For a moment, head still ringing from Maya’s blow, he’d been unable to find her amid the wreckage of the catwalk, and he wondered if she’d already run for it. Eventually, though, he spotted the blue of her hair, lying motionless on a broken table among scattered arcana. Stomach churning, Gyre bent beside her. To his relief, she was still breathing, though a cut on her scalp was bleeding badly. When a few prods didn’t wake her, he hoisted her up and staggered toward the back of the warehouse. Voices were already audible from the front door.

Fortunately, Maya’s arrival had attracted all the guards on the premises. Gyre went out a back door and found the rear of the building unattended.

Traffic was light in the manufactory district at this hour, and he had to walk several blocks before reaching a road busy enough to hope for a cab. A few passed him by, either because they were off for the night or because they didn’t like the look of the scarred man with an unconscious girl on his shoulder. Finally, though, a two-wheeler pulled up. The driver, a big woman with an enormous shock of frizzy teal hair, looked down at them with concern.

“You all right, friends?” she said. “You been robbed? Need a lift to the guard station?”

“Not robbed,” Gyre muttered, trying to put a little slur into his words. “Jus’ a good night at the tavern. Little punch-up.” He swayed—no great trick—and gave the driver a sloppy grin. “You should see the other guys.”

She laughed. “Try not to bleed all over the cushions, all right?”

He gave her an address about a block from Lynnia’s. It was a risk, going there, but he’d hardly be the first injured person to stagger up to the alchemist’s doorstep at all hours. It’ll be all right. I think. I hope. At this point, he didn’t see another option.

Once they were in the cab, Gyre gave Kit a more thorough examination, wrapping her head in a makeshift bandage torn from his sleeve. A few other cuts bled shallowly, and the two smallest fingers on her left hand were definitely broken, with bruises blooming all along that arm. She must have landed badly. Still, she hadn’t cracked her skull, so he didn’t think she was in immediate danger. Lynnia can take care of her. Of us.

He leaned back against the threadbare cushion, heart slamming in his chest. His pupils were still wide with nighteye, and the neutralizer was gone with his pack, so every lamp and lantern seemed like a miniature star. Afterimages of that flaming sword danced across his retina, even when he closed his eye.

Maya. After twelve years.

Fuck.