by Audrey Grey
I sprint from the elevator before the doors completely open. From somewhere above comes the sound of shattering, something heavy hitting the floor. Everyone is looking to me, waiting for me to prove myself.
“It’s here . . . I uh . . . ?” My gaze skips from wall to wall as I try to remember. I used the escape lift once before. It is hidden, of course, somewhere behind these bricks. I just have to remember which ones.
Except either Nicolai or I have scrubbed that memory from my brain. The last time I used it was right after they killed my father, so it was probably me who made myself forget.
“Please, take your sweet time, Princess,” Flame purrs as the lights blink and shudder. They’re using Fienian blue-bombs to gain control of the power. “It’s not like we’re in a hurry.”
Brogue puts an encouraging hand on my shoulder. “A few more of those blue buggers and they can override the elevator’s systems.”
The answer comes to me in a flash of memory. I’m still not sure, not entirely, until my fingers slip through the mirage meant to look like the rest of the brick wall and feel the cold metal door. The mirage dissipates. I hold my breath. If they discovered this the last time, after Max and I escaped, it will have been rendered inoperable.
Or worse—mined.
Only one way to find out. I lift the heavy metal lid and crawl inside. It’s barely big enough to sit in, which means we will have to go up one at a time.
“Does it work?” Brogue asks, his voice gravelly with impatience.
“I don’t know.” I scan the single button on the wall. It emits a faint red glow.
Flame’s spiky hair nearly jabs me as she leans inside the small space, tapping the backpack. “In case we get split up, there’s a locator in here that will tell you where to go. You have to be at Royalist Headquarters by tomorrow morning or you forfeit the Shadow Trials.”
“And listen for Nicolai,” Cage adds. “Once you’re far enough away they can’t trace his communications, he’ll make contact again with further instructions.”
“Okay,” I say. My fingertip hovers over the button. “Let’s do this.”
“Lady March.” It’s Riser. Behind him I see Brogue and the other two Mercs, weapons trained on the dinging elevator door. He tosses something at me; I grab it on reflex. A knife inside a black sheath. By the crude appearance of the blade, it’s handmade, and not a stranger to violence. “Doesn’t look like much, but it’ll do the job.”
I eye the space above the elevator, where the in-use arrow glows. “What about you?”
“I’ll fare just fine, but thanks for your concern.” I reach to push the button, but he stops me. “One more thing. If I’m not there after a sixty count, don’t wait.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I won’t.”
And then I push the button.
Nothing. Nothing happens. My heart slams into my throat just as the elevator door on the far wall whooshes open and the room erupts in pistol fire.
Ratatatatatatatat!
I clap my hands over my ears and close my eyes. Open them. One blue and one green eye, both eerily calm, are inches from mine. Riser grins. “Second time’s a charm.”
Darkness. The feeling of moving upward, slowly, laboriously. Flame yells, voice muffled, “Get some, you rotten-faced Dandies!”
The gunshots and yelling grow farther and farther away until all I hear are the muted pops, like firecrackers outside a window. Occasionally the power flickers, and I stop moving. But the little red button always lights up again.
Fading stars and cool air. I am on a roof. For the moment, I am safe. The air cracks with sharp reverberations, reminding me that the others are not.
I begin counting immediately. One, two, three, four, five . . .
The blast that shatters my count is so loud, even though I’m sure I scream, I can’t hear it. I’m on my knees—I must have fallen—the building shuddering beneath me. A flock of starlings erupt over my head, screeching their annoyance. The drones’ buzzing quickly drowns them out.
I scramble to the exit. The elevator has already been sent back, so it’s really just a gaping hole. Smoke and dust and tiny debris cough from the shaft and blow my hair back. The air is hot from the explosion and smells of charred things.
Not things. People. My people. I stare into the exit for a second, blind from the dust, and try very hard not to scream, again.
My backpack is heavy. I busy myself with cataloguing its contents so I don’t have to think about what to do next. Synthetic beef powder packets. A lighter. Two thin blanket rolls. The locator. Water purifying drops. I know exactly what to do with the glass vial full of thick foundation, rubbing it quickly into my cheeks to cover my freckles.
