by Kat Zhang
Damien had explained the plan just before dinner, when much of the house was gathered. Interested people could meet downstairs at midnight, and carpool to the city. He hoped to have everyone there by two a.m.
The children at Roarke had been attacked, he said, during the darkest hours of the night. He wanted to light candles for them during that same time.
I’d assured Ryan, when he sought me out, that Addie and I weren’t going.
I closed our eyes but didn’t lie back down. Damien’s words echoed in my mind. The darkest hours of the night. Forty-eight hours ago, children locked away in a building had woken from their beds like this. Stared down gun barrels, empty-handed and terrified.
I clapped our hand over our mouth before I could make a sound. But it lived, weeping, in our throat.
Addie didn’t argue.
I slipped out the door as silently as I could. The hall was deserted, and I hurried down the steps, following the murmur of voices. We found Damien’s group gathered in the dimmed front parlor, already bundled into coats and hats. There were maybe fifteen people total. A few were still pulling on shoes.
I picked out Logan Newsome, who raised an eyebrow at us. Damien, tall and sandy-haired, caught sight of us and said, “You’d better grab a coat. It’s pretty cold out there.”
“Oh, I’m not—” I started to whisper.
Then I recognized the girl nearest the door, wearing the cream-colored hat.
It was Hally.
FORTY
Hally hurried to our side and pulled us away from the group.
“We’re about to leave, girls,” Damien said.
“This’ll be quick,” Hally said over her shoulder. To Addie and me, she whispered, “I know, Eva. I know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Or anyone. But God knows it’s not like you or Ryan have any high ground in that regard.”
“It’s—it’s an unnecessary risk,” I managed to sputter.
I’d gotten used to Hally and Lissa being a moderating voice of reason. A leash in my more impulsive moments. But once upon a time, Hally had been the one to risk reaching out to Addie. Lissa had sat in her bedroom and told us we weren’t alone in being hybrid.
They’d also spent their entire lives wishing for more than what they had. They’d wanted the world to change, too, but they’d never wanted to see anything destroyed in the process.
Perhaps they’d never believed it was necessary.
“This isn’t nearly as dangerous as some of the things you’ve done,” Hally said. “Lissa and me . . . we want to do something. You and Addie went into Hahns. You took that upon yourself. And—and I know this isn’t anything like that. But we want to be a part of this.” She bit her lip. “It’s a vigil, Eva. There have been so many tragedies pushed aside or buried or forced to be forgotten. And for the first time, people are coming to openly mourn.”
I realized she didn’t just want us to let her go. She wanted us to go with her.
“Ryan—” I started to say.
Hally shook her head. “He’ll try to keep us from going, and they’re about to leave—”
As if on cue, Logan called out softly, “Are you two coming? If you don’t have a coat, I’m sure you could borrow one from the closet, as long as you bring it back.”
“I’m coming,” Hally said. She looked at Addie and me.
I took a deep breath.
“We’re coming, too,” I said.
Damien wasn’t kidding about it being cold. Most of the cars were parked a few blocks away to cast less suspicion on the safe house. Addie and I huddled in our coat as we walked, sticking close to Hally for warmth.
The streets were quiet but for the sound of our footsteps. Suddenly, Logan threw out a hand, motioning for us to stop.
We all froze. I listened. One. Two. Three seconds. Nothing but the soft whistle of the wind.
Damien resumed walking, and after a moment, the others followed. But I stopped again after a few steps. We’d noticed it, too, this time. The initial group had split into smaller ones as we neared the cars, and the soft footsteps we heard didn’t match with anyone’s feet.
We sensed him before we saw him.
“Lyle?” I said. “Lyle, I know you’re there. Come out.”
A beat. He emerged from the darkness of the trees lining the road, his mouth already set in an unhappy line.
Ours was unhappier. “Go back,” I said. “Right now.”
He shook his head, approaching us. “I’m coming with you to the vigil.”
“You can’t,” I said.
“Why not?” he demanded. “Damien said there would be other kids there.”
The others had all stopped, too, watching our exchange.
“He’s right,” Damien said. “Why not?”
“Because he’s eleven years old!” I said.
Damien’s eyes were steady. “Children get taken away at ten.”
“I want to go,” Lyle said, too loudly. The streetlight caught the whites of his eyes. Made them gleam. “If you make me go back, Eva, I’ll wake everyone up.”
Damien shot us a look, his eyebrows raised.
“It’s not like that would stop you,” I said irritably.
But it would stop us. And most likely, Hally. Her lips were pressed thin, her glances worried.
“It’ll be okay,” Logan said. “The boy wants to go. We’ll look after him.”
“Come on, Eva,” Lyle said, the way he used to beg Addie to act out one of his stories with him, or walk to the library with him, or stay up an hour later when our parents were gone.
So I wavered, and I hesitated, but I let him climb after us into the car.
I let him come.
