by V. E. Schwab
Victor considered her—the willowy limbs, the red lips, the blue eyes framed by thick black lashes. He glanced from her, to the ruins of the painting on the gallery floor, and back. “I think you’re powerful.”
Marcella smiled, clearly pleased with the answer.
Victor sensed a ghost of movement at his back, and glanced over his shoulder to see another man enter the room, one with a goatee and a mischievous smile.
“I believe you’ve already met June,” said Marcella. “In one form or another.”
The man winked, that telltale light in his eyes.
“And this is Jonathan,” said Marcella, flicking her fingers in the direction of the thin man against the wall.
Jonathan didn’t answer, beyond the slight nod of his head.
“So,” said Victor, “instead of art, you’re collecting EOs.”
Marcella’s red lips split into a smile. “Do you know what I wanted to be when I grew up?”
“President?”
Her smile widened. “Powerful.” Her steel heels clicked against the marble as she came toward him. “When you think about it, it’s really all anyone ever wants. Once upon a time, power was determined by lineage—the age of blood. Then it was determined by money—the age of gold. But I think it’s time for a new age, Victor. The age of power itself.”
“Let me guess,” said Victor. “I’m either with you or against you.”
Marcella tsked. “Such black-and-white thinking. I swear, men are so busy looking for enemies, they rarely remember to make friends.” She shook her head. “Why can’t we work together?”
“I work alone.”
Marcella raised a knowing brow. “Now, we both know that’s not true.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Marcella seemed more than happy to hold the stage.
“Money in the right hands can get all kinds of things. Knowledge. Insight. Eli Ever’s files from his time with the Merit PD, perhaps. He and Serena Clarke made quite a pair, but I think you got the better deal with her little sister, Sydney.”
Victor kept his poise, but across the room June stiffened, the color draining from her face. “Marcella—”
But the woman held up a hand, gold nails catching the light.
“I’ve heard about your own talents,” she continued. “I’d like to see them for myself.”
“You want me to audition?”
Her lips twitched. “Call it what you like. I’ve shown you mine. And Jonathan’s. And June’s, for that matter. I think it’s only fair . . .”
Victor needed no further prompting. He flexed his hand toward the thin man in the suit, expecting him to buckle immediately—and was surprised when instead, the air in front of him flashed blue and white with an almost electric crackle. And beyond that, nothing happened. Strange. Victor could feel the other man’s nerves, just as present as before he’d tried to impact them. But in that exact instant, it had been like a short-circuit, almost like lightning trying to strike something grounded.
A forcefield.
Marcella smiled. “Oh, sorry. I should have said, Jonathan’s off-limits.” She looked around. “A little help?”
She hardly raised her voice, but the room began to fill. The six men and women Victor had passed earlier came spilling in.
Marcella smiled.
“I have a reward,” she said, “for whoever brings this man to his knees.”
For a moment, no one moved.
And then, everyone did.
A brick of a man lunged toward him, and Victor took hold of nerves, and twisted violently. The man buckled, screaming, as Victor leveled the two approaching in his wake, then turned toward a woman as she drew a blade.
A conductor’s flick of Victor’s fingers, and she collapsed too.
The fifth went down on his side, curling in against the pain, while the sixth tried to reach for his gun—Victor forced his hand flat to the marble and continued turning the dials up until all six writhed and spasmed on the floor.
He held Marcella’s gaze, waiting for her to say enough, order him to stop. Waiting for any sign of her discomfort. But Marcella only watched the scene unfold, her blue eyes bright, unflinching.
Up until then, she had reminded Victor of Serena, expecting the world to bend to her will. But in that moment, she reminded him of Eli. That zealous light in her eyes, the coiled energy, the conviction.
Victor had seen enough.
He turned his power on Marcella. Not a subtle impression, either, but a sudden, blunt-force blow, strong enough to fry nerves and level a body. She should have collapsed on the spot, buckled like dead weight to the cold marble. Instead, Marcella took a single surprised breath and then Jonathan’s head flicked imperceptibly toward her. As soon as it did, the air crackled, the space around Marcella filling with the same blue-white flare that had shielded Jonathan moments before.
Victor realized his error. Marcella was more like Eli than he’d guessed. Her uncanny self-assurance was an arrogance born from invincibility. Albeit a borrowed one.
Victor dropped his hold on the rest of the room, and left them gasping on the floor.
Marcella pursed her lips as the shield flickered out. “That wasn’t very sporting.”
“Forgive me,” answered Victor dryly. “I guess I got carried away.” He looked down at the men and women on the floor. “I take it I failed your test.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Your performance was . . . illuminating.”
Marcella produced a crisp white envelope.
June took the card and delivered it to Victor.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“An invitation.”
They stood there for a second, neither willing to put their back to the other.
At last Marcella broke into a smile. “You can see yourself out,” she said. “But I do hope we meet again.”
Victor wanted nothing less, but he had a feeling they would.
* * *
“WELL,” said Marcella, watching Victor go. “That was enlightening.”
