Chapter 7 · Slipping Grip

The mark on my neck was still wet when the east wall gave out.

No groan. No warning. The iron just let go — one long shriek and then a hole full of river — and the black came through it in a single sheet.

I got one breath. That was all I got.

Then the cold slammed into me chest-first and the world turned over and stayed turned over. Water in my ears. Water in my mouth. Something iron cracked across my hip and I spun, and the current dragged me flat along the floor grating, my nails peeling back, catching, losing, catching again.

And through all of it, one thread pulled tight at the side of my throat.

The claim.

His mouth had been there. Time was gone. The bond was still open, still raw, a live wire under my skin — and it yanked, hard, and I knew exactly where he was without seeing a thing. Three feet to my right.