“Wear this,” Shannon says as she slips something over my mouth. A mask.
“Shouldn’t we stay and help?” I ask, my voice muffled.
“We’re under attack,” she says, leading me toward the trees. “Your family has found us. We have to go.”
“What about the underground passageway?” I ask.
“Too dangerous. It’s probably sealed up by now anyway,” Shannon says. “Let’s go, Aria.”
I follow her farther into the darkness. Grass crunches beneath our feet as we run, but I know we’re not loud enough for anyone to hear—not over the cries and crashes coming from the house.
“Faster,” Shannon hisses. “Faster!”
Instead, I stop for a moment and turn around. The house is still standing, but not for long—the fire inside is unstoppable, bursts of red and orange and black shooting out of the windows, licking the walls and roof like an angry tongue. Suddenly, a soldier catapults through a wall like a cannonball and collapses on the ground.
The blond mystic Sylvia follows through the hole in the wall, which she must have made with her energy. Backlit by flames, she blasts the fallen soldier with rays of electric green energy. I can hear the crunching of bricks and smell the sizzling of human flesh.
I’m relieved to know that some of the mystics are still fighting.
An image of Frieda strikes me. Did she make it out of the house?
Then, over the battle, I hear it: a child’s voice. “Mama!”
“Come on.” Shannon’s eyes gleam against the blackened sky. “Why did you stop?”
“Mama!”
That voice—I recognize it. Markus. Sweet face, floppy brown hair. He was so nice to me. And he has no mother to keep him safe.
The right thing to do is to keep running. To escape. But how can I leave him? “Markus is still in there,” I tell Shannon. “I can hear him. And there are others—”
“This is no time to be a martyr, Aria. It’s them or you.”
“This attack is my fault,” I say. “It’s happening because I’m here. I have to help.”
“If they haven’t gotten out by now, they’re goners,” Shannon says urgently, grabbing for my arm. “There’s nothing you can do to help. There’s nothing—”
But I can’t hear her anymore.
Because I’m leaving her, running back toward the house.
The mask I’m wearing blocks the smoke as I enter the kitchen. I can barely see an inch in front of me. There’s less screaming—it sounds like most of the attackers have moved outside and are battling the remaining mystics on the lawn.
“Markus?”
No response. My hands begin to shake, and I move forward slowly, knocking over a ceramic bowl. It makes a high-pitched crash as it shatters on the floor.
Then I hear it.
“Mama! Mama!”
He cries again, and I follow his voice. I feel my way through the kitchen along the cabinets, heading for the dining area. “Mama!”
I drop to my hands and knees, creeping across the planks until I find a leg of the table. “Markus? Is that you?”
I see him a few feet away from me, curled into a tiny ball under the table. For a second I see a flash of floppy brown hair through the smoke.
“It’s me, Aria,” I say. “Hold out your hand. I’m going to help you.”
The smoke has overtaken us again, and I grab for him. I feel nothing but air—until I make contact with a set of fingers. I clasp his hand and tug. “Crawl. And close your eyes,” I tell him. “Come to me.”
He does, and then I have one arm draped over him, edging him out from underneath the table. “Stay down, Markus. And follow me.”
Softly, I hear him say, “Aria.”
I rip off my mask as soon as we’re outside and place it over Markus’s head. It’s too big for him, but it’s better than nothing.
As we run, I hear a series of pops that sound like fireworks, but I know better. The field echoes with gunshots, with shouts and hisses, as the attackers who have come for me search in vain.
“Burn it all down!” I hear someone call.
“I said alive,” someone screams back. “We need her alive!”
I doubt they’ll rest until they find what they’re looking for.
We’re not moving fast enough. I see the apple trees in the distance. No Shannon. Markus is too slow. I stop and lift him onto my back. “Come on, guy. Hold on.”
I hope Shannon is hiding in the trees, waiting for me. “Shannon!” I call.
There’s no answer, and I keep moving. My arms tire. Markus is getting heavier.
