Shadow Fall

by Audrey Grey

  Then the screams.

  The bomb was a Fienian specialty, a nano-shredder, meaning when the Empress strode across the podium to speak, holding her infant daughter, the millions of nano-shrapnel implanted beneath the scaffolding basically turned them to dust. But the nanos weren’t through. They still had thousands of bodies to find, flesh to pierce, blood to splatter, bone to pulverize.

  Surrounded by the Gold Cloaks, Prince Caspian and Princess Ophelia remained untouched, as did the Emperor. But my mother still wears the large, pale-pink scar across her collarbone and neck from that day.

  Now, with those unsettling thoughts weighing on my mind, I frown at Brogue. “Well, you might trust the Fienians, but I never will.”

  “And yet, here you are.”

  “That’s unfair.”

  “War is unfair. The asteroid shadowing us is unfair. Life is unfair. Maybe it’s time, my lady, you stopped believing your life is going to be fair.”

  What he says is true, yet I can’t help but dislike him for it. “Well, if it were, I wouldn’t be stuck with Mercs and Fienian Rebels, would I?”

  Brogue stiffens. “You should eat.”

  His voice is clipped, formal, and hints at the demise of our friendship.

  It also smacks of an order.

  We face off in a staring contest that I win. He makes it all the way to the door before he turns around. “You know, what Nicolai does or who he employs, it ain’t my business.” One hoary eyebrow arches over a wink. “Above my pay grade.”

  “But that’s the benefit of being a twitcher, right?” I prop up on my elbows. “You get to just dance along to the Puppeteer’s strings without a single emotion to get in the way.”

  Brogue narrows his eyes. “Clever girl. But if you were really sharp, you’d know I don’t dance for no one, Lady March, least of all a man like Nicolai.”

  “Then why are you here?” It comes out more accusation than question. I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to his story. And I need to ferret it out if I’m to stay ahead of Nicolai’s game.

  “To keep you safe.”

  “Funny.” My voice sounds cold even to me. “Could have used you earlier. Or was that the Puppeteer’s plan all along. The ultimate test?”

  “Hear you did just fine without me.”

  My fingers flutter to my collar. “Fine isn’t the word I’d choose.” I pause. “You meant us. To keep us safe.”

  “Right. What I said.”

  “No. You said to keep me safe.”

  “We twitchers say the screwiest things.” Winking, he brings three fingers together over his brow in the Centurion’s salute.

  “Then it must be the tar made you forget a lady of my stature gets a bow, Merc.”

  The artery in his neck jumps. With a tight jaw, Brogue performs a sweeping, elegant bow I would never have imagined him capable of and then slips out the door.

  Thing is, I’ve seen that particular curtsy—chin tucked, knee an exact inch from the floor, hand circling three times—before. It’s the elite Centurion bow, typically used for members of the court and Royalty.

  So Nicolai is employing a Merc who was once a Gold Cloak in the Royal Guard. I smile, knowing I am one step closer to understanding Nicolai’s game.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Maggot.” The voice stirs me from sleep. The Archduchess stands over my bed, her face in shadow, the end of her hatpin a hair’s breadth above my cornea. I try to blink, but two Centurions hold my eyelids open. My arms are tied to the bed.

  I thrash, but it does no good. “No, please—”

  “Did you really think you could hide from me, Maggot?”

  The hatpin plunges down . . .

  The curfew sirens blast me from my nightmare. I’m lying in a pool of sweat, my arms red from scratching in my sleep. Blasted itching! Wiping my eyes, I try to erase the image of the Archduchess. But her shadowy face haunts me.

  She’s going to find me. I can feel it.

  I peel off the bed and wet my lips with a glass of tepid, suspiciously metallic-tasting water. It settles uneasily at the bottom of my empty stomach. Remember who you are now. You’re Everly, not weak Maia. And Everly isn’t afraid of anyone.

  The crew is gathered in the foyer. All eyes find me as I descend the stairs.

  “Have a good nap, Princess?” Flame asks, her voice deceptively sugar-sweet.

