He held Keefe’s stare as something heavy crashed against Keefe’s senses.

Concern.

Usually a tough emotion to recognize, because it felt like a bunch of different things. But Keefe didn’t even have to try to translate the feeling—which made him want to curl into a little ball and pull the blankets over his head.

Instead, he leaned back against his pillow and propped up his feet.

If he was going to have to deal with… whatever this was, he wanted to figure it out on his own, without people fussing over him and asking all kinds of personal questions—or freaking out about what it all might mean.

So he twisted his lips into what he hoped was a convincing smirk and told Elwin, “I appreciate the pep talk, Dr. Worries-Too-Much. But really, I’m fine. I mean, yeah, I’m a little queasy, and I have a slight headache—but wouldn’t you, if you hadn’t eaten in two days? Or has it been three?”

Elwin sighed. “Actually, it’s probably closer to four at this point.”

“Okay, four,” Keefe corrected, trying hard not to wince.

But almost four days unconscious in the Healing Center?

That was a Foster-Level of almost dying!

He’d have to make sure he returned the favor the next time he saw Mom of the Year.

Or finish her off entirely.

In the meantime, he needed to convince Elwin to let him go home, because he really wanted to talk to his dad—which kinda felt like proof that his mom actually had broken his brain.

But… his dad was an Empath. So maybe Lord Jerkface would know what was happening with Keefe’s ability—especially since he’d also been a part of the creepy experiment in the beginning.

Keefe was trying not to think about that.

He was trying not to think about lots of things.

He just needed answers—even if he despised where they’d be coming from and dreaded the horrible bargains he’d have to make with Lord Jerkface to get them.

And the sooner he got those answers, the better. So he was careful to keep his voice perky as he told Elwin, “No wonder I have a headache! I mean seriously, what’s a guy gotta do to get a meal around here? You’d think the near-death experience would count for at least a few snacks or something. Guess I’ll just have to head home and see what weird food Daddy Dearest is making for dinner. He thinks he’s some sort of culinary genius, but trust me, he’s not.”

Elwin crossed his arms. “Okay. If that’s how you want to play this, I can have Fitz head to the Mentors’ cafeteria and get you some butterblasts. I know how much you love those.”

Keefe did love butterblasts.

But the thought of all that rich, sweet goo made his stomach turn a few backflips, and he had to lock his jaw to stop himself from hurling all over the blankets.

“That’s what I thought,” Elwin said, shaking his head. “You’re not fooling anyone, Keefe. So how about we try this again? On a scale of one to ten, how bad are the nausea and the headache?”

“A two,” Keefe tried—but even he didn’t believe himself.

Time to switch to his ultimate defense mechanism.

“Okay, fine, maybe a four—but that’s still not a big deal! And if you don’t believe me, check out Bullhorn over there.” He nudged his chin toward the purple-eyed banshee curled up in the corner. “He’s so not interested in me right now. In fact, I swear, if he could talk, he’d be like”—he shifted his voice down a couple of octaves and added a hint of rasp as he said—“yo, dudes, this guy is super boring—get him out of my Healing Center so I can get back to snoring!”

“That’s what you think a banshee would sound like?” Fitz asked, exactly the way Keefe hoped he would.

Humor made the perfect distraction.

“Hey, not everyone can have the fancy Vacker accent,” Keefe said, switching to an impersonation of Fitz’s crisp voice. “But you can’t stop us from trying.”

He nailed the intonations so perfectly that it almost felt…

Wrong.

He’d done hundreds of awesome impressions over the years. But this…

This was something else.

This felt like he’d channeled some sort of deeper instinct as he’d said the words.

Almost like—

NOPE!

He definitely wasn’t going to let his mind go there—because there was no way that was possible.

None.

Less than none.

Negative infinity!

“Care to explain what just made you grind your teeth and turn so pale?” Elwin asked, snapping his fingers and switching to a bright orange light that felt like it was shredding Keefe’s skull.

“If you must know,” Keefe said, clearing his throat to make sure his voice sounded like him again, “I’m bummed that no one noticed the awesome rhyme I just pulled off. The Black Swan could learn a thing or two from me if they ever go back to the whole mysterious-notes strategy—anyone else miss those days? All the suspense! All the intrigue! All the—”

“Nice try,” Elwin cut in, “but you’re not going to distract me.” He adjusted his glasses and narrowed his eyes as the light around Keefe flared brighter. “Based on what I’m seeing, your nausea has to be at least an eight. And I’d put the headache at a nine.”

Keefe would’ve put them both at a ten.

Maybe an eleven.

But if he admitted that, he’d never get out of the Healing Center.

“Even if you’re right,” he argued, “and I’m not saying you are—you’re missing my point, which was that Bullhorn’s not even a tiny bit worried about me. And overreacting is pretty much what banshees live for. So whatever you think you’re seeing is just… a misunderstanding.”

That’s all it was, he told himself.

It had to be.

But to be safe, he was never going to impersonate anyone ever again.

He also wished he could block the stinging waves of worry that were now slamming into him from both Elwin and Fitz.

And there was a new emotion scraping the edge of his senses, coming from someone who must’ve been somewhere behind him. He realized it was impatience right as a much-too-familiar voice called out, “Our pretty little Blondie needs to get back here. She’s the only one who can make Lord Funkyhair cooperate.”

Keefe had been hoping to avoid that voice for at least a couple more hours.

Or days.

Maybe a year or two.

But sadly, he turned, and there was Ro, leaning against the doorway to the Healing Center.

She gave a mocking wave before reaching up to adjust one of her choppy pigtails, which she must’ve dyed again, because her hair was now the same vivid red that she’d painted her claws.

It looked like fresh-spilled blood. And her pointy-toothed smile promised lots of gleeful revenge. But Keefe could feel all of Ro’s emotions whirling toward him like spinning daggers.

Anger.

Annoyance.

A tiny wisp of relief—which freaked him out more than the others.

Any goodwill Ro might be feeling toward him had to be buried deep.

“All right, you can drop the tough-guy act,” Ro told him, stalking closer. “You’re way too sweaty and shaky right now to pull it off. Plus, you’ve got this frantic look in your eyes, like a trapped baby bunny. So it’s time to come clean to the nice elf-y doctor and let him give you a bunch of his weirdo medicines, okay? He’s also more than welcome to subject you to any and all treatments that involve melting off your skin.”