Just then, I see glistening white—a pair of eyes.
Only they’re not Shannon’s.
“We’ve found her!” A man who is nearly twice my size and thick as a barrel shoots a round into the sky. “Guys!”
I try to zigzag away from him, but it’s too hard to run and carry Markus at the same time.
A pair of hands grabs me from the side, and I lurch forward. Markus falls off my back, onto the ground. “Run!” I yell.
A sweaty hand covers my mouth. The grip on my shoulders tightens. I think back to my training with Shannon. What did she tell me to do when an attacker came at me from behind?
I bite down and catch one of the man’s fingers with my teeth. I kick back my right leg, jamming my heel into his groin. “Aw, shit,” the man groans, his hand falling away.
I stumble forward, trying to run, but it’s so dark. Where did Markus go? I don’t dare glance back to see how many men are behind me. I search for the white eyes that were in front of me, but I don’t see them anymore.
Until I do. And a matching pair of smaller eyes. Markus.
“Stop!” the man shouts. I look around frantically: I can’t be more than a quarter mile from the trees. Is Shannon watching?
“Help!” I scream. “Someone help me!”
“Nobody is here to help you,” the man says. His voice is husky and terrifying. For a second, there is a flare of green light in the sky. It illuminates the man’s face, and I can see that he’s barely older than I am. Red cheeks, blond hair, skin slick with sweat. A tight silver uniform. His hand is curled tightly around Markus’s neck.
“Let him go,” I plead. I can barely speak I’m so nervous; my heart is beating furiously. “Please.”
“Okay.” He uncurls his fingers, but Markus doesn’t move an inch, frozen with fear.
The soldier raises his gun and aims it at Markus’s head.
My heart stops. “Markus, run!”
The man unlocks the safety and shoots.
It’s a soft sound compared to the chaos going on around us. There’s a second shot and a thud as Markus topples to the earth.
I scream something into the night, barely recognizing my own voice. Tears stream down my face as the soldier shifts his focus. Now the gun is pointed directly at me. No no no no no no no—
There’s a rush of air behind me and then someone else’s hands are on my shoulders. I struggle with all my might but can’t break his grip.
“We were told not to kill you,” the soldier with the gun says. “But we’re happy to cripple you if that’s what it takes.” He moves his aim from my head to my leg. The Foster crest—a five-pointed star—glistens on the front of his uniform. “Or to kill everyone around you. Your call.”
The man behind me kicks my legs out from under me, and I drop like a bag of bricks, slamming my head on the rough soil. I stare up at the burning sky, defeated.
“Cuff her.”
My arms are nearly ripped out of their sockets as a pair of metal cuffs finds its way around my wrists. Everything seems lost.
I should have listened to Shannon.
The guards’ voices echo loudly in my head as I’m shoved into a metal chair, my arms yanked tightly behind me. My wrists are raw from rubbing against the cuffs. It feels like we’ve been traveling for hours.
“Stop moving!” comes a high-pitched voice, not one of the men who captured me back at the compo
und.
The dirty blindfold someone tied around my head in the copter is still in place. There’s a click as the cuff on my right hand is unlocked. For a second I foolishly think they’re letting me go, but then I hear the cuff being locked around my chair.
I leap forward blindly, attempting to pull the chair with me, out of the room, but it’s bolted to the floor. There are a few hearty laughs; then someone strikes me across the cheek.
“I said, stop moving.”
My mouth fills with the tang of blood. I try to spit it out but end up swallowing most of it.
Just breathe, I tell myself. In and out.
I suppose I’m back in the Aeries—judging from the time I spent in the helicopter and the elevator ride afterward—though really, I could be anywhere. The air around me is cool. I can actually smell the air-conditioning, which I always thought was crisp and clean, like freshly laundered clothing. Now that I’ve been in the countryside, though, I know what truly clean air smells like. This is overprocessed and fake. Much like everything else in the Aeries.