  She’s trying to embarrass me. My feet whisper down the stairs and across the faded-yellow wool rug. Everyone goes quiet. I stop when Flame and I are toe to toe. Flame blinks, and I smile. She’s about to learn Lady March doesn’t tolerate teasing. “Why don’t you ask Brogue how much I enjoy nicknames?”

  Flame grins. “Aww, Princess, loosen your corset a bit—”

  “You created me. You know exactly what I’m capable of.” I watch with deep satisfaction as Flame’s grin dies a slow death. “You might be able to get your hand on your dagger, but thanks to you and your outlawed tech, mine will already be at your throat, or your belly, or the numerous other places I now know to snuff someone.”

  Silence. Flame has finally lost her voice.

  I’m beginning to like being Lady March, I think, as I follow the others down the hall. Riser slows. I try to increase my pace to pass him, but his hand cups the inside of my right arm. His fingers are surprisingly warm and strong. “My lady, for you.” A bright-green apple rests on his open palm. It matches his one green eye. “From dinner.”

  I stare at the apple. Imagine the sweet, fragrant juice, the crunch as my teeth pierce its shiny skin. My stomach burns with need. I fight off the unexpected feeling of gratitude bubbling up inside me, chalking it up to my reconstruction.

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” I reclaim my arm; he steps in front of me. For a moment I look around, because this dapper, generous man with wide shoulders cannot be Riser. But the blue eye, the one colored like a bruise and haunted with unspoken horrors, tells me otherwise.

  “Take it. I know you’re hungry.”

  I bristle at his order. Using my newfound skills—thank you, Flame—I pivot, smash my shoulder into his chest, and wriggle past him. There’s just a hint of leather and soap.

  Cage sticks his head out of the office and wags a stern, come-hither eyebrow at me.

  I hold up a wait-finger and whip around. A normal person would crash into me, but Riser isn’t normal, not by half, and his body gracefully halts an inch from mine. “You might think things are different now,” I blurt, “but I know underneath that shiny façade, you’re the same murderous creature from the pit.”

  “Maybe.” His mismatched eyes hold me in place with their intensity, his teeth grinding as he searches for his words. “But . . . I want to say . . . thank you.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “What you did during my reconstruction.”

  All the air leaves me as I remember how I cradled his pitiful, dying body in my arms.

  “I know what I am, Everly,” he continues softly. “But I won’t hurt you. What can I do to prove that?”

  “Die.” And I mean it. Thanks to my mother, I already had trust issues. But now, as Lady March, I know trust is weakness. “That’s the only way I will ever trust you.”

  The ghost of a smile flits across his lips. “Fair enough.”

  Fair enough? Who responds that way, a psychopath? Irritated and still itching, I stomp into my mother’s office where they have the Caskets rigged for Sims.

  “Have a good talk?” Cage asks as I slip by him.

  “I think we came to an understanding.”

  My mother’s office is small, and the Caskets take up most of it. Flame has rewired them to act as Simulators, but my stomach flutters anyway at the thought of climbing in. The only part of the room that’s still the same is the bookshelf on the far wall.

  As if reading my mind, Riser inspects the book nearest him. His tunic rustles as he reaches for the worn tome, but his fingers slice through the mirage.

  I dig my nails into my forearms and groan. “It�
�s not real, Pit Boy.” My voice comes out more annoyed than I plan; the itching has made me grumpy.

  Flame cuts her gaze at me before interjecting, “The Royalists destroyed all the real books years ago, Riser. Remember?”

  “Right.” Riser’s sharp Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I . . . I know that.”

  Cage and Flame share a cryptic look. As I climb into the Simulator, I wonder just how much of Riser’s reconstruction actually worked. By now he should be as familiar with this world as if he grew up in it.

  My back arches against the cold metal, and I stretch out inside the smooth shell. It smells like burnt plastic and metal. Riser disappears into his Casket to my right, and I rest my head and try to concentrate on Flame’s instructions.

  “This will be the final test,” Flame says. “We will be checking your new skills—problem solving, adaptability, resourcefulness, cunning, calm under duress—as well as rooting out traces of old habits that could get in the way of the mission. You’ll both be working separately, but a guide will talk each of you through the Sim.” Her gaze lands on me this time. I’m guessing she’s my guide and she’s not particularly thrilled about it. “Afterwards, we’ll fix what we can.”

