by Kyla Stone
She needed them all to see her the way her father did—meek, malleable, controllable. A beautiful doll—delicate, unthreatening, harmless.
She touched her charm bracelet beneath the bodice of her dress and took a deliberate, calming breath. “With your permission and blessing, I would like to leave the capitol.”
President Sloane’s eyebrows shot up. “Are your accommodations not up to par?”
“No, they’re lovely. Absolutely divine. But I wish to personally take the vaccine to my friends outside the Sanctuary as soon as possible.”
President Sloane biosigned another form on another assistant’s holopad. “My dear, I will bring your friends here. Any friend of Amelia Black is welcome here. Just give me a few days to tend to my own citizens and ensure the citywide inoculations succeed without a hitch. Then I promise you, I’ll personally welcome your friends. Does that sound reasonable to you?”
It sounded like the most reasonable thing in the world. “Yes,” she forced out. “Thank you.”
A heavyset adviser wearing a navy suit jacket swept into the hall from one of the side doors set discreetly into the wall. His suit jacket’s platinum buttons strained at his waist, threatening to pop off at any moment. “Madam President. There’s a disturbance in Sector Seven. General Jeong thought you should be informed.”
“Thank you, just a moment.” President Sloane scanned another document, signed it, and sent the last assistant scurrying off with a wave. “Are we finished here, Amelia?” the president asked. She looked pointedly at Harper Atkins, one of Amelia’s two personal Coalition guards, who stepped forward and gently grasped Amelia’s arm.
Harper was average height, average build, average mousy brown hair. She didn’t seem like much, but she was a spy, an undercover New Patriot who’d been smuggling information between Amelia and Theo Reaver, the head of the resistance inside the Sanctuary.
“It’s time to go,” Harper murmured, her voice soft, but a warning flashing in her brown eyes.
“And what about Micah and Silas?” Amelia said more loudly than she intended.
A few yards away, several advisers with their heads bent together in a private discussion paused to glance at her. There was Selma Perez, the president’s chief of staff. The woman was thin and stuffy, with a long, horsey face, a pinched mouth and watery eyes. She was a Coalition member close to the president. She’d never shown much interest in Amelia, but she was always whispering in the president’s ear.
Next to her, Senator Steelman’s shrewd eyes narrowed as she met Amelia’s gaze. In her late forties, Senator Steelman was thin as a whippet, with blonde hair cut in a crisp bob to her chin. Her makeup was precise, her posture ramrod-straight. The woman disliked her. Amelia felt it with every withering glance the woman shot in her direction.
At least one other person here had helped Declan Black release the bioweapon. Amelia knew it in her bones. It could be any one of these people, hiding behind their beautiful, slippery smiles. It could be all of them. When among wolves…
A shiver ran through her. “I would like to see my brother,” she repeated. “Please.”
The president pursed her lips. “I know this has been an incredibly difficult time for you. Why don’t you get some rest in your quarters, and we’ll discuss this more in a few days—after your father’s trial.”
Amelia bit back a sharp retort. She wanted to shout her demands until the whole room was forced to listen to her every word. But speaking her mind wasn’t the proper behavior for a beautiful doll. She had to remain meek and obedient. For now.
“I understand,” she said with a dainty dip of her chin, her tone carefully measured. She pasted a dazzling smile on her face, forcing down all her ugly emotions. “Thank you so much, Madam President.”
President Sloane smiled and turned away, dismissing her.
Her legs felt heavy as Harper tugged her arm, guiding her in the opposite direction, away from the president. Her other guard, Hogan, hovered on her other side, his expression as impassive as ever, a wall of solid muscle corralling her exactly where he wanted her to go. His eyes held the cool, indifferent look of a soldier.
Before she’d taken a step, the president’s personal assistant, Vera Castillo-Longoria, hurried into the room, her expression as taut as her tightly bound black hair as she glided to President Sloane’s side, her stiletto heels clipping the polished granite floor. She spoke in a low voice, so only the closest to the president heard her words. “It’s urgent, ma’am. There’s someone at the gate claiming to have vital information about an impending attack on the Sanctuary by the New Patriots terrorist group.”