June hadn’t said a word since Marcella mentioned Sydney, hadn’t trusted herself to speak. Now she cleared her throat.
“Do you still think he might be useful?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Marcella, taking out her phone.
“Should I follow him?”
“No need.” Marcella punched in a number. “I’ve seen enough.” Someone answered, and Marcella said, “He’s staying at the Kingsley, on Fifteenth. But right now, he’s moving west on Alexander. Happy hunting, Joseph.”
June’s stomach dropped.
How did Marcella already know where they were staying? Where Sydney was staying?
She gave June a bland look. “You didn’t think you were the only one keeping an eye on things, did you?”
June swallowed. “Do what you want with Victor, but Sydney isn’t part of this.”
“Maybe she wouldn’t have been,” said Marcella, pointedly, “if you’d told me the truth about the girl’s power instead of keeping her to yourself.” She flicked her fingers dismissively toward the door. “But go ahead. See if you can get to her before they do.”
VIII
THE LAST MORNING
THE KINGSLEY
“SYDNEY!” called Mitch, flipping the grilled cheese in the pan.
She didn’t answer.
That bad feeling, the one he’d had on the way to Merit, began to crystalize from a general dread into something specific. Like the vague first signs of an illness that suddenly sharpened into the flu.
“Sydney!” he called again, shifting the pan off the stove so lunch wouldn’t burn. He started toward the bathroom, slowing when he noticed the door was open. As was the door to Syd’s room.
And the one to his own.
Mitch glimpsed a black tail swishing absently just inside the door, and found Dol sprawled on his bedroom floor, facing the window and chewing on a scrap of paper.
Mitch knelt down and pried the paper from the dog�
�s lolling mouth, stilling at the sight of the crown, the sideways profile. It was a face card.
The king of spades.
Mitch was on his feet, already dialing Sydney’s cell. It rang, and rang, and rang, but no one answered. He swore, and was just about to chuck the phone onto the bed when it went off in his hand.
Mitch answered, praying it was Syd.
“Pack up,” ordered Victor. “We’re leaving.”
Mitch made an uneasy sound.
“What is it?” demanded Victor.
“Sydney,” said Mitch. “She’s not here.”
A short exhale. “Where?”
“I don’t know. I was making lunch and—”
Victor cut him off. “Just find her.”
* * *
SYDNEY stood on the curb, looking up.
Five years ago, the Falcon Price had been a construction project, rebar and concrete surrounded by a plywood fence. Now, it rose high above her, a gleaming tower of glass and steel. All the evidence of the crimes committed that night hidden beneath fresh cement, drywall, plaster.
She didn’t know what she’d expected to find. What she’d expected to feel. A ghost? A remnant of her sister? But now that Sydney was here, she could only see Serena rolling her eyes at that idea.
Syd knelt, reaching into her bag for the secret she’d carried so long. She eased the lid off the red metal tin, folded back the strip of cloth. For the first time in five years, Sydney let her fingers skim the soot-covered shards of bone. The finger joint. The piece of rib. The knot of a hipbone. All that was left of Serena Clarke. All that was left—besides whatever was left here.
Sydney laid the bones out on top of their cloth wrapping, arranged them just so, leaving a fraction of space for the missing, drawing imaginary lines where the other bones should be.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, and was about to bring her hands to the remains when her phone rang, the high sound cutting through the quiet. How stupid. She should have shut it off. If she had already gotten started, if her hands and her mind had been reaching past the bones when that noise happened, Sydney could have lost the thread, could have fumbled her only chance. Ruined everything.
She dug the phone from her pocket and saw Mitch’s name flash across the screen. Sydney switched the cell off, and turned her attention back to her sister’s bones.
IX
THE LAST AFTERNOON
EON
“WHAT do you mean, transport protocol?”
Dominic had been in the locker room, buttoning up his uniform shirt, when Holtz burst in, face bright. He’d finally been tapped for field duty. Or rather, for transport.
“They’re letting Stell’s hunting dog out,” he said.
Dom’s chest tightened. “What?”
“Eli Cardale. They’re letting him out of his cage—to go after that crazy mob wife, the one who killed Bara.”
Dom was on his feet. “They can’t.”
“Well, they are,” said Holtz.
“When?”
“Right now. Orders came in from the director. He was gonna handle it himself, but there’s some big op going down in the city—another EO—and Stell just blew through like a storm. Before he left, he told us to initiate the extraction . . .”
But Dom was still stuck on the words before. “Another EO?”
“Yeah,” said Holtz, pulling a suit of matte black armor from the wall. “That mystery guy, the one who’s been killing off other EOs.”
Dom’s mouth had gone dry.
“What are the odds?” mused Holtz. “So much excitement in one day.”
Holtz finished strapping in and turned to go, but Dominic caught his arm. “Wait.”
The other soldier frowned down at the place where Dom’s fingers dug into his sleeve. But what could Dom say? What could he do? He couldn’t stop the missions—all he could do was warn Victor.
Dom forced himself to let go.
“Just be careful,” he said. “Don’t go ending up like Bara.”