  Brogue crosses his meaty arms. “I’ve seen level 5 Sims run before, minx. They need two weeks post-reconstruction and an entire day of prep. You know the risks of going in too soon.”

  Flame throws up her arms in annoyance. “Thirty-six hours from now, these two need to report to Royalist Headquarters, so we go now or not at all.”

  My mouth goes dry. In less than two days, I enter the court I despise. As much as I want to say I’m not afraid, I’m terrified.

  “We clear?” Flame says, glancing at me. My blank expression confirms her suspicion I wasn’t listening. “If you see anything strange or out of place,” she repeats, “like something that shouldn’t be there or even just a sideways feeling, it means there is a glitch in the program and you need to pull the red lever near the ceiling.”

  For some reason I raise my hand. “And if I don’t?”

  Flame’s expression leaves no room for argument. “Do.”

  Cage’s head appears upside down over me, his minty breath puffing over my cheeks. “And, darling, try your very hardest not to die suddenly.”

  “Draw it out,” Flame adds. “A bullet to the gut gives us enough time to extract you from the Sim before you expire, but if we don’t manage to pull you before death—”

  “Headaches,” Cage interjects, “concussion, coma, irreparable brain damage. The usual.”

  I blow out an anxious breath. “Noted.”

  I’ve seen the cage-like apparatus they strap onto your head from the propaganda films, so I’m expecting the cold, hard weight against my temples. I wasn’t, however, expecting the panic having your head immobilized induces.

  Just before the visor rolls down over my vision, I see Brogue, his head cocked sideways, a sleek silver flask held to his lips. He nods toward me as if I’m a prizefighter he’s betting on, takes a long pull from the bottle, and salutes with his free hand.

  Suddenly the apparatus makes a sharp hissing noise and clamps like a vice. My eyes bulge and flutter with the unexpected pain. Nothing. A gray, formless nothing. Sound is muffled, as if I am underwater.

  Can you hear me? Flame’s voice swims lazily through the water.

  Yes. I think I speak it, except my mouth hasn’t moved.

  Good. Just so you know—Riser is going to win, and then everyone will see you for the weak coward you are.

  Wait . . .

  Vibrations. My Casket is moving. No, it’s something else. The sound of something powering up, gathering steam. There’s a powerful release of air followed by a shrill whistle. I am swaying back and forth. Chugugugugugug.

  I’m on a train!

  Other sounds fill my ears: passengers conversing, chinaware and delicate silver rattling, operatic music, the shriek of wheel breaks.

  The landscape outside the window is blinding white. Muted-blue sky flows through the snowy canvas like a swollen river. Occasionally a puff of snow breaks off from the top of the train and gives the illusion of clouds.

  A stiff daffodil-yellow dress with dark fur trimmings and blue soutache embroidery rustles around me and screams Royalist. An exquisite emerald-green fox muff warms my hands. I fight a teasing breath from the corset pythoning my ribs and try to sit, but the adjustable bustle interferes.

  Really? I think, twisting to alleviate the corset bone stabbing my side. Nicolai couldn’t find anything more comfortable?

  Beauty has a price, Princess, Flame’s voice purrs.

  I think about what she said just before the Sim. So Riser and I are working against each other. Well, it doesn’t matter what you dress me in; there’s no way in Fienian hell I’m letting that one-eyed freak win.

  If you say so. Her voice sounds bored. I’m wasting valuable time—I doubt Riser is conversing right now about his outfit.

  I approach the first table. A sharp-dressed man and woman laugh at something, the woman’s pinky circling the gold-gilded teacup’s edge as steam curls through her fingers. The enormous diamond-encrusted Gold ring dangling from her knuckle threatens to fall in.

  What should I say?

  “What’s your Color?” the woman demands.

  Flame’s amused voice interjects. Lady March isn’t a church mouse, Princess.

  Right. And she wouldn’t plead either. She would take control of the situation. After all, before her family fell from grace, they were high-ranking Golds.

