“I need to get home,” I said. “I’m tired, and this could get infected or something.” I waved my arm at him.

“Call me tomorrow,” he said firmly. But the question in his eyes gave him away.

“I will. Please be careful, all right? Keep an eye out for their van, and call me if you see it.”

His mouth lifted into this bemused kind of smile. “What would you do about it?”

I sighed. “Fine. Then call the police. Whatever. Just—be careful.”

He took a step closer. “You’re worried about me?”

With hesitant fingers, he touched my chin, trying to lift my face. I let him, even though he was standing too close, making my heart thump with panic. “I’m worried about you,” he said softly.

“Good-bye,” I whispered, turning to open my car door.

“Let me drive you home.”

“Not necessary, I promise.”

“Lela …” He sighed. “Fine. But I’m following you to make sure you get home safely.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to scream. I didn’t have time for this, even though he was being incredibly sweet—after being totally badass back at the theater. “Waste of gas, but if it’ll make you feel better …”

I opened my car with my right hand. Once behind the wheel, I focused everything I had on driving slowly and smoothly to Diane’s. I pulled into the driveway, got out, and waved to Ian as he drove away.

Then I got back in the car and headed to the Guard house. Raphael was waiting for me when I arrived and staggered haltingly up the front steps. Fortunately, no one else was home, so there was a minimum of drama. I let him send me into peaceful nothing and woke up a few hours later to the sound of distant thuds.

A light was on in the hallway, so I padded over to the basement and listened. Grunting breaths, shuffling feet. The memory of Henry telling me that Malachi trained at all hours when he couldn’t sleep. As quietly as I could, I descended a few steps and peered through the wooden railing.

His skin shined with sweat under the lights, every muscle defined as he trained. Each of his movements was completely controlled, and it made me instantly jealous. Malachi’s hand shot out, loose at first, deceptively fluid. But as it moved forward, it compacted into a fist that struck a dummy in the chest, leaving a deep dent in the frame. He pivoted in place and kneed the dummy three times before elbowing it into oblivion. It fell to the floor, bent in half, its head almost completely detached. He pivoted to destroy another dummy, and I saw that his expression was distant, unfocused. It was like he was on autopilot, like his body was here, but his mind was far away.