His skin was as pale as marble in the dim lamplight. Her own skin was only a little darker. Her friend Amara had teased her, told her she ought to be in skin care commercials, but Aria knew she was being kind. Everyone had good features and bad. Her skin was beautiful, but she was too petite for the current style. Too angular. Her mouth was well-shaped but too wide. She didn’t mind it when she looked in the mirror, but she wasn’t the kind of beauty that advertisers or movie producers wanted.

He was. Or he would have been, had he been human.

She frowned. Hunted, he’d said. Hunted by the IPF, apparently. Were there other hunters, too? Why?

She rubbed her hands over her face. They were dry now, at least, and the blood had rubbed off with a little effort. What time was it? She’d been up for hours when she left her apartment, and it had been hours since then. It must be close to morning. Her eyes felt gritty. She sat in the chair. Her boots were wet, and she kicked them off, but her socks were still damp. She shivered and tucked her cold feet under herself in the hard wooden chair.

She leaned forward and put her head on her arms. Her eyes drifted closed.

Aria woke with a jerk.

His cool blue eyes were resting on her face. He hadn’t moved; he still lay on his stomach on the floor.

“How do you feel?” She nearly whispered it, and the sound of her own voice nearly made her jump in the thick, cold silence.

“Alive.” It was a croak, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Then he looked at her again with a faint smile. “Thank you.”

Her stomach rumbled, and she smiled awkwardly. “Sorry.”

One corner of his mouth quirked in amusement. With a deep breath, he pushed himself up to sit on his heels in one quick movement. In the deafening silence, his gasp of pain was terribly loud. He paused then, eyes closed, fist pressed to his mouth as he slowed his breathing, controlling the pain.

Then he looked at her again. “Where is it?” He was hoarse, and the whisper sounded painful to her ears.

She knelt and found the bullet on the floor. He looked at it in her hand but didn’t touch it.

“They can’t track that one.” He had to stop to breathe.

“Why don’t you lie on the cot? I’ll help you.” She knelt in front of him and offered her arm.

He hesitated, and then leaned on her for an instant as he stood. “You’ll need food.”

“I can get some later. What do you need?”

He was white as ice, and he shivered suddenly as he stood there. He ran his right hand over his face and through his hair. It stuck up afterward, and she thought suddenly that he looked both younger and more tired than before. “How long have we been here?”

“I’m not sure. It’s probably morning.”

“We should move.”

“You’re in no shape to go anywhere.”

He swayed as he stood. “I think you’re right.” His voice was distant, and he blinked dazedly before taking an unsteady step toward the table. She half-caught him as he crumpled, let him down to kneel on the floor.

“You wait here. I’ll go get food. What do you need?” She tried to make her voice certain, strong, competent.

He sagged against the leg of the table. “There’s a butcher shop on Dumbarton Street.” A deep breath. “It’s not far from the ladder we came down. Called Bryson’s. Tell him you’re picking up Owen’s order. Get what you need first, if you’re short of money.” Another deep, painful breath. He coughed once and wiped blood from his mouth. He looked at the smear across the back of his hand thoughtfully and licked his lips. “Take my knife. Don’t show it unless you have to.”

“I’ll help you to the cot.”

“I’ll be fine. Don’t take long. They’ll be looking for you.” He held her eyes a moment with his cool blue gaze. “Take the lamp for the tunnels. Go on, then.”

She frowned but nodded. She slipped out, leaving him kneeling by the table in the dark.

The tunnels were more confusing than she’d realized. She paused at yet another corner and wondered whether she’d be able to find her way out at all. Finally, she found a ladder and crept up. It ended at a doorway, and she pushed it open a crack, peeked out, and then slipped through. She tested the latch and guessed it wouldn’t lock behind her. She closed it, and then tried it. It opened again almost soundlessly. Good.

