فصل پانزدهم

FIFTEEN

Gulls perch on the stars adorning every roof, watching as we pass through the cool, midday shadows. I feel exposed beneath their gaze, a fish about to be snapped up for dinner. Cal keeps us moving at a brisk pace, and I know he feels the danger too. Even in the back alleys, overlooked only by service doors and servants’ quarters, we are still hopelessly out of place in our hoods and threadbare clothing. This part of the city is peaceful, quiet, pristine—and dangerous. The farther in we go, the tenser I feel. And the low pulse of electricity deepens, a steady thrum in every house we pass. It even arcs overhead, carried through wire camouflaged by twisting vines or blue-striped awnings. But I feel no cameras, and the transports stick to the main streets. So far, we have gone unnoticed, protected by a pair of bloody distractions.

Cal guides us quickly through what he calls the Star Sector. Judging by the thousand stars on a hundred domed roofs, the neighborhood is aptly named. He skirts us down the alleys, careful to give Ocean Hill a wide berth until we circle back to a main road busy with traffic. An offshoot of the Port Road, if I remember the map correctly, connecting Ocean Hill and its outbuildings to the bustling harbor and Fort Patriot below, stretching out into the water. From this angle, the city spreads all around us, a painting of white and blue.

We fall in with the Reds crowding the sidewalks. There, the white flagstones are choked with military transports. They vary in size, ranging from two-man vehicles to armored boxes on wheels, most of them stamped with the sword symbol of the army. Cal’s eyes glitter beneath his hood, watching each one pass. I’m more concerned with the civilian transports. They’re fewer in number, but they gleam, moving swiftly through the traffic. The more impressive ones fly colored flags, denoting the house they belong to, or the passenger they carry. To my relief, I don’t see the red and black of Maven’s House Calore, or the white and navy of Elara’s House Merandus. At least I won’t have to expect the very worst from today.

The jostling crowd forces us to walk huddled together, with Cal on my right and Farley on my left. “How much farther?” I whisper, edging my face back into my hood. The map has gone fuzzy in my head, despite my best efforts. Too many twists and turns to keep straight, even for me.

Cal nods his head in response, gesturing to a bustling throng of people and transports up ahead. I gulp at the sight of what is undoubtedly the beating heart of Harbor Bay. The crown of the city’s hill, ringed by white stone and diamondglass walls. I can see the palace gates, bright blue and scaled with silver, but a few starry turrets peek out. It is a beautiful place, but cold, cruel, and razor sharp. Dangerous.

On the map, this looked like nothing more than a plaza in front of the gates of Ocean Hill, connected to the harbor and the gates of Fort Patriot down the gentle slope. The reality is much more complicated. Here, the two worlds of this kingdom seem to mingle, Red and Silver drawn together for a fraction of a moment. Dockworkers, soldiers, servants, and high lords cross beneath the crystal dome arcing over the massive courtyard. A fountain twists in the center, surrounded by white and blue flowers not yet touched by autumn. Sunshine shimmers through the dome, refracting dancing light onto the realm of brightly colored chaos. The fort gates are directly down the avenue from us, dappled by the shifting light of the dome. Like those of the palace, they are artfully crafted. Forty feet high, made of burnished bronze and silver braided into giant, swirling fish. If not for the dozens of soldiers and my sheer terror, I might find the gates magnificent. They hide the bridge beyond, and Fort Patriot farther out to sea. Horns and shouts and laughter add to the overload, until I have to look down at my boots and catch my breath. The thief in me delights at the thought of so much confusion, but the rest is frightened and frayed, a live wire trying to contain its sparks.

“You’re lucky it’s not the Night of a Single Star,” Cal murmurs, his eyes faraway. “The whole city explodes for the festival.” I don’t have the strength or the need to respond to him. The Night is a Silver holiday, held in memory of some navy battle decades ago. It means nothing to me, but one glance at Cal and his distracted gaze tells me he doesn’t agree. He’s seen the Night in this very city, and remembers it fondly. Music and laughter and silk. Maybe fireworks over the water, and a royal feast to end the party. His father’s approving smile, jokes with Maven. Everything he’s lost.

Now it’s my turn to look faraway. That life is gone, Cal. It shouldn’t make you happy anymore.