At the very bottom I find Bramble, curled in a terrified ball. He chirps at me, and I hug him to my chest. My eyes sting with tears, and I wipe them away while giving myself a silly pep talk.
“You’re alone now; get used to it.”
“Sorry to disappoint, Digger Girl.”
I know the voice, but I still don’t believe. Not until I turn around. Riser emerges from the hole where he has obviously risen from the dead.
I bite my cheek to restrain myself from hugging him. “How?”
He shifts his backpack to a more comfortable spot on his shoulder, and then wipes his sleeve over the soot covering his face. His shirt is torn and speckled with blood. “The escape elevator never made it back, so we looked inside and discovered a ladder.”
Of course. My father wouldn’t have trusted the power source. “Are you hurt?”
Riser looks down at the blood on his shirt. “Flame’s blood. Brogue and Cage volunteered to carry her up.”
The relief I feel at knowing the blood isn’t Riser’s unnerves me. I shift on my feet. “The two Mercs?”
“Not so lucky.” He nods toward the edge of the building. “Shall we?”
I replace Bramble, the smell of petroleum thick as we cross the tarred roof to where the fire escape ladder should be—except now only a faint black outline on the brick remains.
“Perfect,” I say, eying the three-story drop between here and the next building.
Riser hops onto the ledge, all coordination and grace, and proceeds to taunt me with a charming smile and the offer of a sooty hand.
Brushing it aside, I join him, focusing on anything but the ground and my legs knocking together. Cement pieces chipped loose by my heels clatter over the edge. “Why is it whenever I’m around you,” I say, “I find myself having to jump off impossibly high things?”
He glances sideways at me in a way both endearing and reckless. “Afraid, Lady March?”
The drones’ buzzing is much louder now. With their heat sensors, the lifting darkness means nothing. Dropping my backpack, I lean away from the ledge and peer at the ground. Maia would be afraid. My mouth dries, my breath becoming strangled, as if I am sucking through a straw. The sound of my blood charging through my arteries fills my skull.
But I’m not afraid. I’m euphoric. My mind clear for the first time in years.
“See you on the other side, Pit Boy.”
I don’t recall actually pushing off the ledge, but I am suspended in the air. Then the ground is coming at me. Cradling my head in my arms, I duck, roll, deflecting some of the fall. The impact screams into my shoulder and ripples through my body.
I lie here for a dizzy moment, watching the fingers of pale-orange dawn streak the sky as I catalog the damage. Achy shoulder. My head hurts, but my vision is sound and I can wiggle my fingers and toes.
I stand in time to see the two backpacks span the chasm, followed by Riser. He lands hard and quiet, rolling to break his fall the same way I did. But unlike me he pops immediately back to his feet.
We make eye contact. Something passes between us.
He smiles.
I smile.
We both lunge at the same time. I am a few feet in front and make it to the next roof a half-second before he does. We roll in tandem, land on our fee
t, and explode into another sprint. Winging my elbow out, I manage to force him back so I take the lead.
Run, jump, land. Repeat. At this ferocious pace even the slightest miscalculation will most likely end in death. But the spike of adrenaline, the hollow-chest feeling and blankness right before I jump, makes me almost forget.
This time when the ledge comes up, I don’t even look down before pushing off. I’m midair when I spot the Centurions below, but I manage to land softly on the gravel roof. Fear springs me to my feet.
Riser has just hit the roof when I hear the crack. We both do. Riser reacts first. I see his hand reaching out for me. There’s the sound of glass shattering, the sensation of falling, and Riser’s form grows small, disappears.
A second later—or maybe longer, because I might have been knocked unconscious—I open my eyes. My brain screams behind my eyes as I look around. Shiny steel cabinets and kitchen table. I blink, focus on the shattered skylight above. Riser’s face pops over the broken glass just as voices call from outside.
Riser holds a finger to his lips and mouths, Dandies.
I nod, flinching with the pain as I struggle to stand. Glass shards burrow into the flesh of my palms and knees.
