by Stacey Kade
I was valuable to Justine and her crew, but I wasn’t stupid enough to count on that alone. Always have a backup plan. One of my father’s earliest lessons.
Thinking of him, my feet followed a familiar route automatically, leading me to my old house before I realized what I was doing.
A FOR SALE sign leaned crookedly in the yard, accumulating snow on the sign post, and there were tire tracks in the driveway. A few more steps down the sidewalk revealed a dark blue SUV full of boxes, the cargo door open for unloading.
Of course. GTX wouldn’t, or couldn’t, hold on to the house now. They’d sell it if only to provide more distance between anything that could connect me to them.
A man in a baseball cap and a heavy denim jacket walked out on the front porch and moved stiffly down the steps to the vehicle.
My breath caught in my throat. He looked like my father. But he’d just been on my mind, so perhaps it was simply wishful thinking. I’d asked Justine to find him, to ask him to serve as my guardian, but she’d told me they had no luck. I hadn’t been surprised to hear that, but definitely disappointed. I’d learned a lot from him, and not all of it had come from a training manual. He was my father, for better or for worse, the only one I would ever have. I refused to consider any other possibility.
The man at my former home must have sensed someone watching. He stopped on the edge of the driveway and turned to face me. “You going to just stand there, or are you going to help me load this stuff?” he demanded. The brim of his hat shadowed his features, but his voice left absolutely no doubt.
It was my father.
Stunned, I hurried forward, my feet kicking up small whirlwinds of snow. “What are you doing here?” I asked, wrestling one end of a box out of the cargo area.
“No,” he said. “The other way. We’re moving out.”
I let go of the box and stared at him. “What?”
“The apartment is a fresh start. I agreed with them on that. It’s important, but I don’t see any reason why we should abandon everything,” he said. He dug into the open top of the closest cardboard box and produced our silver toaster. “I, for example, have no emotional attachment to this toaster. I can’t see a reason to spend twenty bucks on a new one.”
“Good point,” I said, even though I still had no idea what he was talking about overall. I hesitated. “But does this mean…Are you working for Justine?” I steeled myself to hear the answer. I didn’t mind if he was being paid to keep an eye on me again, but I wanted to know this time.
“No,” he said sharply. Then he took a breath and let it out in a sigh. “No,” he said again, in a softer voice. “That was a mistake I’m not making again. I’m retired. I’m not working for anyone anymore.”
“But then I don’t understand….”
“They found me after that mess in Chicago. Well,” he amended, “I found them. A few weeks ago.”
I nodded. That made more sense to me. He could have disappeared forever. I had no doubt of that.
“That woman, Justine, told me the deal you’d negotiated.” His voice held gruff admiration. “You really held their feet to the fire.”
I shrugged, as if I didn’t care, but the unexpected warmth of the compliment filled me. “I learned from the best.”
He rolled his eyes. “Save it for someone who’s buying, kid.”
I grinned, the familiarity of his words providing that sense of home I’d been missing. But I still had questions. “So, if you’re not working for them, then who is?” Someone had to be. There was no way Justine would let me have that much unsupervised freedom, not until she got more of what she wanted from me.
“They’ll still have an agent on site,” my father said. “Marta something or other. She’ll have her own apartment next to ours, I guess. I’m not quite sure of the setup. They’re playing it pretty close to the vest. They didn’t even tell me you were showing up today.” He frowned. “You know they probably have trackers in some or all of your new clothes.” He nodded at my coat.
“I’m sure,” I agreed with a shrug. “But I didn’t see any reason to cause panic by removing them before I needed to.”
“True. But it would be a shame if some of them met their end through an accidental scrubbing or a rough trip at the dry cleaners. Just to keep Justine and Marta”—he made a face, which made me think he’d met the painfully humorless DHS agent already—“on their toes.”
I grinned. “It would.”
“You know not all of this is going to fit,” I said, looking at the house and considering the floor plans I’d seen of the two-bedroom apartment.
“We’ll take the important stuff,” he said.
“All of it,” I added, hoping he knew I meant the photos and items from his former life with his wife and daughter. He’d hidden his past in the basement for too long.