“Don’t worry,” he adds when his expression clears. He shakes his head, trying to hide a sad smile. “We’ve made it. That’s the Security Center there.” The building he indicates stands on the edge of the bustling square, its white walls stark against the tangled traffic below. It looks like a beautiful fortress, with thick-glassed windows, and steps leading up to a terrace surrounded by columns carved into the scaly tails of enormous fish. Patrolled walkways arch over the diamondglass walls of Ocean Hill, tying it to the rest of the palatial compound. The roof is also blue, decorated not with stars but spikes. Cruel iron, six feet long, and sharpened to a wicked point. For magnetrons, I suppose, to use against any kind of assault. The rest of the building is the same, covered in Silver weapons. Vines and thorny plants wind up the columns for greenwardens while a pair of wide, still pools hold dark water for nymphs. And of course, there are armed guards at every door, long rifles plain in their hands.

Worse than any guard are the banners. They flap in the sea breeze, streaming from the walls, turrets, and fishtail columns. They bear not the silver spear of Security but the Burning Crown. Black, white, and red, its points twisting in curls of flame. They stand for Norta, for the kingdom, for Maven. For everything we’re trying to destroy. And between them, on gilded banners of his own, is Maven. Or at least, his image. He stares out, his father’s crown on his head, his mother’s eyes glaring. He looks like a young but strong boy, a prince rising to the ultimate occasion. “LONG LIVE THE KING” screams beneath every picture of his sharp, pale face.

Despite the impressive defenses, despite Maven’s haunting stare, I can’t help but smile. The Center pulses with my own weapon, with electricity. It is more powerful than any magnetron, any greenwarden, any gun. It is everywhere. And it is mine. If only I could use it properly. If only we didn’t have to hide.

If. I despise that stupid word.

It hangs in the air, close enough to touch. What if we can’t get in? What if we can’t find Ada or Wolliver? What if Shade doesn’t come back? The last thought burns more deeply than the rest. Even though my eyes are sharp, trained on the crowded streets, I can’t see my brother anywhere. He should be easy to spot, limping along on his crutch, but he’s nowhere to be found.

Panic deepens my senses, taking away a little of the control I worked so hard to cultivate. I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping aloud. Where is my brother?

“So now we wait?” Farley says, her voice trembling with dread of her own. Her eyes sweep back and forth, also searching. For my brother. “I don’t think even you two can get in there without Shade.” Cal scoffs, too busy examining the Center’s defenses to spare a glance for her. “We could get in just fine. It might mean sending the whole place up in smoke. Not exactly the subtle approach.” “No, not at all,” I murmur, if only to distract myself. But no matter how hard I try to focus on my feet or Cal’s capable hands, I can’t stop worrying about Shade. Up until this moment, I never truly doubted he would meet us. He’s a teleporter, the fastest thing alive, and a few dock thugs shouldn’t pose him any threat. That’s what I told myself back in the Paltry, when I left him. When I abandoned him. He took a bullet for me a few days ago and I threw him to the Seaskulls like a lamb to wolves.

Back in Naercey, I told Shade I didn’t trust his word. I suppose he shouldn’t trust mine either.

My fingers stray into my hood, trying to massage the ache from my neck muscles. But it brings me no respite. Because right now we’re idling in front of a veritable firing squad, waiting like stupid chickens eyeing a butcher’s knife. And while I fear for Shade, I fear for myself too. I cannot be taken. I will not.

“The back entrance,” I say. It’s not a question. Every house has a door, but it also has windows, a hole in the roof, or a broken lock. There is always a way in.

Cal furrows his brow, at a loss for once. A soldier should never be sent to do a thief’s job. “We’re better off with Shade,” he argues. “No one will even know he’s in. A few more minutes—” “We put every newblood at greater risk with every second we waste. Besides, Shade won’t have a problem finding us later.” I take my first steps off the Port Road and onto a side street. Cal sputters, but follows along. “All he has to do is follow the smoke.” “Smoke?” He blanches.

“A controlled burn,” I continue, a plan formulating so fast the words barely have time to pass my lips. “Something contained. A fire wall just big enough to hold them back, until we get the names we need. A few nymph grunts shouldn’t pose much of a threat to you, and if they do”—I ball my hand, letting a tiny spark spin in my palm—“that’s what I’m here for. Farley, I assume you know the records system?” She doesn’t hesitate to nod, her face shining with an odd sort of pride. “Finally,” she mutters. “No point in lugging you two around if you’re not going to be useful.” Cal’s eyes darken into a fearsome glare that reminds me of his dead father. “You know what this will do, don’t you?” he warns, as if I’m some kind of child. “Maven will know who did this. He’ll know where we are. He’ll know what we’re doing.” I round on Cal, angry that I must explain. Angry that he doesn’t trust me to make any kind of decision. “We took Nix more than twelve hours ago. Someone will notice Nix is gone, if they haven’t already. It will be reported. You think Maven isn’t watching every name on Julian’s list?” I shake my head, not knowing why I didn’t realize sooner. “He’ll know what we’re doing the moment he hears of Nix’s disappearance. It doesn’t matter what we do here. After today, no matter what, it will truly be a manhunt. Citywide searches for us, orders to kill on sight. So why not get ahead of the curve?” He doesn’t argue, but that doesn’t mean he agrees. Either way, I don’t care. Cal doesn’t know this side of the world, the gutters and the mud we must throw ourselves into. I do.

