Standing in the middle of the school corridor, I ask myself how have I come to be here. Our classmates walk around and passed us, ignoring us. They have no idea how incredible this is. Of what it means. For me. For freaking humanity.
I stare at my arm, where he touched me. How did he make the cravings just . . . go?
Aiden stays quiet, puts his hands in his pockets and steps back to watch me. Waits.
"What . . . how . . . ?"
He turns to stare at a guy hurrying past behind me, then gives me a significant look. "We can't really talk about this here. How about we go somewhere more private? I can help you Kate. For real. We all can. But . . . somewhere the walls don't have ears." He nods over my shoulder. When I look, my stomach drops and trills at the same time.
Behind me is a closed door, the kind that has a large pane of glass at the top. Which lets me see that there are no lights on in the room, no one in the seats. And no teacher.
The warmth that soothed me so well is already slipping away. The cravings, already beginning to twist under my skin and make me itch again, urge me forward. Aiden watches me, shoulders rolled slightly forward as he forces his hands into the pockets of his tight jeans. But his eyes . . . they light on me.
"How did you do that?" I can't stop staring at him, except when I stare at my arm. Was it a trick?
He leans in until his breath flutters in my hair. "It's called channeling," he says into my ear. "And I can't say more than that out here. Seriously, let's go in there and I'll show you there's nothing to be scared of, and you can stop having to fight all the time." He straightens, holds my gaze. Sees my skepticism. "Seriously, Kate. I get it. Okay?"
I swallow hard, but a second later he steps past me, toward the door. It's a simple move to turn the handle, open the door and step inside. Yet when he does it, and stands there, holding it open for me, the look on his face is clear.
It's a challenge. He wants me to take it. Doesn't think I will. Doesn't think I'm strong enough.
He's wrong.
I step through the door and he closes it softly behind me, then turns to face me. I put space between us, suddenly nervous.
"Relax," he puts a hand up.
But all the instincts I developed--and then stifled--being involved with people like drug addicts, and dealers, they're all screaming at me that something is wrong. I have to get out of here. Get to class.
But that feeling . . . that easy, free feeling . . .
"I can help you, Kate. I promise. Let me show you. I didn't know . . . I wouldn't have played the prick yesterday if I'd realized what you were going through. You surprised me."
"W-what kind of help?" I swallow convulsively. "I'm sober now. I'm not—"
"This'll help you stay sober," he says and reaches for me. That warmth immediately sinking into my muscles, feeding into my veins. Then his other hand lands on my other arm, pushes up my sleeve.
The air thrums with something—whatever it is making me feel so warm. Makes it harder to think clearly. I shake my head to try to think through it.
"I wasn't . . ." I drop my face into my hands. He's still touching my arms. "What are you doing to me?" Everything in me goes tense, waiting for the answer.
"Showing you the truth," he says. Is he breathless? "You can sit through a semester fighting cravings, trying to figure this out, or you can pay attention now. Realize I'm here to help."
He holds my gaze for a long second and there's understanding there that makes tears pinch my throat. I swallow them. I'm terrified and yet so fucking hopeful.
We lock eyes and he must see the uncertainty in mine, because his touch stays soft. He waits.
And I start to have the argument with myself, about the company I'm keeping, and where this could possibly lead . . . but then I realize, there's no point.
He isn't getting me addicted to drugs. He's helping me stay away from them. If this power he has can do that, I'm in.
He must see in my eyes the moment I decide to see what he's got, because he grins and, using those hands that are still feeding my skin and muscle and bone a bathing in lush heat, he turns me so my back's to the wall just a few feet from the door.
He lifts my left hand, then grips my wrist like his hand is a bracelet.
The air gets shivery and I swallow hard.
My fingers are splayed. He's not hurting me. He's got my wrist pinned, but he's not pinching. What's he—?
Suddenly, the air hums and my joints go loose. Above his grip the heat in my palm, in my fingers, creeping through my veins and down my arm, begins to prickle.
I tense to pull away, but he murmurs, "I get it Kate. I know how tiring it is, and how much it hurts sometimes. I can help. Anytime you want." The humming steps up a pitch. I gasp. But his touch is gentle. I could pull away any time I want.
Except . . . I don't want to. Until shock fills me like an empty glass—did he inject me with something? Is he stealing my sobriety?
"Stop," I say firmly. "Whatever you're doing, stop it."
Aiden smiles. "I'm not holding you here, Kate."
I swallow. I'm going to pull away now. Clear my head. Figure out what's happening here . . . except, gah, this is the first time in months my body's felt truly relaxed. And he's not holding me. I could walk away. He wouldn't stop me.
"Aiden—"
"You're almost there, Kate."
"I need . . . I can't!"
"Just thirty seconds, I promise. Then if you don't want it I'll never speak to you again." His fingers close on my wrists and a searing heat flashes up my arm into my back and chest, blistering my lungs, I swear and push Aiden off. "If you don't let go right now—"
But he doesn't push back. He lets his weight swing backwards, away from me. Giving me space, so I can breathe and . . . And he's smiling. At my hand?
"I knew it!" he says in a voice full of awe.
That smile warms every inch of his angled planes. Then I realize that burning rippled into a languid warmth, starting in my arm but feeding through my bloodstream. My breath comes easier as the prickle recedes, and I sag against the wall, only upright because Aiden's still got my hand pinned there.
Wait. Not pinned. He's just holding it. And what's he smiling about?
I glance up at the hand he's beaming at and gasp.
Where he holds my wrist the burning has eased to a tingle. My fingers and thumb make a starburst, exploding out of his grip. And at the end of each digit, a small flame flickers. While I watch, they flare, ebb away, then flare again.
The heat in my arm is replaced by electricity flowing through Aiden's hand and into my veins, then out of my fingertips.
I'm a candle.
I'm a conduit.
I'm . . . alive.
A heady thrill edges into my muscles, beginning in my hand, but sinking into my shoulder, my chest, my stomach, like warm honey oozing down the inside of my skin. I want to let my head fall back and my eyes drift closed. Instead, my breath speeds up.
"Feel it?" he whispers.
It's reflex to nod, but I'm not paying attention to Aiden anymore. I suck in a breath as I finally understand what he was talking about. There's no cravings. None. My skin fits my bones, my throat tastes sweet, and euphoria sinks low in my belly like a living thing—like a fire that warms instead of burns. It makes me want to laugh.
"H-how are you doing that?" I gasp.
"Channeling," he says softly. "Anyone can do it a little if they're trained. But some people have to. I could sense the power in you the second I saw you." He curses. "The strength in you, Kate . . . you have no idea."
I'm stunned. "Wait . . . the Shade thing . . ."
"Is real," he says in a husky voice, watching for my reaction. "And this is what it feels like. What you're capable of . . ." he trails off.
This? I'm doing this? There's something in his voice I should pick apart, but I can't stop staring at the flames sitting on my fingers. I wriggle them and the flames twist and quiver, like candles in a breeze. He blinks, his grip on my wrist tightens, and the heat dancing in my gut flares. With every shift and waver, whatever's feeding it surges through me, the ecstasy in my veins mind-blowing, promising more than even the best high.
Aiden laughs. "It's coming for you, Kate, whether you want it or not. Choose your team. You can watch from the sidelines, or get in the game." His eyes flip down to mine. "You aren't meant to be a spectator."
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