She wrapped her coat around herself against the chill. It was late morning, the sun bright overhead. She didn’t know exactly where she was, but it felt familiar. She walked quickly, cautiously, trying to be aware of everything without looking like she was nervous. At the next corner, there were vendors gathered, mostly paper and cigarette carts. She recognized Olive Street, though it was not a section she frequented. She turned left, and in less than a block found a grocery store.

Bread. Cold meat. Cheese. A bag of apples. What else? A pack of five black short-sleeved shirts. A large pack of matches. Some lantern oil. Two bottles of water. She went to the front to pay.

The man raised his eyebrows. “Men’s shirts?”

She shrugged. “A friend asked me to pick them up.”

“Hm.” He gave her the change, and she felt his eyes on her as she left. She walked left out of the doorway, away from the direction she’d come.

She circled the block, trying to see if anyone was following her, and then started a larger circle, looking for the butcher shop. Finally, she saw the sign. It was small, the kind of ethnic shop favored by poor immigrants hungry for a taste of home. Not that there were many of those left these days. The man behind the counter eyed her suspiciously.

“I’d like to pick up Owen’s order.” She tried to sound confident.

“Owen?” His accent was strong, and he stared at her again, not moving. “You know him?”

“Yes.” She bit her lip. “He asked me to pick it up for him,” she added when he didn’t move.

“Hm.” He kept a suspicious eye on her as he finally moved toward the back. He opened a large refrigerator and pulled out a paper bag with a small white receipt stapled to the top.

“Four dollars.”

Good. It wasn’t too expensive. Still, if she couldn’t go back to her apartment, she’d run out of cash soon. She handed the bills over and he pulled off the receipt before he slid the bag across the glass countertop. It was heavier than she’d expected.

She took an indirect route back toward the ladder.

Down. She’d blown out the lantern at the bottom, and she felt for it in the darkness, careful not to knock it over. She lit it and then went back through the tunnels, counting the turns. Finally, she found the door, proud of herself for not having gotten lost.

She turned the knob quietly and slipped inside. He lay where she’d left him kneeling, curled on his side, facing away from the door. She set the lantern down, almost silently, and watched him a moment. Soft, shallow breaths. He was shirtless still, even in the cold, and she could see the lines of his ribs, the hard muscles of his back disappearing under the makeshift bandages, the curve of his shoulder into his neck. If his hair had been longer, it might have formed ringlets, but it was cut short on his neck and just a little longer on top. The haircut was uneven as if he’d done it himself.

She stepped forward to put the bag on the table.

Swords in hand, he spun up into a crouch so fast she didn’t even see him move. He stared at her a moment, then stood straighter, breathing heavily. He sheathed the swords. “Don’t startle me.”

She swallowed, her back pressed against the door. “I’m sorry.”

He steadied himself against the table. “Did you have any trouble?” He coughed and closed his eyes, pressing his knuckles against his mouth.

“No. I brought your package.” She set it on the table along with the other two bags, put his knife next to it, spread out the food, and looked at him. “Sit down.”

He eyed the spread and then her. “You’ll want to eat first.”

“There’s plenty for us both.”

“I’m not eating that. Go ahead.” He picked up his knife and moved away to sit on the edge of the cot. He inspected the knife blade carefully, turning it this way and that to catch the light. Satisfied, he slipped it into the sheath on his belt and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

He watched her as she ate. The bread was a little mashed, but she made a sandwich anyway. She turned the chair so she could look back at him.

“So your name is Owen,” she said finally. “That’s good to know. Seems like we should know each other’s names by now.” He stared at her wordlessly, and she ventured, “I’m Aria. Aria Forsyth. Do you have a last name?”

“Not in English.”

She blinked. “If you’re not human, what are you?”

He ran his right hand over his face again. “What do you think?”

She studied him, and he let her, watching her face as her eyes moved over him again. Lean, athletic. He looked human.

“How old are you?” she asked suddenly. It was so hard to tell. No lines at the corners of his eyes or beside his nose. Yet that light touch of gray just at his temples.