We drove into a peaceful, mostly slumbering city. Addie and I had never been to the Capitol before, though we’d seen it frequently on television. The president often stood in front of it for speeches, and had done so for decades.
Damien parked the car a few blocks from the mall, where we waited until the rest of our group arrived. Then we gathered by his trunk while he handed out candles. He even had orchids, though they’d wilted a little. We pinned them to our coats, the petals pink and white and velvet soft. Both Hally and I put extras in our pockets, to give to people who might not have their own.
Silently, we headed for the Capitol building. The group around Addie and me started with just over a dozen people, but other groups merged with ours as we drifted through the streets.
Despite the late hour, there were still people out walking. Groups of students on winter holiday paused in their laughter when we passed. It was, I realized with a start, officially Christmas Eve.
We didn’t have signs. No one shouted anything. We just walked. The orchids pinned on some people’s coats were made of fabric, or paper, but they were there.
Hally’s hand brushed against ours, and I took it.
I said.
Because it was beautiful, despite everything.
It was as if I hadn’t realized how utterly alone I’d felt all my life until this moment. How my pain, my struggles, had felt like the problems of just a handful of people, easily forgotten and brushed aside. Until I saw the crowd gathered in front of the Capitol building.
Damien hadn’t been lying when he’d said there would be hundreds—hundreds of people and the little, flickering lights in their hands.
It made our breath catch.
I lifted our hand. Marion’s ring still gleamed around our finger. I pressed down on the little gemstone. Set it to record. It was
n’t for footage, wasn’t for Marion to show on the news. Wasn’t to try and sway anyone’s mind, or heart.
I wanted this recorded for the same reason I’d recorded the stories the other girls told at Hahns. Because it was beautiful. Because I wanted it captured forever.
“Who are all these people?” Hally whispered.
Logan, who’d stuck near us, said, “Some of them must have started driving at noon, to come this far.”
But they were here.
The candles were not uniform. They were tall and short and all different colors. The scented ones pillowed us in a heady garden of everything from lavender to pine trees to the smell of Christmas-morning cookies. The one Addie and I held was stubby and fat and deeply purple. Lyle’s was green and tall and skinny. He held it clutched in one fist.
No one spoke. There was something powerful in the silence we carried with us.
Soon we were surrounded by the force of so many tiny flames that there was a warmth to it. I wasn’t only thinking about the children of Roarke. I thought of Peter. And Hannah. And Viola. Of Bridget, and Emalia, and Jaime. Of all the children in all the institutions, and all the ones who’d evaded capture. Of the adults they’d become, after a lifetime of hiding.
If things weren’t as they were, each of them would have deserved a memorial like this. But that was what battles did. Made the horror of one death into the incomprehensible tragedy of a thousand.
A wind crept through the crowd. Made the candles flicker.
We were so lost in our private thoughts that I didn’t notice the commotion until Hally’s hand tightened around ours, and I looked up, toward her. She was looking in the opposite direction, frowning.
“What?” I whispered. Too quietly, maybe, because she didn’t reply.
And then I heard it, too—faintly. Sirens.
Her eyes snapped back to ours. I grabbed Lyle by the arm, so tightly he gasped.
“What’s going—” He cut off as he looked over our shoulder. Saw, in the distance, the people stampeding. The crowd morphed into a landslide of people. Wavering at first—shifting in confusion in the semidarkness as the wave approached them. In a second, just a second—
It would break.
“Don’t let go,” I shouted at Lyle.
Everyone was shouting. The magic had broken. Lyle still clutched his candle, but as I pulled him toward us, we saw dozens of candles littering the ground.
A passing man rammed into us. We stumbled.
And in that instant—that fraction of a heartbeat—we lost Hally.
Our head whipped back and forth, trying to find her again, but the crowd was too thick—too chaotic—and—
“Addie,” Lyle screamed.
Every atom of Addie and me pinpointed on our little brother. Someone’s fallen candle had brushed against his jacket hood. Caught against the dry, soft fabric. Set it alight.
We yelled for him to keep still. The mantra we’d been taught as children leapt to mind—stop, drop, and roll—but that was impossible in this crowd. Dropping to the ground here could be fatal.
We wrenched off our own coat and tried to smother the fire with it.
Please, please, I thought. Oh, God, please.
The flames died out. It was several more seconds before we could breathe again. Lyle stood panting, his eyes wide.
“You all right?” I managed to say. When he didn’t answer, I started to ask him again, louder—but then I realized he was staring behind us in shock. He was staring at something. Someone.
I whirled around.
There were three officers. They wore helmets. Dark suits that made them look all the same. Faceless and uniform.
I wrapped our arms around Lyle. Pulled him closer to us. He didn’t struggle. He’d gone silent, his limbs stony.
“You can’t take him,” I whispered. Then I screamed it. “You can’t take him.”
They took him anyway.
