Birthright

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Kray's skin felt cooked when he woke up. He lifted his cheek from the dirt, swallowed to alleviate his burning throat, and winced against the sunlight. He was worn out, wrung dry of every ounce of energy. It took him a moment to remember what had happened and the surge of fear and panic gave him enough strength to stumble up on his knees and search for Alex.

She was next to him, unmoving. The bloodstain had soaked through most of the front of her white buttoned shirt. Still glistening—fresh blood. He scrambled to her side, unable to breathe until he felt her pulse. His relief didn't last. She was alive but not for long at this rate. Not without some serious medical assistance.

Which would be impossible to find out here in the Wasteland.

Kray's head spun at that. They were in the Wasteland. Because of him. Because of his planeshifting ability. His desperation to take them someplace safe had sent them to the one place he never wanted to return to. The one place he'd thought of more than any other since he'd returned to the Mainland.

He'd just have to figure that out later. A dry wind scattered dirt and rocks across the field they were in. Kray looked around frantically, his blood boiling with urgency. Most were crumbling from decades of neglect and had been conquered by the tenacious spread of nature, but he knew from experience that the interior of some of the structures had survived a lot better.

Careful not to dislodge the sword, he picked Alex up and staggered toward the closest home. A rusted metal swing sat on the dirt front lawn, creaking in the breeze. Half-buried toys littered the yard. A fire truck. A shovel. Remnants of an age no one still alive had seen.

He shoved the door open with his shoulder and took her straight to a beige couch. Dust exploded into the air, choking his already-dry throat. Or maybe it was fear that made his mouth impossibly dry. Breathing shallowly, he reached into the pack at his waist, the regulation first aid kit that he and his classmates had been commanded to carry for Field Training. Just in case, they said. It looked like that just in case was already here.

He fumbled around and dumped its contents on a stained coffee table, its glass still intact. Then he turned his attention to the sword sticking out of her chest. His vision grew fuzzy. He'd seen blood before right here in the Wasteland. His, other people's. But this was different.

This was Alex.

With a growl of frustration and anger—mostly at her, for her sheer stupidity at winding up in this position—he gripped the reinforced sword and ripped it out of her. Fresh blood poured out, but he didn't let it stop him. He ripped the buttons on her shirt as he pulled it wide open.

There was a bandage already around her stomach. It startled him for only a moment before he was already acting. He grabbed a foam capsule, a tiny synthetic sealant for preventing severe blood loss, and jammed it into her spurting wound.

The capsule instantly inflated and sealed the hemorrhaging blood vessels, but it wouldn't be enough. So he grabbed the next item: a revitalizer shot. This one was nothing like the pill he'd taken at her father's gala to stop feeling drunk. It was about a hundred times stronger and would hopefully keep her alive long enough for the Meta enhancer in her bloodstream to do the rest.

He jabbed the needle into her throat and pushed down the plunger, emptying the medicine into her. Alex came awake then. She grabbed his hand and squeezed with superhuman strength until he winced. Groaning, she said, "It hurts."

"I know," he said, remembering the last time he got stabbed in the chest. He'd been much luckier. Help had been just minutes away.

Her eyes, wide and feverishly bright-gold, settled on his. "What . . . are you doing?"