The drive back to the Academy was a slow, agonizing crawl through the rain-drenched neon veins of the city. The Camaro handled the wet roads surprisingly well despite the frantic escape, but my hands were shaking so badly that keeping the car centered took more concentration than usual.
My left arm throbbed violently in time with my racing pulse. Every tiny micro-movement of the wheel sent a sharp, shooting fire straight up to my elbow. My wrist was definitely sprained—it didn't feel broken, thank God, but the joint was already hot to the touch and swelling fast against the cuff of my sleeve. Between that, the deep bruising across my shoulder from the fight, and the heavy, dull ache settling into my left cheekbone, I knew I looked like a walking wreck. I could already feel the skin pullin