“It’s time we stop pulling our punches, Cal.” Farley joins in.

Again, no answer. He looks dejected, disgusted even. “They’re my own people, Mare,” he finally whispers. Another man would yell, but Cal is not the type to shout. His whispers usually burn, but I feel only determination. “I won’t kill them.” “Silvers,” I finish for him. “You won’t kill Silvers.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I can’t.”

“And yet you were willing to end Crance not too long ago,” I press on, hissing. “He’s one of your people too, or he would be if you were king. But I suppose his blood’s the wrong color, right?” “That’s—” he sputters, “that’s not the same. If he ran, if he was captured, we’d be in such danger. . . .” The words stick in his throat, trailing away. Because there are simply no words left for him to say. He’s a hypocrite, plain and simple, no matter how fair he claims to be. His blood is silver and his heart is Silver. And he will never value another above his own.

Leave, I want to say. The words taste bitter. I can’t force them past my lips. As infuriating as his prejudice, his allegiances are, I can’t do what should be done. I can’t let him go. He is so wrong and I can’t let him go.

“Then don’t kill,” I grind out. “But remember that he did. My people—and your own. They follow him now, and they’ll kill us for their new king.” I point one bruised finger back at the street, to the banners bearing Maven’s face. Maven, who sacrificed Silvers to the Scarlet Guard, to turn rebels into terrorists and destroy his own enemies in a single swoop. Maven, who murdered everyone at court who truly knew me. Lucas and Lady Blonos and my maids, all dead because I was different. Maven, who helped kill his own father, who tried to execute his brother. Maven, who must be destroyed.

A small part of me fears that Cal will walk away. He could disappear into the city, to find whatever peace still lingers in his heart. But he won’t. His anger, while buried deep, is stronger than his own reason. He will have vengeance, just as I will have mine. Even if it costs us everything we hold dear.

“This way.” His voice echoes. We have no more time for whispers.

As we round the back corner of the Security Center, my senses reach out, focusing on the security cameras dotting the walls. With a smile, I push against them, shorting out their wiring. One by one, they fall to my wave.

The back door is just as impressively made as the front, albeit smaller. A wide step like a porch, a door grated with curving steel, and only four armed guards. Their rifles are polished to a high sheen, but heavy in their hands. New recruits. I note the colored bands on their arms, denoting their houses and abilities. One has no band at all—a lower-class Silver, with no great family, and weaker abilities than the others. The rest are a banshee of House Marinos, a Gliacon shiver, and a Greco strongarm. To my delight, I see no white and black of House Eagrie. No eyes to glimpse the immediate future, to know what we’re about to do.

They see us coming, and don’t bother to straighten up. Reds are nothing to worry about, not for Silver officers. How wrong they are.

Only when we stop before the steps of the rear door do they notice us. The banshee, little more than a boy with slanted eyes and high cheekbones, spits at our feet.

“Keep moving, Red rats.” His voice has a painful, razor edge to it.

Of course, we don’t listen. “I would like to lodge a complaint,” I say, my voice high and clear, though I keep my face angled to the ground. Heat rises next to me, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Cal’s fists clench.

The officers break out in hearty guffaws, exchanging grotesque smiles. The banshee even takes a few steps forward, until he stands over me. “Security doesn’t listen to the likes of you. Take it up with the Red Watch.” They break out in peals of laughter again. The banshee’s hurt my tender ears. “I think they’re still hanging around”—more disgusting laughs—“in Stark Garden.” Next to me, Farley’s hands curl into her jacket, to feel the knife she keeps tucked close. I glare at her, hoping to stop her from stabbing someone before the right moment.

The steel Center door opens, allowing a guard to step out onto the entryway. He mutters to one of the other officers, and I catch the words broken and camera. But the officer only shrugs, darting to look at the many security cameras dotting the wall above us. He doesn’t see anything wrong with them, not that he could.

“Be gone with you,” the banshee continues, waving a hand like we’re dogs to be dismissed. When we don’t move, his eyes narrow into thin, black slits. “Or shall I arrest you all for trespassing?” He expects us to scurry off. Arrest is as good as execution these days. But we hold our ground. If the banshee wasn’t such a cruel idiot, I would feel sorry for him.

“You can try,” I say, reaching for my hood.