He smiled, just a faint, wry twitch of his lips. “Now that’s cheating.” She held his eyes, and he said, “Two hundred seventy-three.”

She blinked. “That’s impossible.”

He only smiled. “Eat. Or if you’re done, tell me. I’m hungry too.”

She ate the last of her sandwich in three large bites and stood, still chewing. She opened her bottle of water belatedly and took it with her as she moved to the cot.

He stood at the table and opened the sack to pull out a large paper bundle. He unwrapped it with an unreadable glance at her, leaving the paper sticking up so she couldn’t see what was inside. She heard the crinkle of the thin butcher shop plastic inside the paper. He drew his knife.

A few quick slices, and then he sat, half-turned so she couldn’t see past his shoulder.

“Are you eating it raw?” Aria said in disgust.

A pause. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

She took a drink. “What is it?”

He swallowed. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.” Another bite. He licked his fingers.

She stood indecisively for a moment, and finally moved closer. He didn’t move, though he shot a glance over his shoulder at her. Closer.

A bloody mass cut into cubes lay on the plastic from Bryson’s butcher shop. His knife lay beside it, still red.

“By the emperor,” she breathed. “What is that?”

He picked up two cubes and swallowed them, one after the other. “Pig’s heart.”

“That is revolting.” She stared at him in horror and then back at the heart.

“Says the human.” Another cube. “What do you think I am?”

She backed away to stand at the door. Her mind whirled. “I’d say you were a vampire, but that’s absurd. They don’t exist.”

“I am not a vampire.” He didn’t look at her.

“But what else is cold to the touch? And eats blood?”

“I’m not eating blood. I’m eating a pig’s heart.” He enunciated clearly, then stopped to cough again.

“I don’t know.”

“Have you heard of elves? Fairies?”

“They’re small. And they live in the forest or something. And they have wings.”

He ate another bite. “Incorrect. You humans have long since forgotten the truth of the Fae. We are not miniature. We do not have wings. We do not fly. Vampires, elves, fairies… they’re partial shadows of the old memories. We’re both closer to human and more alien than you imagine.”

She felt dizzy, watching him eat the bloody cubes. “Do you kill humans? Do you eat humans?”

He choked, coughed, and steadied himself on the edge of the table. She waited, her hand on the doorknob. But no. He’d had plenty of opportunities to hurt her that he hadn’t taken.

“No,” he said finally. He gazed at her with weary amusement. She was starting to read his subtle expressions; they weren’t obvious, but this one was as clear as any. “Like humans, we are capable of choosing cruelty. But we are not monsters.”

He studied her. “If you’re afraid, you can leave. But it’s not safer out there.” The amusement had faded, leaving only weariness in the set of his shoulders. He finished eating without looking at her. He folded the bloody plastic into the paper, then carefully folded the whole bag into a neat packet, which he slipped into his pocket. He leaned forward, still not looking at her, his head drooping. Then he straightened as if he’d remembered something. He opened the other water bottle and rinsed his right hand, the water falling to the floor. He shook the water off with a quick flick of the wrist and then drank deeply.

She watched him warily.

“How did you escape them last night? They searched the riverbank.”

“I swam.”

She frowned. That didn’t really answer her question. “Upstream?”

He nodded once.

“I saw the lights upstream too.”

He nodded again.

“What did you want the maps for? From Dandra?”

He reached over to the pack of shirts and held it up to her. “Thank you.” A quick cut of the knife slit the plastic wrapper and he pulled one out and over his head. Then he stared at the table for a long moment before looking at her again. “We need to move. It isn’t safe to stay in one place for so long.”

“What did you want the maps for?”

He stood without answering. He tugged the shirt hem down farther; it had gotten caught on the knot of the bandage around his waist. He leaned his right hand on the table and stood still, resting. Then, slowly, one-handed, he packed everything into his battered rucksack.