They took us, too.
FORTY-ONE
We weren’t the only ones they rounded up. Everywhere around us, officers herded people toward vans and police cars. There were too many to fit. Some groups stood motionless, watched over by officers who didn’t seem to know what to do with them.
The ground lay strewn with extinguished candles and trampled orchids.
“It’s going to be okay,” I whispered to Lyle. The officers were taking us to one of the vans—we’d almost reached it when we were intercepted by another man, who frowned at us and murmured something to one of the officers.
We exchanged hands. The new policemen didn’t take Addie and me and Lyle to the van, but to a police car.
I was too tense to guess. Where were Hally and Lissa? We hadn’t seen them at all after the initial wave of panic. Had they been captured, too?
Please be safe, I thought desperately.
They’d only wanted to mourn.
The drive lasted little more than half an hour. Instead of bringing us to a jail, they parked us in front of a house. It stood two stories, imposing with an immaculate lawn and a flag hanging from the front porch. Fixtures set into the lawn cast a low, white light, brightening our legs as the officers urged us from the car.
Lyle looked at Addie and me as if we were supposed to know what was going on, but I could only shake our head in reply.
One of the officers raised his fist to knock. He didn’t need to. The door opened. The officer quickly dropped his fist.
“Come in,” said Mark Jenson.
The officers stayed just long enough for Jenson to make a show of offering them something to drink. They both said they were needed back at the scene. Jenson said, “Of course, I understand. Thank you.”
“The mob’s taking up a lot of resources right now,” one of the policemen said. “But I’ll see who’s available and send some more men down to secure the house.”
Then they were gone.
I made sure Lyle stayed by our side. Jenson looked at both of us, calculating.
“Is this yours?” I said quietly. “The house.”
Jenson walked away, toward the kitchen counter. He wasn’t even looking at us anymore. Despite the fact that it was three in the morning, he was fully dressed, black, formal shoes and everything. There was something severe about the arrangement of his dark hair.
Neither of us said it, but we both understood. If we’d been alone, maybe we’d have risked it. But not when we had Lyle here. Lyle, who never should have been here at all. Who only was because of our mistake.
Sometimes, it seemed like all our decisions turned out to be mistakes.
“In a way,” Jenson said in answer to my question. “It’s owned by the government, but I live here when I’m in the city.”
He seemed so calm. So unsurprised.
“You knew, didn’t you?” I whispered. “About the vigil. You knew who we were. What we were gathering for.”
Jenson picked up the pitcher of water he’d offered the officers. Poured himself a glass. “I’d hoped you might show up. There were rumors you were in the area—not all of those hybrid safe houses are as safe as you people imagine. But it’s better, sometimes, to let smaller criminals continue, so we can catch the important ones. We were close, in Brindt. Very close, the city police tell me.”
“It doesn’t matter, you know,” I said. “I’m not important. None of this depends on me—you won’t have stopped anything—”
“You are important.” Jenson headed for the sleek sofas. Sat carefully, unbuttoning his suit jacket. “You are important because I made you important. I crafted a story around you. You helped, of course, with all your reckless behavior. I couldn’t have done it with just anyone.”
He sipped from his glass of water. He looked, I thought, like he did behind the podium on televisi
on. Giving yet another speech. “From the day you escaped from Nornand and attacked that man in the hallway, you’ve been involved in one act of violence after another: targeting the rally at Lankster Square with explosives—”
“Fireworks,” I protested, but Jenson went on as if I hadn’t interrupted.
“—bombing the institution at Powatt. With materials, I might add, you stole from a hospital.” His eyes were steady. I struggled to keep steady, too. Because he wasn’t lying. “We would have captured you eventually. But I’m glad it happened tonight. It makes for a better ending to your story.”
I tightened our hold on Lyle. “A better ending?”
Jenson set down his glass. “You’re welcome to sit down.”
We didn’t move.
He glanced up at the clock, then turned back to us.
What’s going to happen to us? I wanted to ask. But I was afraid to know. Afraid for Lyle to know.
“Violent tendencies often escalate,” Jenson said. The sofas were angled to face a television. He reached for the remote control. “It’s understandable how everything culminated in the attack tonight. Things would have still worked if we blamed someone else. But now people will have a clear narrative thread to follow.”
Despite myself, I took a step forward. “What attack?”
Jenson flipped on the television. It was already on a news channel.
“The one that just assassinated the president,” he said.
FORTY-TWO
Addie and I watched dumbly. Somehow, without realizing it, we drifted closer to the television until we bumped up against the back of Jenson’s couch. We didn’t notice until Lyle came to join us.
The president was dead. The man had been in office longer than we’d been alive, and his uncle before him. We’d seen him during Independence Day speeches, and in our school textbooks, and on stamps. We’d watched him age. Most days, of course, we hadn’t thought much about him. He was the president. He and his world seemed so far away. Untouchable.