The shawl falls around my shoulders, flapping like gray wings before crumpling at my feet. It feels good to turn up my gaze, and watch cold recognition draw fear across the banshee’s face.

I am not remarkable looking. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin. Bruised, bone weary, small, and hungry. Red blood and a red temper. I should not frighten anyone, but the banshee is certainly afraid of me. He knows what power hums beneath my bruises. He knows the lightning girl.

He stumbles, one foot catching on the steps, and falls backward, mouth opening and closing as he summons the strength to scream.

“It’s—it’s her,” the shiver behind him stammers, pointing one shaking finger. It quickly turns to ice. I can’t help but smile pointedly, and sparks ball in my hands. Their shocking hiss is a comfort like no other.

Cal compounds the dramatics. He rips away his disguise in a single, smooth motion, revealing the prince they were raised to follow, then told to fear. His bracelet crackles and flame spreads along his shawl, turning it into a blistering, burning flag.

“The prince!” the strongarm gasps. He looks starry-eyed, reluctant to act. After all, until a few days ago, they saw Cal as a legend, not a monster.

The banshee recovers first, reaching for his gun. “Arrest them! Arrest them!” He shrieks, and we duck as one, dodging his sonic blow. It shatters the windows behind us.

Shock makes the officers slow and stupid. The strongarm doesn’t dare come close, and fumbles for his holstered pistols, struggling against his own rushing adrenaline. One of them, the officer standing in the open door, has the good sense to run into the safety of the Center. The four remaining are easily dealt with. The banshee doesn’t get the chance for another scream, catching an electric bolt instead. The shocks dig into his neck and chest before finding home in his brain. For a split second, I can feel his veins and nerves, splayed like branches in flesh. He drops where he stands, falling into a deep, dark sleep.

A breath of biting cold gets the better of me, and I spin to find a wall of ice shards sailing my way, driven by the shiver. They melt before they reach me, destroyed by a blast of Cal’s fire. It quickly turns on the shiver and the strongarm, surrounding them both, trapping them so I can finish the job. Two more shocks knock them out, slamming them to the floor. The last officer, the unknown, tries to flee, pawing at the still open door. Farley grabs him around the neck, but he throws her off, sending her flying. He’s a telky, but a weak one, and quickly dispatched. He joins the others on the ground, his muscles twitching slightly from my electric darts. I give the banshee an extra shock, for his malice. His body flops against the steps like a fish from Kilorn’s nets.

All of it takes but a moment. The door is still open, swinging slowly on massive hinges. I catch it before the latch locks in place, forcing an arm into the cool, circulated air of the Security Center. Inside, I feel the rush of electricity, in the lights, in the cameras, in my own fingertips. With a single, steadying breath, I shut them all out, plunging the chamber beyond into darkness.

Cal steps carefully over the unconscious bodies of fallen officers, while Farley does her best to kick each one in the ribs. “For the Watch,” she snarls, breaking the banshee’s nose. Cal stops her before she can do any more damage, sighing as he loops an arm around her shoulder, hoisting her up the steps and through the open back door. With one last glance at the sky, I slip into the Center, and shut the steel firmly behind us.

The dark halls and dead cameras remind me of the Hall of the Sun, of sneaking down to the palace dungeons to save Farley and Kilorn from certain death. But I was almost a princess there. I wore silk, and I had Julian at my back, singing his way through each and every guard, bending their will to our purpose. It was clean, spilling no blood but my own. The Security Center is not like that. I can only hope to keep the casualties to a minimum.

Cal knows where to go, and keeps the lead, but he does nothing more than dodge the officers who try to stop us. For a brute, he’s quite graceful, shouldering around blows from strongarms and swifts. He still won’t hurt them, and leaves that burden to me. Lightning destroys just as easily as flame, and we leave a trail of bodies in our wake. I tell myself they’re only unconscious, but in the heat of battle, I can’t be sure. I can’t control my surges as easily as I make them, and it’s likely I killed one or two. I don’t care—and neither does Farley, her long knife plunging in and out of the dark shadows. It drips metallic silver blood by the time we reach our destination, an unremarkable door.

But I feel something remarkable within. A vast machine, pulsing with electricity.

“Here. The records room,” Cal says. He keeps his eyes on the door, unable to look back at our carnage. True to his word, he bathes the surrounding hallway in flame, creating a wall of twisting heat to protect us while we work.

We push through the door. I expect mountains of paper, printed lists like the one Julian gave me, but instead I find myself staring at a wall of flashing lights, video screens, and control panels. It pulses, sluggish from my interference with the wiring. Without a thought, I put a hand to the cold metal, calming myself and my ragged breathing. The records machine responds in kind, and kicks into a high whir. One of the screens blinks to life, showing a fuzzy black-and-white display. Text flits across the screen, drawing a gasp from Farley and me. We’ve never imagined, let alone seen, anything like this.