“I’ll carry it,” Aria offered. She picked up the blanket from the floor and folded it, then put it on top and zipped the pack closed. She slung it over her shoulder. He didn’t protest.

“Blow out the lantern.” His voice was a little hoarse.

He led her through the door, his hand cold in hers. Silently they walked. She heard the faint brush of fabric on the left wall at long intervals and realized he was touching it with his bandaged hand. Right, left, down a long gentle slope, left again, and up some stairs and around a corner. More walking. Downward again. She was thoroughly lost. She couldn’t even guess how far under the city they were. Twenty feet? A hundred feet? The tunnels were cool and dank, but not wet.

“Where are we going?” she ventured.

His shhh was barely audible.

She followed him in silence for several more minutes. Down again.

“Where are we going?”

“Quiet.”

“No. I want to know where we’re going!” she jerked her hand away from his. “I’ve followed you without question and I’m done. I want to know where you’re taking me.” Her voice echoed.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her along, nearly running now. “I’ll tell you when we’re out of the tunnels.” His own voice was much quieter.

She yanked her wrist, but she couldn’t escape his iron grasp. There was a sudden sound from behind her. Growling.

Owen jerked her forward and shoved her to the floor. Then it was upon them with a roar that filled the tunnel.

Aria covered her head, scrambling backwards. I’m dead! It would kill them both. He was in no shape to fight and she had no weapons, not that she knew what to do with them if she’d had them anyway.

The battle was over in a moment, though. She heard him breathing heavily. A cough. The soft sound of his sword being sheathed. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “When I tell you to be silent, it is not only for my own sake.” Though the words were only a whisper, she could hear his anger, and she nodded. He pulled her along, jogging through the tunnels with barely a hesitation at each turn. Then up a very long flight of stairs. He had to stop and cough in the middle, doubled over and leaning against the wall. She helped him as he stumbled upward, still coughing, and then he steadied himself and pulled her on. Suddenly he stopped at a ladder on the side of the tunnel, which continued ahead of them.

“Here. Climb up first.”

She obeyed, scrambling up the ladder quickly. At the top, the hatch was like a manhole cover, a round metal plate so heavy that she strained to open it. He climbed up farther, his body pressed against hers, to shove it away with his good hand. She clambered through, and he followed her. He pushed the cover back over the hole one-handed and remained kneeling, breathing heavily. In the dim light, she could see he was splattered with blood, a dark streak across one cheek and into his hair.

“Is that your blood?”

“No.”

He coughed, bowed so his head nearly touched the ground, and wiped blood from his mouth again. He straightened painfully and wiped his bloody hand on his pants.

“It’s not much farther,” he said finally, when he caught his breath.

Her breath fogged in the cold; his did not. The concrete floor beneath her knees felt icy and unwelcoming. She looked around. They were in a vast, dimly lit room filled with boxes and machinery.

“What is this place?”

He didn’t answer. He struggled to his feet, and she offered him a hand belatedly. He wound through the aisles and found a set of open metal stairs, which he followed upward to the next floor, high above the first. Some sort of warehouse? But where is this? Then down a long hallway to a room at the end, with windows on two sides.

He closed the door and locked it, then went to the windows and looked out. “Here. We can rest here.” He sank to the floor, sitting with his back against the wall, a little uneven so his right side didn’t quite touch. He leaned his head back, eyes closed.

“Are you going to live? You shouldn’t be alive at all.” She came to sit by him.

He huffed softly, as if he wanted to laugh but didn’t quite have the strength. “Oh yes. Always have so far.”

The smooth skin of his neck moved as he spoke. “We’re hard to kill, we Fae. They know how, though. Getlaril bullets. A few other ways. They’re doing research. Testing.” He opened his eyes to look sideways at her. “Test. Evaluate. Refine. Test again. They experiment.” He coughed.