“Don’t move,” Riser whispers.
“Sure.” I rub my head. The pain has lessened, and my vision is clearing. I realize immediately what needs to happen. “Go,” I say, plucking a glass shard from my left palm. If the tables were turned, I would already be gone.
He doesn’t answer. I look up to see him hanging by his fingertips. He swings his legs like a pendulum and lets go. He was aiming for the kitchen counter, but his shoes glance off the slick surface, and he crashes to the ground beside me.
He rises wearing an implacable grin. “That went much smoother in my head.”
“Idiot.” We limp our way to the living room, our boots crunching glass. The voices are on the porch now.
Slants of dawn pierce the windows and trap in the cylindrical grooves of Riser’s revolver. He holds it down low against his leg. His arms are loose, his shoulders back and head held high, as if he’s the most comfortable when there’s the threat of violence. The knife Riser gave me is still in my pocket, so I pull the blade out and try to mimic his confidence.
The door handle rattles, but luckily it is locked. I am backing up, trying to decide if I will just stab wildly or go for one at a time, when I feel something hard press into my leg. There’s no time to explain, so I jump into the Casket and hope that Riser gets the idea. I slip on the Headbox, lie back, and pull the curved-glass lid shut. I keep my hands plastered to my sides for fear of hitting the button that will sync with my Microplant and start the upload.
The Casket has sensed my presence, and there’s a loud hiss as cold fog envelops me. My teeth chatter in the stillness. The intravenous pump that will force lifesaving nutrients into my bloodstream and allow me to survive being frozen powers on.
Before I can peek to see if Riser followed, pieces of the door splinter against the glass as an explosion rocks my Casket.
Chapter Eighteen
I can’t see what’s happening from my Casket, but I can hear them coming for me. Footsteps. Crude laughter. Muffled, though, as if from the end of a tunnel. The footsteps fade as the Centurions search the house before coming back to us.
The lid lifts with a creak. Warm, glorious air cascades over me, easing the stabbing cold.
Sour, almondy tar breath thaws my cheeks where the Headbox ends. I feel the top of my blouse lifting, cool air prickling my chest and stomach. “Found a nice-looking one,” Tar-Breath says. “Sleeper girls are the best kind. Quiet and willing.”
“Leave her,” says the other Centurion. “Unless you want the Emperor’s Mad Dog to wear your balls as a charm.”
“I’m not afraid of that malignant bitch. The Emperor will put her out of her misery soon enough.” They’re talking about the Archduchess. Something—a rough finger?—caresses the side of my head. “Besides, this one won’t tell on me, will you?”
Panic wells inside me, but I swallow it down. I think of the others. Immobile. Unprotected. Unaware of what’s happening to their bodies. My mouth waters, a nauseous feeling worming up my throat. In this moment, I don’t care about our cover or staying safe. All I want to do is kill him.
Before I can do something stupid, I feel the air move over my chest as Tar-Breath stands straight, and then both Centurions go deathly silent. Sharp clacking noises rattle the floor, followed by the sound of glass crunching near my Casket. As soon as the strong talcum odor hits me, my body goes rigid.
One of the Centurions moves, knocking my Headbox slightly askew so I can peek beneath. The Archduchess stands four feet from me, cut off from the waist up. The Centurions are pressed against the wall.
“My apologies, Archduchess,” Tar-Breath stutters. “Didn’t mean no-no-no disrespect.”
The Archduchess’s skirt hem rustles over the floor as she walks toward them. Now I can see the back of her hat, her braided silver mane, but not her face. She turns to Tar-Breath’s friend. “Check the status of the building and report back to me.”
It takes a moment for the man to realize he is being spared. “Yes, Archduchess, right away.”
Tar-Breath begins pleading with the Archduchess. “What I said before—”
Two puncturing noises, followed by bizarre sounds, like a dog baying, hiss through the room and cut off Tar-Breath’s apology.
She is barking.
Barking.
“Now that’s a mad dog for you,” the Archduchess says in a horrid voice that tells me she’s grinning ear-to-ear.
