Chapter 8

8

A mbra doesn’t speak for the rest of the day, teleporting them back to the cabin and burrowing herself underneath the blankets on the couch, and trying real hard to ignore Gurlien talking in low tones on the phone in the bedroom.

She should be practicing the leash with him. She should be taking him far, far away so they can test the limits of his ability to sense the leash, test how useful he’ll be. Test if she can just let him back into his normal life, so she would just be a temporary interruption when needed, instead of trapped here away from his friends.

But her teeth chatter with the leftover pain from Johnsin and her stomach aches from the onslaught of chemicals following all the emotions, so she curls up the tightest she can and ignores Gurlien. Pretends to be asleep when he gets more food, only getting up to use the restroom when he has the door firmly shut, and drinks a glass of water only when her mouth is so dry she feels her teeth will fall out.

And attempts to not think.

The next morning, however, Gurlien has approximately no patience with her, breezing in and clattering around loud enough that Ambra lifts her head to glare at him.

“I don’t think you’re going to hurt me when you do that,” he says, blasé, and Ambra regrets whatever niceties she’s given him. “But I do need you to actually get up and do things.”

She forces herself to sit upright, and her muscles protest, aching in ways she didn’t even know were possible.

“Have you heard anything?” she asks, and her voice rasps unpleasantly after a day of not speaking. “Any news of Johnsin getting back?”

“Not yet,” Gurlien replies, and his hair is carefully combed, so neatly in place. “But I got pretty strict instructions not to let you wallow for another day.”

“I wasn’t wallowing,” Ambra protests, stretching out her legs in front of her, and her eyes water at the motion.

“No, someone just brought up some specific trauma and you sat on the couch for twenty hours, not wallowing at all.” He tosses her a Power bar and she lets it thump against the couch, not touching it. “But Axel did hack into Johnsin’s schedule and he has an event he is supposed to attend in three days. It’s going to be conspicuous if he doesn’t show up, I want to be better prepared for that.”

That gets her attention, and she stands, using a jolt of her power deep into the earth to stabilize herself so she only sways once, and the house creaks around them.

He jerks back, his eyes wide.

“That was me,” she informs him, then pushes past him down the hall to grab another sweater, this one bright red, that the body had laughed at while hanging up .

Ambra didn’t understand why she laughed then, still doesn’t, but still, it’s soft and the color is cheery.

The backpacks are once more on the bed, and there’s snacks and a change of clothing obviously in them, and she pokes through the one closer to her, not so much curious as her mind spinning around for distractions.

“I don’t want to leave without at least one of these,” Gurlien says, almost strict, and she raises an eyebrow at him. “If I end up somewhere separated, I want to be able to at least survive until I get help.”

Ambra scoffs, but it makes sense. Even just two nights before was evidence that she is still horridly controllable.

“Hopefully, Nalissa will get pictures,” she says, the image of Johnsin’s corpse floating in her bubble flashing through her mind. “Hopefully she’ll hold off.”

Gurlien blanches before he covers it up, and she’s immediately reminded of all the half secrets that Johnsin spoke about, of all of the mysteries surrounding Gurlien.

And yet, he’s just standing in the doorway, completely harmless, wearing a T-shirt and the rough pants. All his magic seared out of him, not even able to see the leash still firmly tied around his wrist.

And Johnsin knew him, knew enough of his history to make snide comments, and she still didn’t. And Axel hinted.

“I need additional supplies,” he says, smooth, and of course he produces a list from his pocket.

She grabs it, almost ripping the paper, even though her neck aches at the fast movement.

It’s all clothing, some toiletries, and more food. Nothing actually interesting.

Turning it over in her hands, she raises an eyebrow at him.

“I’d go back to the cabin, but that must be crawling with College spies,” he says, folding his arms over his chest, then unfolding them, wincing at the bandage.

“And the demon circle,” she points out. “I can’t get you in there.”

“And the demon circle.” For a long moment, he stares at her from behind his glasses, as if weighing some information. “Chloe, Delina, and Maison got to a safe place.”

“Good?” Ambra ventures, and he nods. “If you want to keep them safe, I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t know where that is.”

“I agree,” he replies curtly, but still, he’s almost sad. “They got my cat with them.”

Ambra knew of pets, of course. Some demons kept them, friendly animals in their surroundings for companionship, though Ambra had never felt that particular sort of bond, and both Nalissa and Boltiex had dogs.

Gurlien doesn’t seem like the type.

“I can get you another cat?” she offers, only half certain it’s the correct thing to say, and he just shakes his head. “Or reunite you with this one once Boltiex and Nalissa are dead.”

“You’re really fumbling in the dark with all of this, aren’t you?” he mutters, then pushes his hair away from his forehead, where it flops again immediately. “Can you teleport now?

In terms of power, of course she can, she always can, but the shaky lack of sensation in her chest doesn’t breed any sort of confidence that she could do much more.

And here she wanted to test the leash, test his control. See what this man, this dud completely seared of all of his magic, could actually handle, but the body still feels like it’s about to sway in a heavy wind.

“Do you want to get all of this,” she brandishes the list back at him, “now? Later? ”

He narrows his eyes.

“I can’t reunite you with your cat, I can’t get you back to your home or your friends, and I don’t want to let you far away in case Nalissa or Boltiex try.” He’s still examining her with suspicion. “I have to make sure you don’t get so fed up with everything that you leave me to them.”

The moment stills, in the creaky little motorhome, with the dusty windows and the snow outside, as he stares at her, the falsely bored expression slipping from his face.

Leaving something dismayed.

“So, list,” Ambra finishes, lamely, as he looks like he’s reevaluating his entire life that led him up to this place. “I can do that.”

Finally, he recovers. “Do you have money?”

The answer to that is no, but it’s not difficult to get if you can teleport through walls.