“What is that?” Cami whispers, her voice trembling. She knows exactly what it is. But what was in it is another question entirely.

I swallow and hand it to her. Her fingers are shaking as she holds it up to the light and squints at the few drops of clear liquid that didn’t make it into my body.

“Are you … Can you feel anything?” she asks me urgently, stepping over her brother and to my side.

I take stock of my body. My heart is pounding and I feel energy zinging through me, but that’s a result of the confrontation we just had. I don’t feel light-headed, I don’t feel nauseous …

“I feel fine,” I answer. Her expression is skeptical—and worried—so I add, “Really. I feel completely normal.”

She bites her lip, then reaches for my hand and says, “Just to be sure … heal.”

Light flares at her command, and the puncture mark and accompanying pain in my arm disappear, along with the cuts and nicks I earned from falling on the glass-covered floor. My clothes still have flecks of blood on them—and other sticky fluids that I don’t want to think about—but the wounds themselves are gone.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Cami replies, her features lined with concern. “Without knowing what was in this”—she waves the syringe in the air—“there’s nothing I can do to stop whatever it is that might be flooding your system right now. Only time will tell.”

That’s not exactly heartening. But I still feel fine, so while I’m struggling to keep from panicking, I also know there’s little point in worrying about it just yet. For all I know, it was merely a scare tactic. Some kind of placebo mixture that was meant to incite fear in me, perhaps something Ward was going to threaten me with if I didn’t cooperate. There’s no way to know what the syringe was for, so I shouldn’t dwell on it, not right now.

Despite that, I can’t help hearing Ward’s words in my mind:

And there’s one last thing my master wants me to pass along.

A final message. One that wasn’t words—it was an action.

It takes a lot, but I manage to push away the foreboding voice and instead take in the scratches Cami received when she fell to the glass-covered ground, focusing on them as I repeat her spoken command. “Heal.”

She sends me a small smile of thanks, but the worry remains in her eyes—worry that only grows when she looks down at her brother.

“Was I like that?” she asks quietly. “When Manning—When Vanik—”

“Yes,” I answer. I make sure my voice is firm when I add, “But we got you free, and we’re going to do the same with him. Okay?”