19 Going Higher

Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to figure out exactly what's happened makes me shake. I've lost an entire night. I'm in a place I've never seen before. Aiden ran after me when I tried to flee.

And yet . . . and yet I'm not sick. I don't have a headache. The only shaking I'm doing is out of pure adrenalin rush because . . . because nothing is normal. Even if it is exciting.

I lick my lips and Aiden's eyes dart to watch the movement. The look on his face makes my stomach clench in the best way. But I can't think like that.

I've been out all night. My parents are going to kill me!

Aiden's right there, watching me warily. He doesn't look angry, just uncertain.

"How do you feel?" he asks carefully.

I consider the question. "Fine." I clear my throat. "But . . . I lost some time."

He nods. "You took a much bigger, um, dose than I meant to give."

Then I remember. The dark warehouse. Burning up inside. Feeling like the top of my head would lift off. The air crackling around me. Aiden kissing me…

My fingers jump to touch my lips. Aiden scratches the back of his neck, looks sheepish.

"Yeah, uh, about that…"

"That's how you usually do it?" I ask, because deep in my gut, I have to remind myself I hardly know this guy. I shouldn't feel a thrill when I remember his kiss. No right to feel jealous that he's done that to other girls.

"Yes. But I haven't bound someone who wasn't a Shade before. I don't know if it's because you're Passive or what, but…"

The mental image of my ex-boyfriend, Lester, appears sneering, his face superimposed over Aiden's. I blink and the vision goes away. But it's stolen the rush, left me a sick feeling.

I curse under my shaky breath and everything comes home to me.

I've done it again. I can't believe I've done it again. I've thrown all those months of sobriety away over yet another charming, psychotic asshole who did little more than smile and call me beautiful.

I'm pathetic.

"No, you aren't." Aiden's voice is hard. Emphatic. "But it is time for you to get home."

"What happened? What did I do?"

He glances at me like he's measuring me. "You took it," he says finally after a dark hesitation.

"Took what?"

"The power. The binding. I only planned to give you a taste. A couple hours. But you took it from me. Drew it yourself before I could get loose. You didn't get a taste. You were Bound. You weren't . . . ready for that," he ends grimly.

"No shit, Sherlock. I thought you said no come down—"

"Are you foggy? Sick? Still wasted?"

I turn my attention inwards. My body feels hopped up on adrenalin, but otherwise normal. My head is clear, though buzzing with questions.

So how do I know something important happened?

"Look, I took care of it, okay? You were out of control because you weren't ready to handle so much. You need to . . . build up to that. But you're safe and you can be home in five minutes. Manage your parents. Tell them you fell asleep at a friends or something."

Shaking my head, I ask the more pressing question. "What do you mean, I drew it?"

The corners of his mouth turn up in the faintest smile. "I've never seen anything like it," he says. "You shouldn't be able to do that. Shouldn't have the control yet." He steps right up until our chests almost brush. "You're special, Kate," he says. "That much power could have rewired your brain. But you . . . partied." The edge is gone from his voice, replaced by a touch of awe. Or hope. I'm not sure how to read it

"What are you talking about?"

He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it mussed and falling over his ears. "Channeling—being bound—is safe when someone else, someone with experience, has control. Like getting in a car with a licensed driver, you understand?"

I nod, so Aiden does too, his eyes flicking to my lips and back so fast I wouldn't have noticed except for the light that's in them when they come back.

"Good. Okay. So, if I'd been driving, it would have been completely safe. I know how the pedals work. I know the road rules, right? But you stole the keys and tossed me out of the car. You won a fucking Formula One race when you didn't even have your learner's permit." Then he rubs a hand over his face and a crazed laugh erupts from his throat. "I don't know how you did it, Kate, but you're . . . you're remarkable."

I sink into myself, unable to absorb the words he won't stop saying as he gesticulates, tries to get me to understand how impressive I've apparently been.

My head spins, and despite the cloying thrill still churning in my chest, I can't shake the uneasy conviction I'm missing something. He's not talking specifics. He's not describing the last eight hours. He's talking about the power, about channeling.

What did I do? I was bound. So, what did I do?

When I search my memory it's the oddest sensation. Not like a drunken blackout with images and snippets separated by lost time. Somehow I have a sense of myself, of the time that's passed. But those minutes, hours, are a blank canvas. No images until I woke up. No sights, smells, sounds. Yet, there's feeling.

It's like waking from a dream that you know was so real, but it's gone in the instant your eyes open, and all you're left with is the quickened breath, the excitement, the passion . . . the whatever.

Yet, under the fear that I may have screwed up my entire life—again—is a thick chord of euphoria so startling, it steals my breath.

If I could, I'd take a bath in that feeling. Sink into it and draw it around myself. But a voice of caution, quiet and nestled in the back of my head, warns me not to give in to the temptation. I didn't resist anything else tonight. I need to grasp that.