"Max, I need your help."
He had called from a payphone in California. There was such urgency in his voice that Max felt an uneasy nerve shoot up her spine and disperse the feeling throughout her body.
"Where are you?"
"In L.A. Hermosa Beach," he said huskily.
And she had left immediately, without a word to anyone, and without an idea of when she would be back. She had spent over sixteen hours on the Ninja, speeding over 1000 miles, only stopping for gas and a bit of food. It had been raining in Seattle when she left, and when she arrived in southern California and felt the warmth of the famous California sun, her feline DNA revved up her skin – she wanted to bask in the total lack of rain. She wondered if cats ever lay out in the sand.
Her stomach turned again when she thought about what he must have done this time, sick with worry over the severity of his voice as he cut to the chase: Max, I need your help.
Finally, she caught up with him in a motel near Hermosa Beach.
Something is very wrong, she thought. It's too quiet. She twisted the knob and walked into the dark room, shutting the door and the world out behind her.
Immediately adjusting to the darkness, she saw him, face-down on the shoddy mattress. Her heart pounded in her ears as she stepped closer. She placed a hand on his shoulder and with some effort, he turned his head.
"Max?" he asked. He couldn't see her. Both his eyes were swollen, his left more than his right, and his cheek had been lacerated. His lip was split and already scabbing. His messy hair was caked with dried blood. She sat on her knees in front of him, unable to understand why he didn't look like he normally did – sarcastic, jubilant, like trouble on legs.
He couldn't see that it was her, not for sure, but he could smell that it was her. Her essence mixed with the slight vanilla and the light cherries and saltiness – no one else smelled like she did, as intoxicating. She was unmistakable. He tried to roll himself over, stirring near-silently. The turn revealed more damage.
The front of him was almost completely covered in blood and a little sweat, and his legs were pretty banged up – she could see several cuts through his jeans.
"What happened?"
"I saw an ad in the newspaper with my number on it," he rasped, pointing to his barcode. "The message said ILA's cure. So I answered it."
Max's eyes began to water. "What's ILA's cure?"
He took a breath. "It's a cipher for you, Max. 452. Text."
"It was a trap."
"The Conclave."
Max could barely hold it together as she watched him struggle to sit up. She helped him to a sitting position. She tried to lift his shirt to see the damage, but he winced, stopping her with his bloodied, broken, sliced and swollen hand. Both hands had similar afflictions.
"You did this because of me?"
He didn't answer.
"Why?"
"You know why."
Max looked into his one good eye. "You can't do this – go off without telling me like there's some fire out there –"
His eye widened as he reached for her hand, and crushed it to his chest. "The fire's in here."
She was surprised he didn't cry out in pain. She could feel the carved flesh under his shirt. It made her closer to him. The closest to Alec she'd ever been.
"I'm a burning man, Max."