  “None of your concern,” I stammer, glad for the muff hiding my fidgeting hands.

  The solemn face of a tall gentleman in a dark suit blocks my way. Behind him stand two twitchy Centurions. “Well, young lady, it certainly is my concern. Ticket, please.”

  Crap. I search both my pockets, but they’re empty. That means no ticket. A whisper of panic trills through me as I hide my sweaty hands back in the muff.

  Be cool. There has to be a point to this. Think.

  “She obviously doesn’t belong here,” the woman quips. “Arrest her.”

  “Ticket.” The conductor’s jaw tightens. “I won’t ask again.”

  I swallow. If I am arrested, the Sim is over and Riser has won. You will not let Pit Boy win. Think. What is out of place? What doesn’t make sense?

  Suddenly, calm comes over me as my brain works the mystery out. Slipping one hand out of the muff, I flip my wrist, offering up the golden ticket that has been here the entire time.

  The man glances at the ticket, glances at me, and gives an irritated nod toward the back. “This car is for Golds, my lady.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I must have gotten myself turned around.”

  I scan the walls as if trying to gather my bearings to leave. What do I do now? I feel helpless, inept, and completely out of place.

  A little help, Flame?

  Just give up. She barks a high-pitched laugh at my expense. I bet you’re good at that.

  If Flame intends to make me feel defeated, her words have the opposite effect. They remind me of the darkness. The fear. They remind me how naïve and ignorant I was. They remind me I can never be that girl again.

  I spot a dapper looking man by the window. Shoulders back and chin held high, I glide purposefully toward him. “Excuse me,” I say, resting one hand atop his right shoulder. I angle my head so my neck is exposed. Just as planned, his deep-set brown eyes trace a quick route from my pulse-point to my breasts, which are squeezed uncomfortably high on my neckline. “You look like the kind of man who knows what to do next.”

  Flattery and seduction. Two readily accessible weapons apparently Lady March excels at. My mother would be proud. “Why,” he says, “Lady March, I was beginning to think you would never ask.” His eyes settle over my breasts again as he hands me the note. “Read this quickly but carefully. You haven’t much time.”

  Retreating to the corner, my eyes flicker over the elegant script scrawled across
the white paper: Find the man in the middle train car with the Gold rose on his lapel and kill him.

  Just like that, I know I’ve lost. There is no way I can beat Riser when it comes to this kind of challenge. He’s probably already halfway there by now.

  But Fienian hell, I have to try.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The train curves around a gray mountain, allowing an unobstructed view of its length through the frosted window. I stop counting at twenty. Twenty plus cars, at least ten standing between me and the man I have to kill. Even then, I have no weapon.

  The next train car is larger and louder than the first. Silken dresses, in every shade of black imaginable, rustle and spin over a parquet floor meant for dancing.

  Dark, beautiful men slip through the shimmery sea of women like slippery black eels. One such man takes my hand and pulls me into the foray. Bowing, he holds his hands palm up, left higher than right. My hands meet his and we are moving in step with the others, acting out a dance I have never done before but should know. There’s pressure at my waist as he turns me. The mirrored ceiling spins into a whirlpool. My count is off, and my elbow collides with a woman’s shoulder.

  Everyone looks at me at once. I find the count again with my feet—shuffle, shuffle, step—using my breath to find the rhythm, but another misstep has me stumbling over my partner’s patent leather shoes.

  The dancers don’t look at me this time, but something has changed. They’re spinning faster, arms and legs moving in an almost violent display. The music hammers inside my chest. The air’s so thick I can hardly catch my breath. My partner seems to have slipped away.

  An opening appears between two women, and I take it, darting through. A mass of bodies blocks my escape, and someone shoves me back. Although they are not looking at me, the crowd is slowly closing in.

  A flash! I twist just in time to miss the knife aimed at my neck, and kick at the mob, making just enough room to slip through the tangle of flesh.

  A woman breaks off from the group, a whip clenched inside her white glove. The air snaps as her whip comes down across my thigh. I cry out. With a calm smile, she brings the whip down again, the tip strafing my cheek. There’s a white-hot sting and then my cheek goes numb.