“Remarkable,” Farley breathes, reaching out with a tentative hand. Her fingers brush along the text on-screen, reading slowly. Large letters spell out Census and Records, with Beacon Region, Regent State, Norta written in smaller type below.

“They didn’t have this in Coraunt?” I ask, wondering how she found Nix’s location in the village.

She dully shakes her head. “Coraunt barely has a post office, let alone one of these.” With a grin, she clicks one of the many buttons beneath the glowing screen. Then another, and another. The screen flashes each time, typing out different questions. She giggles like a child, continuing to click.

I put my hand over hers. “Farley.”

“Sorry,” she replies. “A little help here, Your Highness?”

Cal doesn’t step back from the door, his neck craning back and forth to check for officers. “The blue key. Says search.” I press the button before Farley can. The screen darkens for a moment, before flashing blue. Three options appear, each one inside a flashing white box. Search by name, search by location, search by blood type. Hastily, I hit a button marked select, choosing the first box.

“Type in the name you want, then hit proceed. Hit printout when you find what you want, it’ll give you a copy,” Cal instructs. But a shouting curse draws his gaze away, as an officer makes blistering contact with his fiery barricade. A gunshot blasts, and I pity the stupid guard trying to fight fire with bullets. “Quickly now.” My fingers hover over the keys, hunting down each letter as I type out Ada Wallace in frustratingly slow motions. The machine whirs again, the screen flashing three times, before a wall of text appears. It even includes a photograph, the one used on her identification card. I linger on the picture of the newblood, taking in Ada’s deep golden skin and soft eyes. She looks sad, even in the tiny image.

Another gunshot echoes, making me jump. I turn my focus on the text, skimming through Ada’s personal information. Her birthday and birth location I already know, as well as the blood mutation that marks her as a newblood like me. Farley searches too, her eyes scanning over the words with abandon. “There.” I point a finger at what we need, feeling happier than I have in days.

Occupation: Housemaid, employed by Governor Rem Rhambos. Address: Bywater Square, Canal Sector, Harbor Bay.

“I know it,” Farley says, jabbing at the printout button. The machine spits out paper, copying down the information from Ada’s record.

The next name comes even faster from the humming machine. Wolliver Galt. Occupation: Merchant, employed by Galt Brewery. Address: Battle Garden and Charside Road, Threestone Sector, Harbor Bay. So Crance wasn’t lying about this, at least. I’ll have to shake his hand if I ever see him again.

“About done?” Cal shouts from the door, and I hear the strain in his voice. It’s only a matter of time until nymphs come running, and his flaming wall crashes down.

“Nearly,” I murmur, clicking at the keys again. “This machine isn’t just for Harbor Bay, is it?” Cal doesn’t respond, too busy maintaining his shield, but I know I’m right. With a grin, I pull the list from my jacket, and thumb to the first page. “Farley, get started on that screen.” She jumps to attention like a rabbit, gleefully clicking until the next panel screen hums to life. We pass the list between each other, typing in name after name, collecting one printout after another. Every name from the Beacon region, all ten of them. The girl from the New Town slums, a seventy-year-old grandmother in Cancorda, twin boys on the Bahrn Islands, and so on. The papers pile on the floor, each one telling me more than Julian’s list ever could. I should feel excited, ecstatic at such a breakthrough, but something throttles my happiness. So many names. So many to save. And we are moving so slowly. There is no way we’ll find them all in time, not like this. Not even with the airjet or the records or all of Farley’s underground tunnels. Some will be lost. There is no avoiding it.

The thought disintegrates just like the wall behind me. It explodes inward in a cloud of dust, silhouetting the jagged figure of a man with gray, rocky flesh, hard as a battering ram. Stoneskin is all I manage to think before he charges, catching Farley around the waist. Her hand still clutches the line of printouts, ripping the precious paper from the machine. It streams behind her like a white banner of surrender.

“Submit to arrest!” the stoneskin roars, pinning her against the far window. Her head smacks against the glass, cracking it. Her eyes roll.

And then the wall of fire is in the room with us, surrounding Cal as he enters like a mad bull. I snatch the papers from Farley’s hand, tucking them away with the list lest they be burned. Cal works quickly, forgetting his oath not to harm, and hauls the stoneskin off her, using his flames to force him back through the hole in the wall. The fire rises, stopping him from coming back. For the time being.

“Done now?” Cal growls, his eyes like living coals.

