Chapter 8 · The Anchor and the Jailer

"Don't move, Lorne. Don't even breathe," Cade hissed.

His hand clamped around my wrist, fingers digging in like iron. I didn't listen. I couldn't. The voice bleeding out of the seventh gate wasn't a memory. It was him. My foster father.

"You're late, Lorne," the voice drawled. Cold. Clinical. Like a man checking a stopwatch. "I expected the key to be ripe by now. Did you let it rust?"

I lunged. The black chain connecting my chest to Cade’s wrist snapped taut, jerking me back. "Where are you? Show yourself!"

Cade slammed into my back, his chest hitting my shoulder. He was hot—burning—the only real thing in this nightmare. "It's a trap, Lorne. Look at the gate. It's not opening—it's feeding."

"Get off me!" I shoved him, my voice cracking. "He's right there!"

"He's a ghost in a machine, you idiot!" Cade roared. He spun me around and pinned me against the cold stone of the clock tower.

His face was inches from mine. I could smell ozone and the faint scent of rain on his leather jacket. His grip on my wrists was bruising. "Look at me. Lorne, look at me!"

I glared up at him, chest heaving.