Amelia froze.
“What do you mean, an impending attack?” Selma Perez asked, her face going pale.
“She claims she was rescued by the terrorists several days ago, but was being held against her will and managed to escape.” Vera leaned in and whispered in President Sloane’s ear. Her gaze flicked to Amelia, her mouth tightening imperceptibly. Gone was the exuberant friendliness lavished on Amelia upon her arrival. Since Declan’s confession, Vera had barely spoken to her at all.
Amelia leaned against a pillar to steady herself. A tremor shivered through her. Someone from their group had betrayed them. She ticked through the names in her head. Certainly not Willow. Celeste? She didn’t want to believe it was any of them. But it had to be Celeste. There was no one else capable of such…treachery.
President Sloane’s eyes narrowed. “Bring her in. Chip her and get her tested first, of course.”
“Miss Amelia,” Harper murmured at her side, still grasping her arm, “we should go.”
Amelia pulled away. “I’m staying.”
Harper glanced at President Sloane, whose head was bent in serious conversation, already surrounded by a gaggle of advisers, officers, and staff.
Harper looked to Hogan, who simply shrugged. One hand gripped his pulse rifle as he gazed at something over Amelia’s head. He refused to look at her. For a second, she thought he’d force her to go. Finally, he spoke, his lips barely moving. “She wasn’t ordered to leave.”
Harper nodded, her shoulders relaxing. “Then she can stay until notified otherwise.”
Amelia flashed Hogan a grateful smile. She sagged against the pillar, waiting on tenterhooks, her anxiety growing, mingled with dread and anger. They’d all believed Celeste had changed. Amelia had changed.
Why couldn’t Celeste? Because she was too vain. Because she loved comfort, and decadence, and all the finer things in life. All the things that still existed only in the Sanctuary.
Now when they were so close, Celeste was going to throw it all away? After everything, how could she betray them like this? Amelia stared at the swirling designs gently swaying across the white polymer walls, her stomach a snarl of apprehension.
The air shifted behind her.
“She passed the exam,” Vera said as she strode into the grand hall. “Her blood is clean.”
“Bring her in,” President Sloane ordered.
Amelia waited, counting the seconds in her mind. She barely heard the conversations swirling around her, the strained whispers, the suspicious stares.
“Hello, Amelia.”
The voice was achingly familiar. Amelia turned slowly, dreading what she would see.
It wasn’t Celeste. Instead, standing in the center of the grand hall, flanked by four Coalition soldiers, was Amelia’s mother.
She must be dreaming. This couldn’t be real. She felt her world spinning off its axis. Her mind was muddled, confused, everything suddenly fuzzy and distant.
“Oh! I love family reunions!” Vera gasped. She clapped her hands, completely oblivious to the tension in the room.
“What are you doing here?” Amelia asked hoarsely.
“Yes.” President Sloane handed her wineglass to an assistant and clasped her hands behind her back. “We are all very interested in that answer.”
President Sloane’s advisers clustered around her, staring at Elise Black in
barely masked animosity. Senator Steelman shot Amelia an accusing look, her perfect apple-red lipstick smeared at the corners of her prim mouth. Bale watched her with those beady black eyes, honing in on her like a shark tracking its prey.
Her mother’s hand fluttered to the hollow of her throat. Her long auburn hair was tugged back in a messy bun. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. Even so, she was impossibly elegant, her every move graceful, her posture perfect. “I’m here to save the Sanctuary.”
Amelia stared at her, stunned. “What?”
“And how are you going to do that?” President Sloane asked.
“I know what my husband did,” her mother said. “I know that everyone here knows. I’m sure you’re suspicious. Which is why I come bearing an olive branch. A gift, as proof of my good intentions.”
Senator Steelman folded her arms across her chest. Her face was closed, her eyes flashing. “What gift?”
“Information. There is a surviving faction of New Patriot terrorists.”
President Sloane gazed at her evenly, her expression unreadable. “Yes, we are aware of their existence.”