Suddenly, the blindfold is pulled off my face. I blink, letting my eyes adjust to the light after what feels like hours in the dark. It looks like I’m in some sort of warehouse, with exposed piping and cement-block ceilings and floors. There are dozens of windows, but they’re completely blacked out, giving no clues to my whereabouts.
Ten guards—five men, five women—are spread out across the room. They are dressed in silver Lycra uniforms with black stripes running down the sides. Their chests are covered with metallic bulletproof vests, the Foster crest imprinted above their hearts.
Each of them holds a shiny pistol.
Pointed at my head.
An eleventh guard steps out from behind me. He’s holding the blindfold in his hand. His head is shaved, his scalp as pink and smooth as a baby’s. “Hello.”
I stare straight ahead.
He walks around me in a circle. The Foster crest is inked in navy blue on the right side of his neck. “I’m surprised Johnny Rose didn’t teach you better manners.”
“Right,” I say. “Because kidnapping me, handcuffing me to a chair, and beating me up is a sign of a really good upbringing.”
I’m expecting to be hit again. Instead, he laughs. All his teeth are silver.
“Where am I?”
No answer.
I glance over my shoulder and see a long black table set for two—dinner plates, glasses, silverware, and all. Tall candlesticks that glisten with silver etching are positioned in the center.
The silver-toothed guard motions to me. “Tasha, Helen”—two female guards step forward—“take Ms. Rose to get cleaned up.”
One of the guards—Helen—unlocks my cuff from the chair while the other—Tasha—aims her gun at my forehead. “Get up and walk,” she says.
I do as I’m told.
I’m marched past the other guards, past the blackened windows, until I reach a cement wall with an empty space where a door should be.
On the other side are the bare essentials of someone’s sleeping quarters: A bed that seems freshly made with cream-colored linens. Two pillows covered with stark white shams. A tall mirror resting against one of the concrete walls. More wide windows that have been blacked out but that I assume look over the bridges of the Aeries.
On top of the mattress are clothes that are clearly meant for me: a plain red dress and a pair of sandals covered with crushed gems, so bright they look like diamonds.
“Hold still,” Helen says. She removes a razor blade from her pocket and I wince. Is she going to cut me? In one swoop, she slices down my back, opening up the T-shirt I’m wearing and stripping it off me.
Along with my bra. Another quick motion and my sweatpants and underwear are gone.
I’m completely naked now. The cuffs are relocked behind my back. Tasha points to the wall opposite the blacked-out windows, where there is a door that must lead to a bathroom. “Wash up,” she says. “Quickly. When you’re done, we’ll help you dress.”
“Wash up?” I say. “I’m handcuffed. How exactly is that going to work?”
The guards smirk. “Figure it out,” Tasha says.
They leave. Helen presses a touchpad and a door slides into place, sealing me in.
I look around for a way to escape, but it’s all walls and windows. Worse, my body feels like it has taken a thousand-foot fall. I’m bruised and sore all over. For the first time, I wish it were because of Shannon’s training.
Shannon. I wonder if she saw them take me. If anyone is going to rescue me.
Was she captured, too? Is she still alive? And if she is … will she get word to Hunter about where I’ve been taken?
I walk over to the bathroom door and nudge the touchpad with my shoulder. The door whizzes open and I am in a space that looks like it could be in my parents’ apartment: a glass shower stall, a porcelain self-flushing toilet, a sink like an enormous soup bowl.
I step into the shower. It’s so unlike the stall back at the mystic compound it’s almost funny. So Aeries: sleek black marble with white flecks, shined spotless. No showerhead is visible; there’s a button that I press with my elbow, and immediately I’m doused with warm water. I let it rush over my face and down my back, soothing my swollen skin and washing away the blood, until my body no longer aches.
What happened back there? I thought we were safe, that no one would be able to find us—that’s what Hunter said. Clearly he was wrong. Who’s after me—my parents? Kyle? I clench my hands and pound the wall. It doesn’t make me feel any better. Poor, sweet Markus is dead, and it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t been at the compound, they never would have gotten raided. Nobody would have died.