He nodded wordlessly, his bright blue eyes a little damp.
Then he said, “And if we run out of space, I think I know a place where I can get a good deal on a storage unit.”
I laughed. “I bet you do.”
He wrapped an arm around my shoulders cautiously. “I missed you, kiddo,” he said into the top of my hair.
Acting on impulse, I ducked under his arm to give him a real hug, surprising both of us.
“Good,” I said. I felt like I’d been waiting my whole life to hear exactly that. And it was so worth it.
MY NAME IS ARIANE TUCKER. I share that name with a girl who died a long time ago, but that’s all. This is my life. And my rules:
1. Be in by ten on weeknights, midnight on weekends (with exceptions made for special occasions, which do not, apparently, include marathon viewings of the entire original Star Wars trilogy alone with Zane in his mom’s apartment while she’s out).
2. Keep quiet on the whole being genetically-engineered-from-human-and-alien-DNA thing.
3. Check in weekly with my DHS handler, Justine, and make a quarterly trip to the secret warehouse in Phoenix.
4. Figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life, now that it appears I will have one.
5. Be on call in case of first contact with extraterrestrials (of any kind, but especially those with whom I share a genetic connection).
Oh, and most important…
6. Don’t sneak across the apartment courtyard to spend illicit time with my boyfriend. Rather, don’t get caught.
No problem. I was made for this.
THANK YOU TO EVERYONE AT Hyperion for everything you’ve done to support this series and G&G before it. You are amazing, and I’m so grateful.
As a writer, I’m always looking for ways to improve. Tracey Keevan, you taught me so much about making a story (and my writing) tighter. You can bounce a quarter off this book. (I mean, you totally can because it’s a book, but the story is tight, too.) Thank you!
To Christian Trimmer, thank you for believing in me and Ariane and Zane. (And Alona and Will, for that matter!)
Tyler Nevins, I love the new covers—thank you. I think this last one is my favorite. Ariane looks so badass!
Linnea Sinclair, thank you for always being the calm voice of reason in my ear and the shove in the right direction when I need it. I couldn’t have done this without you.
Librarians are the most awesome people in the world. A big thanks to two of my favorites, Amy and Kim, whom I’m lucky to also call friends. Houlihan’s doesn’t know how to close without us!
I owe a great deal to my local Starbucks. When I’m writing a first draft, I’m there for hours, and everyone is so patient and supportive. So, a huge thank you to Megan, Caroline, Stacey, Sharon, Sean, Dawn, John, Kayla, Michelle, Jacob, Kiley, Shane, Sarah M., Brianna, Sarah P., Jessica, Heather, and Roberto.
And when I’m not at Starbucks, I’m at my local Barnes & Noble in the café, scribbling madly away. Thank you to all the booksellers and staff, especially Alma, Ann, Jay, and Roger.
A big thanks to the following blogs that went above and beyond to help promote The Hunt: Jacque’s
Book Nook, Lili Lost in a Book, Just a Booklover, and Bows & Bullets Reviews.
Okay, I feel like this is one of those Emmy speeches that just keeps going…but I’m not done yet! Don’t cue up the orchestra!
Thank you to Becky Douthitt, who has been reading my stuff since we were eighteen. And we’re still friends, which speaks to a lot of patience on her part. Love you!
Thank you to Age and Dana Tabion who remind me to take a breath, have fun, and eat some mashed potatoes every once in a while. To Ed and Debbie Brown, who keep inviting me to dinner and refuse to give up on me, even though I often have to say no more than yes. I’m so grateful that you keep asking!
To my parents, Steve and Judy Barnes, and my siblings, Michael and Susan. Thanks for always listening.
And finally to my very patient husband, Greg, who is supportive even when the people in my head are getting most of my attention. Love you, and thanks for the chocolate.
STACEY KADE is the author of the Ghost and the Goth trilogy: The Ghost and the Goth; Queen of the Dead; and Body & Soul. She is also the author of Project Paper Doll: The Rules, and Project Paper Doll: The Hunt. Stacey lives outside of Chicago with her husband and two retired racing greyhounds.
Learn more at www.staceykade.com, as well as on Facebook and Twitter (@staceykade).