I nod and turn my gaze on the records machine. It whirs sadly, as if it knows what I’m about to do. With a clenched fist, I overload its circuits, sending a destructive surge shuddering through the machine. Every screen and blinking line explodes in a spray of sparks, erasing exactly what we came for. “Done.” Farley stumbles away from the window, a hand to her head, her lip bleeding, but still inexorably standing. “I think this is the part where we run.” One glance out the window, the natural escape, tells me we’re too high up to jump. And the sounds from the hall outside, shouts and marching feet, are just as damning. “Run where?” Cal only grimaces, extending a hand toward the polished wood floor.

“Down.”

A fireball explodes at our feet. It digs into the wood, charring the intricate designs and the solid base like a dog chewing through meat. The floor cracks in an instant, collapsing under us, and we fall to the room below, and then the next below that. My knees buckle beneath me, but Cal doesn’t let me stumble, one hand holding my collar. Then he drags me, never loosening his grip, pulling us toward another window.

I don’t need to be told what to do next.

Our flame and lightning shatter through the thick pane of glass, and we follow, leaping into what I think is thin air. Instead, we land hard, rolling onto one of the stone walkways. Farley follows, her momentum sending her right into a startled guard. Before he can react, she tosses him from the bridge. A sickening smack tells us his fall was not pleasant.

“Keep moving!” Cal growls, hoisting himself to his feet.

In a thunder of feet, we storm across the arched bridge, crossing from the Security Center to the royal palace of Ocean Hill. Smaller than Whitefire, but just as fearsome. And just as familiar to Cal.

At the end of the walkway, a door starts to open, and I hear the shouts of more guards, more officers. A veritable firing squad. But instead of trying to fight, Cal slams against the door, his hands blazing. And welds it shut.

Farley balks, glancing between the blocked door and the walkway behind us. It looks like a trap, worse than a trap. “Cal—?” she begins, fearful, but he ignores her.

Instead, he extends a hand to me. His eyes are like nothing I’ve ever seen. Pure flame, pure fire.

“I’m going to throw you,” he says, not bothering to sugarcoat a word. Behind him, something shudders against the welded door.

I don’t have time to argue, or even ask. My mind spins, poisoned by terror, but I take his wrist, and he grips mine. “Explode when you hit.” He trusts me to know what he means.

With a grunt, he heaves, and I’m airborne, falling toward another window. It gleams, and I hope it isn’t diamondglass. A split second before I find out, my sparks do as they’re told. They obliterate the window in a shriek of glittering glass as I fall through, onto plush, golden carpeting. Stacks of books, a familiar smell of old leather and paper—the musty palace library. Farley slings through the windowpane next. Cal’s aim is too perfect, and she lands right on top of me.

“Up, Mare!” she snaps, almost wrenching my arm out of my socket to get me on my feet. Her brain works faster than mine and she reaches the window first, her arms outstretched. I mirror her in a daze, my head spinning.

Above us, on the bridge, guards and officers flood from both ends. In the center, an inferno blazes. For a moment it seems still; then I realize. It’s coming at us, leaping, lunging, falling.

Cal’s flames extinguish a moment before he hits the wall—and misses the window ledge.

“Cal!” I scream, almost diving out myself.

His hand brushes through my own. For a heart-stopping second, I think I’m about to watch him die. Instead, he dangles, his other wrist firm in Farley’s grip. She roars, her muscles flexing beneath her sleeves, somehow keeping two hundred pounds of prince from falling.

“Grab him!” she screams. Her knuckles are bone white.

I send a thunderbolt skyward, to the bridge. To guards and guns all trained on Cal’s form splayed out like an easy target. They cower, and pieces of the stone crack. Another, and it will collapse.

I want it to collapse.

“MARE!” Farley shrieks.

I have to reach, I have to pull. His hand finds mine, almost breaking my wrist with the effort. But we get him up as quickly as we can, dragging him over the ledge, and backward. Into disarming silence and a room full of harmless books.

Even Cal seems shocked by the ordeal. He lies for a second, eyes wide, breath heavy. “Thanks,” he finally grinds out.

“Later!” Farley snarls. Like with me, she hoists him up. “Get us out.”

“Right.”

But instead of heading to the ornate library entrance, he sprints across the room, to a wall of bookshelves. He searches for a moment, looking for something. Trying to remember. Then with a grunt, he shoulders a section of shelving until it slides sideways, opening onto a narrow, sloping passage.

“In!” he shouts, shoving me through.

