The pavement under the tires gently hummed. Rayne’s limbs weighed a ton, and her head throbbed. Touch and go, she fell further into the darkness again. In the distance, Sagan asked, “So is Iona what I think it is?”

The next time Rayne surfaced, something was threaded under her neck and legs. Lumpy and warm, it strained beneath her. Her sides hurt from the many brutal slams into walls and lockers. She groaned and stirred, trying to stop the lumpy, warm thing.

In her ear, Xelan soothed, “Shh… we’ll get you fixed up now.”

Rayne stilled and resisted grunting when he lifted her from the seat of the van.

Beside them, she made out Kyle’s whisper, “An airport?”

“No, an airstrip. It’s private,” Andrew clarified.

Each heavy step of Xelan’s considerable frame sent waves of nausea roiling through Rayne. The unusual details of the conversation dizzied her further, even with her eyes shut.

Xelan said, “I’ll explain once we get inside.”

The bass rumble of his chest as he spoke comforted Rayne. She relaxed more in his arms and tried to ignore any further chatter. No matter how much the talk of Iona interested her. If she opened her eyes for only a second, she could catch a peek at the front of this place without a migraine or passing out. She lifted a single eyelid.

Flat planes, modern gray concrete entry surrounded by glass, and a metallic wing adorned the structure with the words, ‘Iona Aviation,’ in its center.

Pain lanced behind Rayne’s eyes. She shut them tightly. The sharp irritation intensified, occupying every thought and instinct. She opened her mouth to scream. But before she could make a sound, she passed out. At least her friends knew what they were doing.

Again, Rayne dreamed. Her foot disturbed black rubble as she slid down a rock slab. She landed in a steady stance with no injury or stains in sight. A single cone of light shone from somewhere high. She gazed into the vaulted ceiling. So high. The cylindrical room rose forever, stories and stories. Maybe even into the clouds. In the light, she saw her once pale hands had turned dark. A beautiful deep shade, like purple calla lilies. Her entire body felt more sure of its strength and confident in its agility.

Not her. Celindria. When Rayne dreamt from her perspective, it amazed her how comfortable the First Progeny felt in her own skin. Rayne aspired to it. She also wondered where Celindria was exploring in the dream. As far as Rayne knew, buildings like this didn’t exist in 6,000 BCE. Not on Earth.

The confident warrior, the one who dawned the Heavens on the entire Icarean race, marched along the long path up. The ramp spiraled around the cylindrical room.

“T.a.o., I could use your skill-set at the moment,” Celindria shared with the great empty space.

Rayne experienced a tight pain in her chest. Xelan didn’t speak of her often, but he once said T.a.o. had disappeared after the Vacating. She understood how Celindria felt. If Sagan or Tameka vanished, Rayne wouldn’t be able to cope without them.

“You understand little,” Celindria said without provocation.

Rayne’s heart skipped a beat. Was Celindria mentally ill? Or…?

The woman continued, “Your invasions are always so intrusive, child. Do not add insult to injury by assuming me mad.”

Rayne asked, “Am I going crazy? Did the concussion do permanent damage?”

“You accompany me on a dark and lonely mission. I welcome your presence, but please, don’t waste my time with your guilelessness. Most dreams you encounter on this plane hold some reality to them. It’s an Icarean trait. In your brief time as my successor, you must have sensed it to be true.”

Rayne winced as she recalled her dreams of Nox.

Celindria shook her head. “Let the shame go. I’m sure Nox took advantage of your naivety. Why else would he waste energy on someone as inexperienced as you? We don’t have time to soothe your humiliation.”

“Where are we?” Rayne asked, grateful to change the subject.

“This is Umbra’s Spire.”

“Umbra?”

Celindria peered out the glassless windows along the stairs. “Nox’s father built this ugly monstrosity on Cinder.”

Rayne repeated, “Cinder.”

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“The head trauma left you slow.” Celindria shook her head. “Not important. I’m sure you’ll be well again soon enough. You must understand something about this place, and why I traversed here.”

Rayne encouraged, “Go on.”

Celindria said, “Before we orchestrated vacating the Icari from Earth, someone from within our camp betrayed us.”

Something tugged at Rayne’s arm, and she groaned. Her presence in the dream skipped, and when she returned, Celindria knelt in a room at the top of the tower. “We must hurry.” She scraped some dirt over something that shone in the light. A golden shine. “It is the vessel.”

Rayne asked, “The Pretiosum Cruor?”

Celindria confirmed, “The same. The traitor is not aware of my being here. They must never know, but if you’re to thwart the Icarean return, you must retrieve it from this location.”

A loud wet suction pop caused Rayne to scream. More pops and cracks followed. “How?” she asked between gasps.

“Enki. The Tritans. Xelan should understand.” Her blue eyes shone in strong contrast against the depth of her skin.

“Why—”

Celindria interrupted, saying, “We are out of time. You have many lessons ahead of you. They will be painful. I learned much of suffering in my time as a Progeny. The traitor told Nox the identity of the daughter I gave up. That is how he found you. The traitor was—”

Rayne shrieked and jolted back onto a gurney. Hands held down her arms and legs. Her eyes popped open. A bright, unforgiving light shone overhead. She blinked against it and tried to scan the silhouettes for faces she recognized.