“That’s what I want the maps for. Government maps. The secure facilities. They have test subjects.” He grimaced when he said it, a twist of the lips. “Of course, they won’t be noted on any map I could acquire, but with a power grid, I could figure it out. Or water lines. Or security checkpoints. A clue. I’ve been trying to make my own, but it’s slow going.” He coughed again, licked the blood off his lips without seeming to notice. “You’ll be useful. They have sensors that sense Fae blood. They’re expensive and hard to make, so they don’t have many, but I’ve found a few. Found a few possible testing sites.”

“You want to use me?” Aria felt her voice squeak with fear. Then outrage. “You want to use me to go where you can’t? You’ll get me killed! You wanted to use me all along!” She rose to her feet and stared down at him.

His voice was hard. “I told you to leave me alone. You didn’t. So I gave you a choice. I did you no wrong.” The effort was too much, and he was convulsed by coughing again. He struggled to his hands and knees and retched onto the floor, spitting bright red blood.

Unable to maintain her anger in the face of her guilt, she knelt beside him. “What do you need?”

“Time.” He caught his breath and sat back on his heels. His chest heaved. If anything, he looked worse than before. He glanced out the window. “We’re safe here for a while.”

Aria stood and looked out the window as well. The view matched her mood. Overcast and chilly, with a hint of bitterness.

“What about the vertril?” she asked suddenly.

“What about them?”

“You said they can kill you. Humans, I guess. Can a vertril kill you?”

“No. A vertril will incapacitate a Fae, but not kill. I’d lay there until they came to fetch me for their experiments.” He shifted to sit slumped back against the wall, one leg crooked up and the other stretched out.

She wanted to ask him more, but she hadn’t realized how bad he looked in the darkness and dim lamplight. Now, the clear, cold light streaming in through the windows washed over him, and she bit her lip. White as marble, streaked with blood from head to toe, blood in the corners of his mouth, bandages soaked with it. A bruised knot stood out dark at the edge of his right eyebrow. “Should I leave you alone?”

He sighed. “Please.”

She stood at the window, watching the city. It had a good view, such as it was. Near the river, with only shorter buildings between her and the shore, so she could see the wide expanse of cold gray water. The bridge was to the north, and she could see only the far end of it, blocked by the peeling metal window frame. Below, the streets were busy but not frantic, the efficient speed of the shipping district. There were few horns from the electric vehicles below, not too much noise actually. Not like the commercial district closer to her apartment, which hummed and clattered and honked and roared.

Probably, no one had even reported her missing yet. She didn’t have class today. Amara might have called, but if she didn’t, she wouldn’t notice anything amiss until Aria didn’t show up to class tomorrow. You know, that’s a sad commentary on my social life. Or my life in general. No one to notice that I’ve been missing for how long now?

But the authorities knew already. They thought her dead. She wondered when Amara would find that out. Or her professors. Would Dr. Corten question it at all?

How would it be reported, anyway? Aria Forsyth, missing. Aria Forsyth, killed by a vagrant. Killed by a fairy? She glanced at him again. He didn’t look like something the word fairy might describe. Fairies were small, glowing sprites, with wings, who loved nature and water and such. Fae sounded a little fiercer. That word suited him. She rummaged in her mind for the old stories. He’d mentioned fairies, vampires, and elves, as if the legends overlapped. She’d thought they were quite distinct.

He didn’t drink blood, but he was definitely carnivorous. She applied the word carefully, trying not to think about the pig’s heart. It was still bloody, and she suspected it had been delivered that way upon request. A little extra blood, please. Like frosting on a donut.

