I fought welling panic. I was fine. I just needed to conserve my energy for one good lethal blast.

I pushed up on all fours. My stomach lurched and I retched. My arm throbbed. I looked down to see an angry red bump. I’d seen marks like that after every shot I’d had in my life. A reaction to needles.

I’d been injected with a sedative.

It took a minute more for me to get to my feet. Another to get steady enough to stay upright. The whole time my brain was screaming at me to get moving. Follow the drag marks. Find Adam.

Logically, I knew if our attacker wanted Adam dead, he wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of dragging him off. Still, as I stood there, fighting to keep from curling up in a ball and spilling my guts on the floor, I felt weak. Useless, powerless, and weak.

I finally managed to start lurching forward, straining for any sound of my attacker’s return. The sawmill was completely silent.

I thought about the homeless guy. Had he left? Was he dead? Or was there a better explanation for his sudden appearance and now his silence?

Wasn’t that the perfect disguise for a killer? Roll a real homeless guy, steal his clothes?

I followed the drag marks down a passage that ended at a wider one where the floor had been recently swept.

No more tracks to follow.

As much as I wanted to conserve spell power, I needed to find Adam. I closed my eyes and cast the sensing spell. On the third try, I gave up.

I looked at the puncture wound in my arm. Not a sedative. More of whatever poison I’d been dosed with for the last few days. That’s why I could barely walk without upchucking on my shoes.

I managed three more steps. Then I heard a low moan. I froze, prepping a cover spell before I realized what I was doing. I stopped casting and looked around. Off to my left, a denim-clad leg peeked from between two pieces of machinery.

I raced over, stomach forgotten. As I flew around a processing table, I caught a glimpse of light hair and my heart fluttered with relief. Then I realized it was too long to be Adam’s.

Jesse lay on his back, eyes closed. When he moaned again, I touched his arm and his eyes opened.

“Sav—” He swallowed. “Savannah.”

I shushed him and helped him sit up. He winced and put his hand to the back of his head. Dried blood plastered his hair to his skull.

“Something hit me,” he whispered.

“I know the feeling.”

“I think ...” He made a face. “I think I’ve been drugged.”

He was still wearing his denim jacket, but the bottom of his T-shirt had been shoved up. He pulled it farther and found a pinprick of blood on his abs.