note to self,” he muttered. “Looks like only big pain sets it off. Stubbed toes don’t do anything.”

  He let the walking stick tap along the ground again as he turned right onto the main road toward Kingstone Street. A few steps later, the tip of the cane struck something new—tall, solid, metallic.

  A streetlight.

  His brain immediately supplied an idea he knew was dumb.

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  He walked up to it and drew his leg back, fully intending to kick it as hard as he could. At the last second, instinct yanked him back—survival over science. His whole body was already aching; every nerve screamed at him not to add more pain just to satisfy his own stupidity.

  He exhaled, annoyed with himself, and tried again. This time he aimed for a lighter kick, enough to hurt, not enough to break anything. As his foot swung forward, he focused, searching for that wrong, pre-emptive twinge of pain.

  A faint flicker, the wrong pain, muffled and sluggish. But too late to help.

  His toes and shin slammed into cold steel.

  “Ow,” he hissed, hopping on one foot as a numbing ache shot up his leg. It felt exactly like slamming your funny bone into a table.

  It was stupid. He should have waited for the portal. But curiosity had gotten the better of him.

  He stood there a moment, breathing through the pain, anger hot on his tongue.

  Then he forced himself to calm down, lowered his foot, and kept walking. He limped a little, his leg still numb, but the ache faded as he turned into the side alley.

  The portal was close. He could feel it.

  The air thinned, like he’d suddenly been dropped on top of a mountain. Each breath felt too small, not quite enough to fill his lungs. The sounds of cars and people drifted past, distant and muffled, as if the world had been pushed a few streets away.

  He took another step. The warm summer breeze flipped to winter-cold in an instant.

  His mind started screaming at him with every step. Stupid. Slow down. Don’t do this. You’re going to die.

  But like anything that mattered, you had to push through the fear.

  He moved forward again. His stomach lurched; the air punched out of his lungs. For a second he didn’t understand what had happened.

  Then sand spilled into his shoes. Heat slammed into him, dry and brutal, burning his nostrils, like stepping into a sauna with no steam, just pure oven air. He yanked off his hoodie and tied it around his waist. It didn’t help much. Within moments, he was already sweating through his T-shirt.

  Just as he started feeling out his new surroundings, a sharp, foreign pain flared in his ankle—wrong, distant, like a warning.

  His ability activated.

  He jerked his foot to the side. Something shot up from the sand where he’d just been standing, grains spraying in every direction. A sound like sandpaper against wood. In his mind, he pictured scales and coils—a snake.

  He didn’t have time to draw the knife.

  He swung his walking stick instead, smashing it into the creature’s side. The hit bounced off with a dull thud. He fumbled for the knife at his hip, fingers scrambling over the leather sheath.

  Pain bloomed in his forearm—late, but unmistakable.

  He tried to move, but his arm was already tangled up, busy with the knife. He stepped forward anyway.

  The snake struck.

  Jaws clamped around his hand. Two fangs punched into his skin, and the creature writhed, coiling around his wrist. He could feel something pushing into his veins, hot then icy.

  Poison.

  The leather sheath finally slid free, and the knife’s blade flashed in the dry heat. Ashe swung down in a quick, desperate arc.

  The head came off with a jolt.

  Even severed, the jaws stayed clamped. He had to pry them open finger by shaking finger, careful to pull the fangs out cleanly.

  His head grew light. His fingers and arms went cold, despite the oven heat baking the desert.

  Another stab of wrong-pain lit up his left arm.

  He flung himself sideways, slashing blindly. The blade hit something soft; a screeching hiss burst out right next to his ear.

  Still alive.

  He dove toward the sound, knife first, as darkness crowded the edges of his mind.

  The blade sank in with a wet thunk. The body spasmed once, twice—then went limp.

  For a moment, he just lay there, unsure if he could move again at all.

  Then the warmth came.

  It rushed over him like a wave, just like last time. The dizziness cleared, the creeping dark receded…but in its place, bone-deep fatigue slammed into him. His eyelids felt like they’d been weighted with lead.

  He had to continue. If he rested now, he knew with cold, clear certainty he’d never get back up. It was the same bone-deep exhaustion he’d felt as a kid after an all-nighter, all-encompassing and heavy.