Holtz flashed that cheerful, dogged smile, and was gone.
Dominic counted to ten, then twenty, waiting until Holtz’s steps had receded, until he was left with only the thud of his heart. Then he walked out of the locker room, turned right, and headed for Stell’s office—and the only phone inside the building.
He kept his gait even, his steps casual—but with every forward stride, Dom knew he was going further down a one-way road. He stopped outside the director’s door. Last chance to turn around.
Dom pushed open the door, and stepped inside.
* * *
VICTOR knew he was being followed.
He sensed the weight of their steps, felt their attention like a drag. At first he assumed it was June, or one of Marcella’s human guards, but as their steps quickened, and the sound of one person became two, Victor began to suspect another source. He’d been heading directly back to the Kingsley. Now, he veered left, cutting through a crowded stretch of downtown Merit’s restaurants and cafés.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He didn’t recognize the number, but answered without slowing his step.
“They’re on to you,” said Dominic, his voice low, urgent.
“Yeah,” said Victor, “thanks for the heads-up.”
“It gets worse,” said Dom. “They’re letting Eli out.”
The words were a knife, driven so precisely between Victor’s ribs.
“To catch me?”
“No,” said Dom. “I think it’s actually meant to catch Marcella.”
Victor swore under his breath. “You can’t let that happen.”
“How am I supposed to stop it?”
“Figure it out,” said Victor, hanging up.
He could feel them lapping at his heels. Hear the sound of car doors swinging closed.
Victor crossed the street and stepped into a nearby park, a sprawling network of running paths, vendor carts, open lawns, packed tight with people in the midday sun. He didn’t look back. He hadn’t been able to pick his pursuers out of the crowd, not yet. Population was working in their favor, but it could also work in his.
Victor picked up his pace, allowing a hint of urgency to creep into his stride.
Catch up, he thought.
He heard a set of steps quickening, clearly expecting him to break into a run. Instead, Victor turned on his heel.
He doubled back on the crowded path, and started walking again in the opposite direction, forcing his pursuer to either stop and retreat, or maintain the illusion by continuing toward him.
Nobody stopped.
No one retreated.
Usually people bent away from Victor, their attention veering like water around a stone. But now, in the tangle of joggers and walkers and ambling groups, one man was still looking straight at him.
The man was young and dressed in civilian clothes, but he had the gait of a soldier, and the moment their eyes met, a ripple of tension crossed the younger man’s face. He drew a gun, but as he swung the weapon up, Victor flicked his own fingers, a single, vicious pull of an invisible thread, and the man fell to his knees on the path, the gun skidding out of his hand. Victor kept walking as the crowd turned, half in worry at the man’s scream and half in horror at the sight of the weapon on the park’s pavement.
Chaos erupted, and in that chaos Victor cut left, onto a different path, aiming for the street side of the park. Halfway there, a second figure rushed toward him, a woman with cropped dark hair.
She didn’t draw a weapon, but she had one hand to her ear and her lips were moving.
A group of cyclists whipped around the corner and Victor cut across the path just before they passed, a sudden, whooshing barricade that bought him just enough time to step between two carts and out of the park.
Victor moved swiftly, cutting across traffic and down a side street, seconds before an unmarked van skidded around the corner at the other end. It drove straight at him. He reached for the man behind the wheel, turning the di
al up until the driver lost control and the van veered, slamming into a hydrant. Victor heard more footsteps, the hiss of radio static. He ducked into the nearest subway stop, swept past the turnstile and down the stairs, taking them two at a time toward the train pulling into the station below.
He made his way to the very end of the platform, but instead of boarding the train, he slipped past the pedestrian barricade and into the mouth of the tunnel, pressing his body against the wall as the bells chimed and the subway doors hissed shut.
A man reached the platform just in time to watch the train slide by.
Victor lingered in the tunnel, watching the man scan the cars, hands on his hips, his black hair edging to gray.
Stell.
Even after five years, Victor recognized him immediately. He watched as the former detective turned around, finally, and stormed back up the stairs.
Victor knew he should try again to get to the Kingsley—but first, he needed to have a word with the director of EON.
The next train pulled in, and Victor slipped into the press of bodies following in Stell’s wake.
X
THE LAST AFTERNOON
EON
DOM stared at Stell’s bank of computer screens.
Figure it out.
His mind spun like tires in mud, searching for purchase, his attention flicking from the desk to the door to the grid of camera footage on the far wall. There, upper right, three soldiers in full gear moved down a white hall. In another window, the familiar shape of Eli Cardale sat waiting.
Fuck.
Dom turned toward the trio of screens on Stell’s desk. He didn’t know the first thing about hacking into computers.
But he knew someone who did.
Mitch answered on the second ring. “Who is this?”
“Mitch, it’s Dominic.”
A shuffle of movement. “This isn’t a good time.”
Footsteps sounded in the hall beyond Stell’s office. Dom pressed the cell to his chest and held his breath. When they were gone, he raised the phone, talking quickly. “Sorry, but I’m working on Victor’s orders.”