My feet fly over the steps, worn by a hundred years of feet. We move in a gentle spiral, angling downward through dim light choked with dust. The walls are thick, old stone, and if anyone’s following us, I certainly can’t hear them. I try to gauge where we are, but my inner compass spins too quickly. I don’t know this place, I don’t know where we’re going. I can only follow.

The passage seems to dead-end at a stone wall, but before I can attempt to shock my way through, Cal pushes me back. “Easy,” he says, laying one hand against a stone a bit more worn than the others. Slowly, he puts an ear to the wall, and listens.

I hear nothing but the blood pounding in my ears and our harried breathing. Cal hears more or, rather, less. His face falls, drawn into a somber expression I can’t place. It’s not fear, though he has every right to be afraid. If anything, he’s oddly calm. He blinks a few times, straining to hear anything beyond the wall. I wonder how many times he’s done this, how many times he snuck out of this very palace.

Back then, the guards were there to protect. To serve. Now they want to kill him.

“Stay on my heels,” he finally whispers. “Two rights, then left to the gate yard.”

Farley grits her teeth. “The gate yard?” She seethes. “You want to make this easy for them?”

“The yard is the only way out,” he replies. “Ocean Hill’s tunnels are closed.”

She grimaces, clenching a fist. Her hands are starkly empty, her knife long gone. “Any chance there’s an armory between here and there?” “I wish,” Cal hisses. Then he glances at me, at my hands. “We’ll have to be enough.”

I can only nod. We’ve faced worse, I tell myself.

“Ready?” he whispers.

My jaw tightens. “Ready.”

The wall moves on a central axis, revolving smoothly. We press through together, trying to keep our footsteps from echoing in the passage beyond. Like the library, this place is empty and well furnished, dripping in lush, yellow-colored decor. All of it has an air of disuse and neglect, down to the faded golden tapestries. Cal almost lingers, staring at the color, but urges us on.

Two rights. Through another passage and an odd, double-ended closet. Heat radiates off Cal in waves, preparing for the firestorm he must become. I feel the same, the hairs on my arms rising with electricity. It almost crackles on the air.

Voices echo on the other side of the approaching door. Voices and footsteps.

“Immediate left,” Cal murmurs. He starts to reach for my hand, but thinks better of it. We can’t risk touching each other, not now, when our touch is deadly. “You run.” Cal goes first, and the world beyond pulses with an expulsion of fire. It spreads across the massive entrance hall, over marble and rich carpet, until it crawls up the gilt walls. A tongue of flame licks up to a painting overlooking the hall. A giant portrait, newly made. The new king—Maven. He smirks like a gargoyle until the fire takes hold, burning at the canvas. The heat is too much, and his carefully drawn lips begin to melt, twisting into a snarl that suits his monstrous soul. The only thing untouched by the flames are two gold banners, dusty silk, hanging from the opposite wall. Who they belong to, I don’t know.

The guards waiting for us flee, shouting, their flesh smoking. They’re trying not to burn alive. Cal cuts through the fire, his footsteps leaving a safe path for us to follow, and Farley keeps close, sandwiched between us. She covers her mouth, trying not to breath in the smoke.

The officers who remain, nymphs or stoneskins, impervious to flame, are not so immune to me. This time, lightning races, splaying from me in a too-bright webwork of living electricity. I only have enough focus to keep Cal and Farley from the storm. The rest are not so lucky.

I’m a born runner, but my breath stings in my lungs. Each gasp is harder, more painful. I tell myself it’s the smoke. But as I vault through the grand entrance of Ocean Hill, the pain doesn’t disappear. It only changes.

We’re surrounded.

Rows upon rows of officers in black, soldiers in gray, choke the gate yard. All armed, all waiting.

“Submit to arrest, Mare Barrow!” one of the officers shouts. A flowered vine twists around one arm, while the other holds a gun. “Submit to arrest, Tiberias Calore!” He stumbles over Cal’s name, still reluctant to address a prince so informally. In any other situation, I would laugh.

Between us, Farley sets her feet. She has no weapon anymore, no shield, and she still refuses to kneel. Her strength is astounding.

“What now?” I whisper, knowing there is no answer.

Cal’s eyes dart back and forth, looking for a solution he’ll never find. Finally his eyes land on me. They are so empty. And so very alone.

Then a gentle hand closes around my wrist.

The world darkens, and I am squeezing through it, suffocated, confined, trapped for one long moment.

Shade.

I hate the sensation of teleporting, but in this moment, I relish it. Shade is all right. And we’re alive. Suddenly, I’m on my knees, staring at the cobblestones of a dank alley far away from the Security Center, Ocean Hill, and the kill zone of officers.

Someone vomits nearby—Farley, judging by the sound. I suppose teleporting and having your head bounced off a window are a bad combination.