“They’re plotting to invade the Sanctuary. They’re planning a surprise attack within the next few days.”
“They’ve tried before,” sniffed Perez. “They’re no threat.”
“This is a coordinated attack.” Her mother’s voice trembled. Her gaze found Amelia’s, her eyes beseeching, begging for something that Amelia did not yet understand. “They’ve recruited soldiers and allies from other factions.”
“Is that so?” President Sloane’s face hardened. “Then we’ll be ready for them.”
The room hummed in an explosion of voices. Amelia felt disconnected from her own body, hovering over everything, as if watching from a great distance. Her thoughts were jerky, disjointed. Her mother hadn’t just betrayed the New Patriots. In doing this, she’d betrayed their friends, too—Gabriel, Willow, Finn, Celeste, and Benjie.
President Sloane turned to General Daugherty. “Double the guard and patrols. Prepare your men. We must eradicate this cancer once and for all. Vera, please arrange a room for Mrs. Black befitting of her status.” President Sloane hurried out of the room, her gaggle of advisers trailing her, all of them speaking in low, tense voices, gesturing wildly and swiping at their Smartflexes and holopads.
Within moments, the grand hall was completely empty except for Amelia, her mother, and their guards.
Her mother rushed to her and clasped her hands. She was haggard from her ordeal as a captive of the Headhunters; too thin, but still beautiful—her hollow cheekbones curving elegantly in the soft light, her delicately arched brows raised, her cupid-bow lips pursed in dignified concern. Her mother peered into Amelia’s eyes. “Amelia, darling. It’s me. Are you all right?”
“What did you do?”
Her mother stiffened. “What I had to do to keep you safe. I saved you, Amelia. I saved us all.”
The cold went all the way through her bones.
Her mother had done everything for her. All those years, enduring the humiliation and abuse at the hands of Declan Black, all to keep Amelia healthy and alive. Now she was doing it again—sacrificing anything and everything, whatever it took.
This time, she’d sacrificed too much.
“No,” Amelia whispered in a choked voice, “you didn’t.”
3
Willow
“What were you thinking?” Raven asked eighteen-year-old Willow Bahaghari, her voice sharp as a razor blade. She stood in the center of the moonlit clearing, her hoverboard grasped in one hand, the hood of her jacket shielding her face in shadows.
“We were trying to find you,” Willow said sheepishly. “We carved birds on trees to send you a message.” She gestured behind the tent at the carving on a pine tree that looked like some toddler’s post-modern scrawls. “And we set fires so you would see us—”
“Me and every other criminal, thief, and murderer in the Blue Ridge Mountains,” Raven retorted.
Every inch of Willow’s body still hummed with adrenaline. The last hours had been a whirlwind of emotion. She, Finn, and Benjie had barely survived an infected grizzly bear’s attack. Finn had finally managed to shoot the beast dead seconds before it mauled Benjie.
She stared at the tendrils of smoke from their little fire rising up through the trees until her eyes blurred. Suddenly, she felt incredibly foolish. “Okay, I get it. Stupid idea. I’m a fighter, not a living-in-the-wilds survivalist.”
“Clearly.”
“It wasn’t our finest moment, I agree.” Finn rose to stand beside Willow. At 6’6”, he towered over her tiny five-foot-nothing frame. She was short and thick, where Finn was huge all over, with broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and tree-trunk arms and thighs. His medium-brown skin glimmered in the moonlight, his cheeks breaking into that lopsided grin she’d come to adore.
Finn gripped her hand. She squeezed back. He was her best friend. He was her person. Only moments ago, they’d shared their first kiss. She could still feel the sweet, woodsy taste of him on her lips.
“We’re here now,” Finn said.
The dark woods pressed in all around them. Icicles hung from the branches, glittering like jewels. The wind rattled the bare trees. Their branches scraped against each other in eerie, haunting notes. From somewhere to her left came the soft thud of powdered snow falling from a tree limb.
Raven’s giant wolf, Shadow, stalked the clearing, his hackles raised, tail stiff, growling low in his throat. His thick black fur rippled in the breeze.