Vampires. What did vampires fear? The cross. Garlic. A stake through the heart. Elves. She didn’t know much about elves. Tolkien’s elves were beautiful, cultured, and strong, but she wasn’t sure that was the kind he meant. That concept was so recent, and the older lore tended more toward impish little devils, troublemakers, and pranksters. That didn’t seem to fit him either. Fairies. She couldn’t remember what they feared. Iron? She thought vaguely of the Seelie Court and Unseelie Court of the Fairies, but couldn’t remember what they were. She did remember that fairies were said to be amoral, rather than immoral, outside the laws of human interaction. Wasn’t there something about a blood tithe to the underworld? Not that she believed in the underworld. But she hadn’t believed in fairies either.

She took off her still damp boots and socks and laid them to dry on the floor. Then her coat. She glanced at Owen. He hadn’t moved, his eyes closed. He might have been dead but for the faint movement of his chest as he breathed. She turned away and pulled off her sweater. She tugged at the bandage around her arm and finally pulled it off with a preemptive wince. The wound was small and clean, a narrow slit scarcely the length of her thumbnail, and it had already started to heal. A thin film of skin showed dark red over the cut, with smudges of dried blood around it. She pulled her sweater back over her head, unfolded the bandage, and spread it out.

She wanted to be angry with him, but maintaining it was hard. He’d jerked her away from a bullet that would have killed her. Sure, it was meant for him, but he could have saved himself more easily if she wasn’t there. He could have run across the bridge long before they’d arrived. He could have used her as a shield if it came to that.

True, too, the fact that she’d been the one to bother him. The one to find his apartment and try to break in. Twice. The one to see him on the bridge and hold him with her questions, even as they tracked her to him. She hadn’t known, but he had.

He had reason to be angry with her, not the other way around.

A slight sound caught her attention.

Eyes closed, he sang. Barely audible, under his breath, he sang. The tune rose and fell, wove into a tapestry, repeating itself in layers that seemed to stay in her mind after the sound had faded. The words weren’t English. She wasn’t sure all the words were composed of sound at all. But in her mind, she pictured a forest, a green and vibrant forest, filled with mist and the sound of things growing. A rushing stream with water cool and clean and fresh as morning. And Owen, stepping one bare foot into the stream, kneeling, not minding the water soaking the ragged hem of his pants, bending to drink from one hand, graceful as a deer.

She blinked and stared at him across the room.

Craggy mountains of stark stone rose behind hills so green they hurt her eyes. A forest, the trees old and vibrant with a past rich enough to merit their own history books. Textured bark and wood. Lichen, cool blue-green. Yellow-green moss cloaking rounded boulders. Water flowing over smooth pebbles. This time he stood, one hand resting on a tree trunk, head bowed slightly and eyes closed. He opened his eyes and looked straight at her. Blue eyes clear and cold as a winter sky.

She shook her head, blinked, and stared at him again. He lay as before, motionless but for the slight rise and fall of his chest.

Did his song give her the vision? She tried to tell herself that was impossible, but nothing in the past two days had been normal.

Aria spent hours staring out the window. Thinking. She ate another sandwich. She looked at Owen occasionally, but he never moved. It got dark, and she lay on the floor. It was cold and uncomfortable, but at some point, she fell asleep.

She blinked at the ceiling. It was light again, and by the angle of the cool shadows, the sun had been up for some time. She stretched and sat up, expecting to feel terribly sore, and was surprised to feel refreshed instead. She closed her eyes and stretched her shoulders again. Best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time, actually. Strange. She’d had odd dreams. She couldn’t remember them clearly, only the impressions they’d left. Green forests. Running water. A feeling rather than a memory.

A movement caught her eye and she glanced over to see Owen shift. He rose without looking at her and stood at the window. His motion was stiff, painful, but he didn’t cough. His bare feet made no sound on the thin industrial carpet as he moved to look out the other window.

“Good morning,” she ventured.

“Hm.” The answer was noncommittal.

She sat up and hugged her knees. “Do you know the test subjects?”

“Yes.”

She swallowed. “What are they doing with them? I mean…” she wondered if there was a way to say it diplomatically. “What exactly are they trying to find out?”

There was a long pause, and he didn’t look at her. “