He calls over his shoulder, “Do you want answers or not?”

“Of course I want answers!”

“Then we need to hurry.”

“You’re not carrying me like this!” I sputter, gesturing to my sling. “Just—just tossed over your back like a sack of potatoes—”

He bends and drops me onto my feet, not helping me at all when I stumble back and nearly fall, disoriented. Instead he releases a slow, frustrated stream of air through his nostrils. “How would you like me to carry you? What would please you, Page Matthews?”

I huff and circle him, evaluating my options and ignoring his long-suffering stare. “Piggyback.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Like that movie—”

“Shut up.”

“Churlish.”

“Arrogant.”

He swoops in, turning and pulling my uninjured arm at the same time until I’m draped piggyback like I asked. I cling instinctively, and he makes a gargled noise, pulling at my forearm where I’ve crushed it against his Adam’s apple. “I do need to breathe,” he mutters, before his voice turns sardonic. “I’m not actually a vampire.”

I loosen my grip slightly and will his hands away from my skin where the electric sensation is zipping up my arms. He shifts until he has his hands under my thighs, moving me like I weigh about as much as paper.

“Hold on”—a pause—“and keep your mouth closed.”

“Why do I need to keep my mouth closed?”

He chuckles, hefts me up a little higher. “Bugs.” That’s the only warning I get before he starts running.

The last time Sel ran me across campus, I’d been half out of my own mind with fear from hellfoxes and mage flames. All I remember is a blur. This time, it feels completely different. This time, it’s exhilarating.

He’s fast, all right. Not as fast as the uchel, but far faster than any human being.

I wonder if he makes an extra attempt to keep the ride smooth, because my shoulder barely jostles.

The gravel road, trees, and streetlights all pass in a smear of colors, and then he turns up a paved road that winds through one of the historic neighborhoods where the professors live. I see just a glimpse of a two-story brick manor at the end of a cul-de-sac and a second later we’re in its backyard. Sel releases my legs, and I slide down, wobbling only slightly this time.

“Whose house is this?” I ask as he strides forward to bend down at the back door.

“This”—he lifts up a weathered rubber mat, feels under it for a moment, and produces a spare key—“is where Nicholas and I grew up.”

I stare up at the house with new eyes. And a slow, dawning horror. “I can’t go in there.”

He scoffs. “Why?”

“Because it’s trespassing.”

He rolls his eyes. “I was raised here. The Davises took me in when I was ten.”