I lean back against the shower door. I feel useless and scared and responsible. I close my eyes and wish that everything would stop, go back to normal. But what’s normal anymore?
The guards return and uncuff me so I can towel off.
I’m uncomfortable being naked in front of them; I didn’t even like when Davida saw me naked after a shower, and she was my servant. My friend. These women are strangers. George Foster’s soldiers. Enemies.
As I pick up the red dress that was left on the bed for me, I realize it’s not as plain as I thought. The color is electric, a stop-in-your-tracks kind of red. Look but don’t touch. The material is fine silk, though there’s not much of it; sleeveless and backless, with deep cleavage and a halter tie that goes around my neck. There is no bra. A fine black beaded fringe rustles above my knees as I turn around and catch a glimpse of myself in the standing mirror.
This is a party dress—something I would have worn to an event with my parents or on a date with Thomas before the war. Definitely a dress for an Aeries girl. But it’s a frightening ensemble for a prisoner.
“Come on,” Helen says. “Let’s go.”
My two new best friends usher me through the main room. My hair is still wet, heavy on the back of my neck, and I shiver from the cold.
The candles on the table have been lit, and there is a man sitting at the far end, his head down. He’s dressed in a white linen suit and a white dress shirt with a navy tie. His brown hair is hanging down, covering his face.
Tasha pulls out a chair for me and I sit down. “If you try to run away, I will shoot you,” she says. I don’t doubt her sincerity.
I lean back to study the man in front of me. He raises his head and I can’t help myself. I gasp.
Thomas Foster.
Light from the candles plays across the table and flickers over his face. It strikes the bottom of his chin, then fans upward, accenting the hollows of his cheeks and giving his familiar brown eyes a spooky glint.
My stomach does a flip. He’s supposed to be dead.
On his plate is a hunk of meat so rare it might as well be raw. He cuts into the steak and blood pours from it, filling the air with a sticky-sweet smell. He takes a bite and tilts up his head.
My ex-fiancé swallows. Winks at me. “Hello, Aria.”
r /> I can’t seem to form a coherent sentence. “But you—I saw you … you were—”
“Dead?” The look in his eyes shifts. “No. Though you did shoot me.” He pats his chest, just under his heart. “Fortunately, you’re not much of a shot.”
My mind races back to the battle the night of the underground raid, when Thomas was about to kill Hunter and I shot him. Left him for dead. How many nights since then have I lost sleep, thinking I murdered him? And now here he is. Very much alive.
“I know.” Thomas takes a sip of red wine. “You’re speechless at the sight of me. Most women are.” He pauses. “Though you never seemed to think so.”
“Cut it out, Thomas,” I say. “You never liked me. You cheated on me with Gretchen Monasty and lied about how we met. You’re no better than my parents. A child was killed tonight because of what you’ve done. And countless others, I’m sure.”
Thomas chuckles. “It’s a pity I can’t say I’ve missed the sound of your voice, Aria. Or anything about you, really.”
His gaze focuses on my cleavage. I feel vulnerable, exposed. I want to strangle him.
“What we had could have worked, you know,” Thomas says. “But you had to go and ruin it with that … mongrel.”
My stomach churns. I know he’s referring to Hunter. “We didn’t have anything,” I say. “My parents wiped my memory clean and tried to trick me into believing I was in love with you. And it didn’t work. Our whole relationship was based on a lie.”
I let my words sink in and wait for a reaction. Thomas never loved me—that much I know. Our engagement was a scheme. He was a player in the alliance between my parents and the Fosters:
Get rid of Hunter.
Unite our families.
Make sure Garland wins the mayoral election against Violet Brooks.
Unfortunately, the only thing they succeeded at was murdering Violet. The traitor Elissa Genevieve did that, the mystic who works for my father and took advantage of me to gain access to the rebels’ underground hideout.