If I was scared before, I’m terrified now.

No wonder they seem to always be a step ahead of us. They’ve had thousands of years of practice.

When I hear the door unlock, my heart leaps and races. Benson pokes his head in tentatively—probably to check if I’m sleeping—before slipping in.

I glance at the clock and am shocked to see that it’s been two hours since he left. I scarcely noticed the time passing.

He comes in and shuts the door behind him without a word. He stands with his back to me for a long time, and when he finally turns, I lift both of my hands to my mouth with a gasp. His eye is purpling in what’s sure to be a major shiner tomorrow, and a scrape on his upper cheekbone has a smear of blood across it. His hair is mussed and the knuckles on his right hand are bleeding through a napkin.

“Holy crap, Benson, what happened to you?” I rush to him, but he puts out a warning hand and I pull up short.

“Please don’t,” he says, and his voice is brittle, almost to the breaking point. “I think my ribs are bruised.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Get your stuff, we have to go.”

“What do you mean go?”

“Not far, but we aren’t safe here. There’s another hotel across the street.”

“But—”

“Please Tavia, there’s no time!”

The desperation in his voice shocks me into action. I circle the room, grabbing everything I can see and throwing it into my backpack. I hold my loaded bag against my chest and huddle beneath my coat as Benson opens the door again. Chilly air rushes in and swirls around my bare calves and sockless feet shoved into tennis shoes, but when Benson turns to ask if I’m ready to run, I nod.

We sprint through the snow, struggling not to slip on the iced pavement as we cross from one hotel parking lot into another. Benson leads the way around to the far side of a long wing of rooms and then reaches into his back pocket. “Stand over there, in front of me,” he says, pointing.

I do, confused, but understand when I see Benson working on the old dead bolt with his tiny lock picks.

“You didn’t book us a room?” I whisper.

“Do you want to be dead by morning?” he retorts, in a completely uncharacteristic display of impatience.

That’s when I understand how scared he is. “No,” I answer softly. “Thank you.”

The door opens moments later and Benson gestures me inside. He drops my backpack as he flips on the light, revealing what could have been a mirror image of the room we were just in. Different colors, one less lamp, utterly interchangeable.

The silence feels thick between us.

“What happened to you?” I finally ask, hating the suspicion that he ran into my trouble. My mind flashes back to Sunglasses Guy, who apparently managed to track us up to the library. And we really haven’t been that careful this evening. Not careful enough.

“Can we not talk about it?” Benson asks, and he sounds so weary that I almost relent, but I can’t just not know.

“The quick and dirty basics,” I say.

“I went to a pawnshop like I told you and turned in the gold for cash, and I was so focused on how much I got us that I was sloppy. Didn’t watch out. It was dark and I … I was easy to sneak up on.”

“Oh no,” I say, knowing what’s coming.

Benson turns away and starts emptying his pockets onto the bedside table, including a thick fold of twenties. Or are those hundreds? He continues wearily. “So a guy jumps out and puts a gun to my head and demands to know where you are.”

“Where I am?” I was right; my stomach feels sick. “What did you do?”

Without turning he lifts his wrapped fist. “I punched him in the teeth.” He chuckles mirthlessly. “He didn’t like that very much,” he says, gesturing to his blackening eye.

I swallow hard, wondering if he broke any bones in his hand or just the skin. “How’d you get away?”

“I got in a couple good hits, gun fell in the snow, and I managed to get in the car. He didn’t shoot. Probably didn’t want to kill me before he found out where you are.”

“Benson.” My fingers skim up his back, over his damp coat.

“Just don’t,” he says. “Please.”

“Okay,” I whisper, not understanding.

“You’re clean,” he mumbles in halfhearted explanation. “And I totally reek. You don’t want to touch me.”

“I—” But what am I supposed to say? The truth is that I want to touch him so badly I can hardly keep myself still. But that won’t help anything.

“I should shower,” he says, and I turn, trying to give him the privacy he’s so blatantly asking for, but after a few seconds I hear muffled cursing. I turn and see that he’s managed to slide his peacoat off but is struggling to unbutton his shirt with his injured hand.

“Let me help.” I rush up and Benson jumps away like a skittish rabbit. He looks almost as weary as I do—as though he’s aged five years in the last week.

I pause and study him for a moment with my artist’s eyes. I wonder if I look that way too, if that’s what had Reese so concerned. Does it show in my face the way it does in Benson’s? If so, I can’t hide it.

“Benson,” I whisper, soft but firm. He settles down, but his eyes still have that wild look. I move slowly, unfastening all the buttons down the front first, revealing his white T-shirt beneath. Then I unroll the sleeve on his left arm; the right one’s already ripped up to his elbow.