“Cal?” I ask the air, already cooling in the afternoon light. A low tremor of fear begins, the first ripple of a cold wave, but he answers from a few feet away.

“I’m here,” he says, reaching out to touch my shoulder.

But instead of leaning into his hand, letting his now gentle warmth consume me, I pull away. With a groan, I get to my feet, only to see Shade standing over me. His expression is dark, pulled in anger, and I brace myself for a scolding. I shouldn’t have left him. It was wrong of me to do that.

“I’m—” I begin the apology, but never get to finish. He crushes me into an embrace, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. I cling to him just as tightly. He trembles a little, still afraid for his little sister. “I’m fine,” I tell him, so quietly only he can hear the lie.

“No time for that,” Farley spits, forcing herself to her feet. She glances around, still off balance, but gauges our location. “Battle Garden’s that way, a few streets east.” Wolliver. “Right.” I nod, reaching out to hold her steady. We can’t forget our mission here, even after that deadly debacle.

But I keep my eyes on Shade, hoping he knows what lies in my heart. He only shakes his head, dismissing the apology. Not because he won’t accept it, but because he’s too kind to want it.

“Lead on,” he says, turning to Farley. His eyes soften a little, noting her dogged resolve to continue, despite her injuries and her nausea.

Cal is also slow to his feet, unaccustomed to teleportation. He recovers as quickly as he can, following us through the alleyways of the city sector known as Threestone. The smell of smoke clings to him, as does a deeper rage. Silvers died back in the Security Center, men and women who were only following orders. His orders once. It can’t be an easy thing to stomach, but he must. If he wants to stay with us, with me. He must choose his side.

I hope he chooses ours. I hope I never have to see that empty look in his eyes ever again.

This is a Red sector, relatively safe for the time being, and Farley keeps us to twisting alleys, even pulling us through an empty shop or two to avoid detection. Security officers shout and dart over the main roads, trying to regroup, trying to make sense of what happened at the Center. They’re not looking for us here, not yet. They still don’t realize what Shade is, how fast and far he can move us.

We huddle against a wall, waiting for an officer to pass us by. He’s distracted, like all the others, and Farley keeps us to the shadows.

“I am sorry,” I mutter to Shade, knowing I must say the words.

Again, he shakes his head. He even butts me gently with his crutch. “Enough of that. You did what you had to. And look, I’m all right. No harm done.” No harm done. Not to his body, but what about his mind? His heart? I betrayed him, my brother. Like someone else I know. I almost spit in anger, hoping to expel the thought that I have anything in common with Maven.

“Where’s Crance?” I say, needing to focus on something else.

“I got him away from the Seaskulls; then he went his own way. Ran off like a man on fire.” Shade’s eyes narrow, remembering. “He buried three Mariners in the tunnels. He’s got no place here anymore.” I know the feeling.

“What about you?” He jerks his head, vaguely gesturing in the direction of Ocean Hill. “After all that?” After almost dying. Again.

“I said I’m okay.”

Shade purses his lips, unsatisfied. “Right.”

We lapse into a stiff silence, waiting for Farley to move again. She leans heavily against the alley wall, but soldiers on when a crowd of noisy schoolchildren passes ahead. We move again, using them as cover to cross the bigger road before entering another maze of back streets.

Finally we duck under a low arch—or rather, the others duck; I simply walk through. I’m barely to the other side when Shade stops short, his free hand reaching out to stop me from going forward.

“I’m sorry, Mare,” he says, and his apology almost knocks me down again.

“You’re sorry?” I ask, almost laughing at the absurdity. “Sorry for what?”

He doesn’t answer, ashamed. A chill that has nothing to do with temperature runs through me as he steps back, allowing me to see past the mouth of the archway.

There’s a square beyond, clearly meant for Red use. Battle Garden. It’s plain but well maintained, with fresh greenery and gray stone statues of warriors all over. The one in the center is the largest, a rifle slung across his back, one dark arm extended into midair.

The statue’s hand points east.

A rope dangles from the statue’s hand.

A body swings from the rope.

The corpse is not naked, and wears no medallion of the Red Watch. He’s young and short, his skin still soft. He was not executed long ago, probably an hour or so. But the square is clear of mourners and guards. No one is here to see him swing.

Even though the sandy hair falls into his eyes, obscuring some of his face, I know exactly who this boy is. I saw him in the records, smiling out from an ID photograph. Now he will never smile again. I knew this would happen. I knew it. But that doesn’t make the pain, or the failure, any easier.

He is Wolliver Galt, a newblood, reduced to a lifeless corpse.

I weep for the boy I never knew, for the boy I was not fast enough to save.