Willow had forgotten how huge he was, with long legs, broad shoulders, and a sinewy, muscled chest. His regal head reached past Finn’s waist, and that was saying something. In the moonlight, he looked like some supernatural creature out of a Greek myth.
Raven had said Shadow was a hybrid—the progeny of a mod and a natural wolf. Hybrids were supposed to be impossible.
The scientists had all insisted mods wouldn’t kill—or breed. They were usually larger than their original counterparts, but they were genetically engineered to be docile, meek enough to pet or even ride at the zoo—for an additional fee, of course. With so many wild animals going extinct every year, the zoos had needed replacements. Mods had fit the bill.
Shadow was huge—but there was nothing docile about him. Though he and Raven had a special bond, he wasn’t tame, not by a long shot. His amber eyes glittered with intelligence and cunning. His movements hummed with strength, power, and virility. He was every inch a wild thing, a creature that followed the laws of nature, of survival, of predator and prey.
Shadow circled the dead bear, hackles raised, growling menacingly. The sound sent shivers up Willow’s spine. She was grateful he was on their side. His jaws looked like they could rip out her throat if he were so inclined.
Raven studied the campsite, her eyes narrowing as her gaze roamed over the tent, the campfire, their packs. After dinner last night, Willow and Finn had taken her pack with all the food in it, looped a rope through both straps, thrown the rope over a thick branch at the edge of the clearing, and hauled the pack up so it was a good twelve to fifteen feet above the ground—out of reach of curious, hungry bears.
They hadn’t counted on the bear wanting them instead.
“Contrary to what you may think right now, I’m not that stupid,” Willow muttered sullenly.
Raven cocked her eyebrows and angled her chin at the enormous, furred mountain of dead grizzly in the center of the clearing. For a second, Willow saw its sinister onyx eyes, its glistening jaws opening to bite and rip and kill as it loomed over Benjie’s prone form. She tasted acid on her tongue, the ghost of terror strangling her throat.
“You managed to survive anyway,” Raven said. “Congratulations.”
Willow felt the judgment in her voice and bristled, even though it was true. She’d felt trapped and useless in the New Patriots compound, with Amelia, Silas, and Micah off infiltrating the Sanctuary and Gabriel plotting a war with Cleo Reaver, all
while the Headhunters and New Patriots closed in around her.
She had been stuck between a rock and a hard place. Staying had been dangerous. Leaving, possibly more so.
She’d thought they could find Raven and the Settlement and beg for help for their friends. But she’d underestimated the danger of trekking over a hundred miles through a winter wilderness infested with killer wildlife—all with an eight-year-old.
This had been a ridiculously stupid idea. Her mind filled with all the horrific possibilities that might have been. She shuddered.
Benjie ducked out of the tent, his hair sticking up all over his head as he blinked sleepily and rubbed his forehead. His eyes were white and round in his beautiful brown face.
Raven’s gaze landed on his slashed coat, the edges of the fabric stained with blood. Her mouth tightened. “Were any of you bitten?”
“No,” Willow said. “Only clawed a few times and hurled around like rag dolls. We’re not infected.”
Raven’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. She pushed back the hood of her jacket with a sigh. She was Japanese, tiny and fine-boned, with shining black hair that skimmed her shoulders and a round, delicate face. But her eyes were sharp, cunning, and fearless. She knew how to survive, how to hunt and trap, and move silently as a ghost through the forest on her hoverboard. She was formidable in her own way.
“You never showed up at our meeting spot,” she said. “I thought something happened.”
“Something did.” Willow explained about the Pyros, the deadly gang in Atlanta who’d taken them hostage, Jericho’s murder, and their rescue by the New Patriots. She described Amelia’s attempt to find the cure inside the Sanctuary, and Cleo and her mother’s half-mad determination to take the Sanctuary for themselves, no matter the cost.
“Did you go to the Settlement after we didn’t show up?” Finn asked Raven.
“Shadow can’t get hemmed in. Neither can I.” Raven’s eyes glinted in the moonlight. “Besides, I thought you might be stubborn enough to survive.”