Tar-Breath stumbles back, arms flailing. He misses the porch step and falls on his rear, scuttling backward like a crab to get away.
A red rose blooms over his chest, spurting blood with every beat of his heart. Tar-Breath grabs his chest, his eyes white marbles of shock. He makes it two more feet before his body crumples out of sight.
Victoria pulls a red silk handkerchief from her coat pocket and meticulously wipes the bloody end of the hatpin. The side of her face I can now see is stretched into a dead grin.
Then the lunatic is coming toward me. I squeeze my eyes shut and struggle to relax my adrenaline-spiked body. As a Sleeper, I should be in a deep state of metabolic depression: slow breathing, lethargic heart rate. And my body should feel hard.
Basically, I should be frozen.
My heart races as I hear her lean over me, her perfume burning its way up my nose and into my brain. “Pretty thing.” Her voice sounds like paper bags ripping. “Poor, pretty, cold thing.”
I can feel her strange blend of hatred and curiosity, like a child watching a bug beneath a magnifying glass right before the sun incinerates the poor creature. If she looks closely, she will see the blood oozing from my palms.
Something cold and sharp drags over my clavicle. I know it’s the hatpin. I imagine the needle burrowing through flesh and bone to my heart. My body yearns to shiver; it takes everything I have not to scream.
“Pardon . . . Archduchess,” a man says from the door, voice hesitant. “We, uh, found a young female body inside the blast. Far as we can tell, she fits the description.”
There’s a pause. Then she adjusts my blouse so I am covered again and says, “Back to dreaming, little maggot.”
My body has decided I am safest curled into a tiny ball on the floor beneath the kitchen table. I don’t remember leaving the Casket. I should have stayed put—Centurions can still be heard shouting orders outside—but at least now, with my limbs trussed around my body, the shaking is controlled.
Nicolai killed the two Mercs. I know this with absolute certainty, and it scares me almost as much as the Archduchess does. He planned for us to be discovered, planned the explosion, and made certain the Archduchess would think I was dead. I don’t know how, but he did.
I am caught in an impossible situation between a madwoman, a deranged puppeteer, and a psychopathic freak turned dashing partner. What els
e does Nicolai have planned for us? What other secrets does he keep squirreled away for special occasions?
“You need to get up.” Riser is peering under the table at me.
“No.”
“Are you scared?”
I snort. “Isn’t that obvious?”
Shame burns my cheeks. Why am I so afraid? Why can’t I stop being Maia, scared little Digger Girl? The reconstructed part of me hates my weakness. Get up, and choose to be Everly. Maia will only make you small and powerless. But my body refuses.
Shuffling. Chairs squeaking across the floor. Riser is coming in after me. Cold, half-frozen fingers pry apart my arms.
“I won’t let the Archduchess hurt you,” he says, as if it’s the simplest statement in the world.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Not can’t keep. Won’t keep. That’s what I mean. Because if there is anyone who can protect me from the Archduchess, it’s Riser.
In fact, I’m not certain who scares me more: the lunatic or Pit Boy.
Riser lies down beside me, his cheek kissing the dirty floor. “I know what I am. But with you”—puzzlement tinges his voice—“with you, I’m different.”
“Welcome to the world of feelings and humanity. Maybe when I’m done getting over the gazillion times I’ve almost died the last couple days, I’ll plan a parade in your honor.”
“Look.” He is holding my gaze with his eyes, willing me to believe him. “This is new to me, too. I didn’t ask for it. All I know is I can’t let anything happen to you.”
I study his face, ignoring the comfort I find in the sharp planes of his cheeks and jaw. How can I possibly trust him? He could be lying to gain the upper hand, to force my trust and make me weak. “But you still have some scars, which means . . .”
“My reconstruction wasn’t complete.” His fingers trace the brow bone above his new green eye. I like it better than the blue eye, I think. “The physical transformation will probably hold, but the rest—”
“Won’t last.” And we have no idea how long until the old kill-now-ask-questions-later Riser rears his psychotic head.
