“He’s in the elevator shaft!” A gun discharges. I duck as a bullet whizzes past my head. It lodges in the stone wall, pelting me with shards. My flashlight slips. I lunge for it as it tumbles down the shaft. Another gun fires. Pain rips through my upper arm, and I leap off the table into the darkness below before I realize what I’ve done.

I fall, grasping thin air. My harness slides a few gut-twisting yards before jerking to a stop at the same moment my hand closes around the rope. The force of my momentum triggers the release, and suddenly I’m falling again. Cold air whips over me. The rope whines, burning against the cable as I plummet through the blackness.

Bullets ping the walls of the shaft above my head. Kai shouts instructions, but I can’t hear them past the pop of guns and the scream of the rope. I reach for the cable to slow my fall, jerking my hands back when it tears the skin from my palms.

The smell of burning nylon fills the shaft, and Kai shouts my name as the ground rushes up to meet me.

23

First to Yield

DOUG

My eyes fly open at the jarring knock on the door of my apartment.

“Food service.” The muffled voice on the other side is gruff and familiar. I rub my face and push myself upright on the couch, groggy and unrested, then get up to let Boreas in. The retired Winter wheels a meal cart over the threshold, his cheeks ruddy from the walk from the north kitchen. “Where do you want it?”

I gesture loosely around the room, the universal sign for I don’t fucking care. “Put it anywhere,” I mutter.

The doors to the bedroom swing open. Fleur blows through them in a clean jumpsuit, scowling as she scrubs a towel over her damp hair.

“There’s only one toothbrush in there, and I’m not using . . .” Her rant trails off, and Boreas glances up from his cart. With a polite nod, he lowers his head back to his task, locking the wheels of the cart in place and removing the silver domes from the serving plates.

The dining hall manager clears his throat. “Call the kitchen when you’ve finished your meal, Douglas. I’ll return to pick up the cart.” Fleur’s breath quickens as the old man turns to go.

“Chronos,” I correct him, blocking his exit. “You’ll address me as Chronos if you want to keep your job.”

Eyes downcast, he dips his head. “My apologies, Chronos. It won’t happen again.”

I stand aside. Fleur clutches her damp towel to her chest as she watches him shuffle out.

She starts when I slam the door.

I steal a peek at her eyes as I return to the couch, sifting clumsily through flashes of jumbled memories, but Boreas’s face doesn’t appear in any of them.