Page 228 of Dawn of Chaos and Fury
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
With strength he didn’t have, he rolled to his stomach and pushed onto his hands and knees.
“Kat?” he rasped out, his voice hoarse and gravelly. “Kat?” he tried again.
Opening his eyes, he stared at a spot on the floor, willing the room to stop spinning.
It didn’t.
And he vomited. Or tried to. There was nothing in his system to vomit, so instead he gagged and dry heaved, his stomach muscles clenching and spasming.
Kat.
Get up and find Kat.
He repeated it over and over. She had to be here. There were wards. She had to be safe. She had to be?—
Grabbing on to the side of the sofa, he pulled himself up, fighting another wave of nausea. Blinking several times, he tried to clear the fog from his vision, everything blurry and swimming.
There was a nearly empty plate of food. A glass tipped over with a puddle of juice. Pillows were on the floor, sofa cushions askew.
“Kat?” he called again, still not loud enough. Dread filled his stomach, making him want to vomit for an entirely different reason now. “Katya? Kitten? Answer me.”
Upstairs.
She had to be upstairs and sleeping.
He turned, readying himself to tackle the stairs, when his foot nudged against something metallic. It slid across the floor, and he looked down to see the flask of blood Cienna had sent. Mostly empty, a few drops of red still left a trail behind the open container.
But that wasn’t the blood he was smelling.
His heart rate picked up as his head cleared a little more and his Night Child instincts took over.
There was more than blood. Citrus. Jasmine. Fire.
“Kat!” he called, his voice a little stronger.
Still nothing, and he limped his way into the kitchen. Reaching into a cupboard, the first glass slipped through his fingers, shattering on the floor. He left it, grabbing another and stumbling to the sink. He downed glass after glass of water, trying to wake himself and flush out whatever the fuck was in his system. It was the only explanation, and one he couldn’t dwell on right now.
Glass crunching under his shoes, he went back to the living room. Drops of perspiration ran down his neck and back, and he wiped at his brow with a chilled hand. The room was still out of focus, the edges of everything hazy, but he could function. He could smell her, and everything narrowed in on that.
He let himself descend into a place he’d been too ashamed to go. Where his hearing was impeccable and his instincts unmatched. Because when a Night Child gave over to their basest nature, they were a predator that could match any Fae or Legacy. Vicious and cunning, with speed and strength.
He climbed to the second floor, each step pulsing through him as his head pounded. Making his way to the study, he yanked open drawers and pushed aside hidden panels to pull out daggers and knives. He couldn’t pull them from shadows anymore, but he sure as fuck still knew how to use them.
“Kat!” he bellowed, slinging a bandolier of knives across his chest. “If you’re here, you need to answer me right fucking now!”
He knew it was pointless. She wasn’t here. The smell of her blood was though, and he followed it back downstairs. There was nothing on the floor or anywhere nearby. Someone had cleaned it up, but that didn’t erase the scent.
Heading to the lift doors, he found it. A faint handprint. As if they’d tried to wipe it away as they were leaving.
Her handprint.
Her blood.
Someone had her.
