I didn't realize something was wrong until I caught Julian staring at his phone.
Not looking. Not reading. Staring.
The kind of stare that made time feel weird around the edges, like the air around him had warped and stilled, waiting for something terrible to happen.
It was late afternoon, and we were in the library again—the third time that week. Julian had finally caved and let me out of babysitting range as long as I stayed in "low energy zones," which basically meant no training rooms, no meditation chambers, and definitely no touching mysterious psychic artifacts even if they glowed really invitingly. (Rude.)
But the library was safe.
Supposedly.