“Rayne.” Xelan’s sharp tone cut through her confusion. “Lay still.” A gentle insistence accompanied his words.

She relaxed as best she could against the table. She recognized the shape of him and saw him nod toward her captors. Hands retreated, and bodies stepped away.

Xelan said, “No one will touch you until the hysteria passes and you feel comfortable again.”

Hysteria seemed like overkill. Rayne wondered how well he’d handle waking up to intense pain and people holding him down.

As if Xelan sensed her agitation, he elaborated, “You’re having an adverse reaction to the anesthesia. Sometimes it results in hysteria, hallucinations, and erratic behavior. We’ve already administered something to counteract it; unfortunately, we couldn’t stop setting your arm once we started.”

So that accounted for the meat grinder pulverizing Rayne’s arm. The intensity of the pain lingered. Her lungs labored against her rib cage as she searched Xelan out around the piercing glow of the stupid-big light bulb. With a click, the light retreated, granting her a small favor.

“You talked in your sleep,” someone near the head of the table said.

Rayne recognized the voice. “Pablo?” She searched for him. Her good arm refused to move. She thought Pablo confirmed her assumption, but she couldn’t hear him over the sudden rise in panic. Wasn’t Celindria about to identify the traitor? What if the traitor had survived all these years?

“Why—Why can’t I move?” Rayne jerked hard on her good arm. Nothing. Her legs kicked and snagged. Her heart rate skyrocketed.

Xelan positioned his face in her field of vision. A medical mask sagged below his chin. He hid his hair beneath a hygienic cap. He said, “Rayne. It will be okay. The counteractive drugs should start working soon.”

She recognized this tone of voice from their training sessions. He’d reserved this voice for active shooters and people on ledges. Or Rayne, when she got it in her head she could take on any foe, including him.

She weighed her situation. If the traitor wanted to off her and weaken the resistance, they only needed to give her a lethal dose of drugs and make it look like an accident. Certain Xelan caught every twitch and throb of her pulse, his eyes darted from her up to someone else she couldn’t turn to see. He gave a curt shake of his head.

“Rayne.” Sagan’s voice emerged from the head of the table about three feet away.

Rayne’s eyes fluttered closed, and relief washed over her. “Thank. God.”

Sagan said, “I’m still scrubbing in. Give me a minute.”

When Rayne opened her eyes, Xelan remained like a sentinel. His eyes tightened a little. Her mistrust in him, today, was taking a toll. Once the paranoia cocktail left her system, she resigned herself to spend some time making it up to him. Who else would teach her how to fight with a broken arm?

“Hey.” Sagan’s face popped into view. Her short blond hair framed her delicate features with a silky, wet curl. She’d just showered, and Rayne was jealous of it.

“Can you get me out of here?” Rayne beseeched her, as if Xelan and Pablo had left the room.

Sagan peered up at Xelan, who shook his head. She said, “I’ll be with you the whole time.”

Xelan’s voice cut in, “We don’t have any other anesthetic, Rayne.”

“What does that mean?” Her pulse thundered and rallied against the answer she feared.

Xelan closed his eyes, and his chest heaved with a hard inhale. “We’ve set the bone, but we still have to suture the wound.”

This day kept getting better and better.

A blue-gloved hand patted her good arm, as gentle as possible. Sagan’s voice tore Rayne’s horrified gaze from Xelan’s face to hers. She repeated, “I’ll be right here. I won’t go anywhere. You’d do the same for me.”

Rayne swallowed. She would do the same. Xelan waited while Sagan hovered like a gentle halo at the top of the operating table. “Can I have some water?” Rayne croaked the request through vocal cords which felt stuck together.

Sagan looked at Xelan and back at Rayne with a soft smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Once the blond girl disappeared from Rayne’s field of vision, she asked Xelan, “How long will this take, and how many stitches do I need?”

Without hesitation, Xelan said, “It’s a rough estimate until I get started, but…” He leaned back to look at her left arm and then leaned forward again. In that brief window, the slight hint of concentration on his face let Rayne know he’d calculated precisely the right numbers. “Twelve internal stitches. Fifty-nine external. One hour and thirteen minutes if you can hold still.”

With each subsequent number on his list, Rayne’s eyes widened. “Just one hour, twenty?”

At Xelan’s nod, she grimaced.

In response, he held up a syringe. Rayne flinched, and her entire body ached with the effort. He said, “Relax. It’s lidocaine.” She allowed her muscles to loosen by centimeters. A local anesthetic. “With this, the most you’ll feel is the tug on the sutures. It’ll be uncomfortable, but not painful.”

And there it was. Xelan broke into a fantastic grin warmed by the softening of his eyes. Rayne relaxed back on the table, no longer concerned with her brave front for the benefit of her people. Xelan would take care of her.

“Everything will be all right,” he said.

And Rayne believed him.