Cami.

After I left him, he was going to finish up in the surveillance room and then speak with her, wanting to mend the damage between them.

While I can’t help thinking that my new knowledge is a priority, I have no idea where the two of them might be. But …

I pull the compass from my pocket and croak out, “Locate Kael.”

No light flares. Not a hint of power leaves me.

I don’t try a second time, not yet ready to confirm if my Speaking ability is completely gone, or if it’s just struggling as my body fights the serum.

I ignore Smith’s curious—and concerned—look to answer, “I last saw him in the command center, but I’m not sure where he is now.”

Smith’s gray eyes remain locked on mine and, in a surprisingly kind gesture, he reaches out to squeeze my hand in comfort.

“Then here’s what you’re going to do,” he says, taking charge. “You need to clean yourself up, because right now, you look like you’ve barely survived a real-life Texas chainsaw massacre.”

Seeing the amount of blood soaking into the tissues, I can only imagine how scary my face must look. Not to mention the rest of me, my clothes generously splattered with red.

“While you’re doing that,” he continues, “I’ll find Kael and send him to meet you at the springs. Okay?”

I nod, unable to come up with a better plan. Without my compass working, Smith has just as much chance of locating Kael as I do. More, perhaps, since he knows the twists and turns of the catacombs, while I’m likely to end up lost in the labyrinthine passageways. Plus, I’m liable to frighten the living daylights out of anyone I pass if they see me like this.

“Try not to think about what we just saw,” Smith tells me as he helps me rise unsteadily to my feet and move slowly across the room. Despite his words, I can see he wants to talk about it, to analyze it, but he’s holding back for my sake. “Just keep breathing deeply and try to focus on … on … I don’t know. Puppies or something.”

“I’m a cat person.”

“Then cats, Alyssa.” His patience is nearing its breaking point. It’s commendable that he’s managed this long, given his less than amiable temperament. But I can tell he’s trying—for me.

“Can you make it to the springs on your own?” he asks once we reach his door, worry clear in his voice.

I nod silently and move to leave, but he reaches for me, his hand gently grabbing my arm.

“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I’m sorry. For what we just saw. But also—” He draws in a breath. “For not being there for you. For choosing to forget.”