“I looked at his face,” Celine said simply. “And I looked at my own—not just the features, not my eyes or my lips or my nose, but the basic underlying facial structure. The bones.”
I searched Celine’s face for a resemblance to Michael’s father, but I couldn’t see it.
Celine must have sensed some skepticism. “I never forget a face. I can take one look at a person and know exactly what their facial bones look like underneath the skin. Creepy, I know, but what can I say?” She shrugged. “I’m a natural.”
My breath caught in my throat. Celine didn’t know the details of the program—why the FBI had brought us here, what we could do. She didn’t know what it meant to be a Natural, capital N. But I thought of Michael saying that ever since they were kids, she’d only drawn faces, of the digital photo she’d created of her and Michael. She’d taken a photograph of them as kids, and she’d mentally fast-forwarded with stunning accuracy.
There’s software that does age progressions. Sloane’s statement echoed in my head, and I thought about the role that genes had played in making each of us Naturals what we were. Our environments had honed our gifts—but the seed had been there from the beginning.
And Celine was Michael’s sister.
“I meant it when I said you should leave,” I told Celine, my voice sandpaper-rough in my throat. “But before you do, I need a favor.”
The face that stared back at me from Celine’s drawing was one I recognized.
Nightshade.
The likeness Michael’s half sister had drawn was eerily accurate, down to the boyish expression on the murderer’s face.
Seven, I thought, my heart pounding viciously in my chest. Seven Masters, seven ways of killing. The progression went in a predictable order, starting with the Master who drowned his victims and culminating in poison. Nightshade is Seven.
Nightshade is Mason Kyle.
The part of me that had felt numb and hollow from the moment I’d realized that the Masters had Laurel began to crack, like ice under the force of a pick. In the past ten weeks, the FBI hadn’t been able to uncover anything about Nightshade’s background. Now we had his real name. We knew where he’d been born. And—most importantly—we knew that he’d tried very hard to bury that information.
You’re the one who brought Laurel to Vegas. You’re the one who told me where she was.
I felt like my gut had been ripped open, like everything inside of me was leaking out. The man in this drawing had killed Judd’s daughter. He’d stalked us, and when we’d caught him, he’d wrapped Laurel up for me in a tidy little bow. Why? Had he been instructed to do so? Had it all been part of some twisted game?
I found Agent Sterling in the kitchen sitting opposite Briggs. Her hands were folded on the table, inches from his. You won’t let yourself touch him. You won’t let him touch you.
She was the one who’d brought me to Laurel. She wouldn’t blame Briggs for this. She wouldn’t blame me. After Scarlett’s death, Agent Sterling had left the FBI—because she blamed herself.
“Celine Delacroix is a Natural.” I spoke up from the doorway. Right now, wallowing in guilt wasn’t a privilege any of us could afford. “She did an age progression of a photo Sloane found. Nightshade’s name is Mason Kyle. We can use that.” My voice broke, but I forced myself to continue talking. “We can use him.”
It took sixteen hours to set up the interview. On one side of the glass, Briggs and Sterling sat opposite Nightshade. On the other side, Dean, Michael, Lia, and I watched.
We’d left Sloane at home with Celine and Judd. The only adult on our side of the glass was Agent Sterling’s father.
This will work, I thought, my throat tightening. It has to.
“I understand that you feel you have nothing to say to us.” Agent Sterling began the interrogation like it was a conversation, treating the serial killer’s feelings and desires like they were completely valid. “But I thought this picture might change your mind.”
She laid an image on the table—not Mason Kyle, not yet. For now, Agent Sterling needed an entry point, something to tax the killer’s capacity for silence—in this case, a picture of Laurel.
“Did you call her Laurel?” Agent Briggs asked. “Or Nine?”
No answer.
“They have her, you know.” Agent Sterling’s voice was even and calm, but there was something intense about it, like each word that passed her lips was a living, breathing thing. “We hid her, but not well enough. They found her. Maybe they always knew where she was. Maybe they were just biding their time.”
I should have protected her, I thought fiercely. I should have been there.
Beside me, Dean laid a hand on the back of my neck. I wanted to lean into his touch, but didn’t. I didn’t deserve to be touched. I didn’t deserve to feel safe. I didn’t deserve to do anything but sit here and watch the man who’d killed Judd’s daughter reach for the picture of Laurel.
“You brought her to Las Vegas with you,” Agent Sterling said. “Why?”
“If I didn’t know better,” Briggs commented, once it became clear that Nightshade wasn’t going to say anything himself, “I’d think that you cared for the child. That you wanted to get her away from the life she was living.”
All Nightshade offered up in response to those words was another stretch of deafening silence.
“He wasn’t happy when he found out the Masters had her again,” Michael informed the agents. We were miked. Briggs and Sterling could hear us; Nightshade could not. “But he’s not surprised, and he’s not upset. If he’s feeling anything right now, it’s longing.”
What are you longing for? Not Laurel. Something else. Someone else…
“Ask him about my mother,” I said.
When the FBI caught you, you cashed in your last chip—your only chip—to speak to me. You took Laurel away from the other Masters. You told me things that no one outside of your hallowed walls was ever supposed to know.
“Did Lorelai ask you to get her little girl out?” Agent Briggs asked. “Did she whisper a desperate plea in your ear?”
The Pythia doesn’t whisper. The Pythia doesn’t plead. I could feel those words—or something like them—simmering just below the surface of Nightshade’s silence. The FBI cannot begin to fathom who and what the Pythia is—to you, to your brethren. You won’t tell them.
Silence is power.
“Show him Mason Kyle,” Dean suggested beside me.
Take away his power, I thought, take away his silence.
Agent Sterling didn’t say a word as she pulled out the photograph Sloane had found of Mason Kyle.
Michael let out a long whistle. “His chin just jutted out ever so slightly. He can barely keep his lips from pressing together. Look at the way his hands are folded on the table—there’s tension in his thumbs.”
“He’s angry,” I inferred. “And he’s scared.” I thought about everything I knew about Nightshade. “He’s angry that he’s scared and scared that he’s angry, because he’s supposed to be above things like that. He’s supposed to be above it all.”
My understanding of emotion came from a different place than Michael’s. It had nothing to do with the muscles in Nightshade’s jaw or the glint in his eyes—and everything to do with knowing what a man who lives to win felt when he realized he’d bet everything on the wrong hand.
When he realized that he’d lost.
“This is an age progression of that photograph.” Agent Briggs pulled out the sketch that Celine had done for us.
As Nightshade stared at his own face, Agent Sterling went on the offensive. “Mason Kyle, born in Gaither, Oklahoma, Social Security number 445-97-1011.”
That was the sum total of what we knew about Mason Kyle, but that was enough. We were never supposed to know your name. You were supposed to be a phantom, a ghost. Even sitting in a cell, you were supposed to have the power.
“I’m a dead man.” The words were barely audible. Months of silence had not been kind to the ki
ller’s throat. “I am not worthy.”
To the Masters, that’s a death sentence, I thought. A Pythia who is not worthy dies in battle against her successor. When a child is shown to be unworthy of the mantle of Nine, they’re left to die in the desert. And a Master who fails in his duty…
“It will be painful. It will be bloody.” Nightshade—Mason Kyle—stared through the agents, like they weren’t even there. “She cannot afford to let it be otherwise—not after choosing to let me live until now.”
My mouth went cotton-dry. She as in my mother.
“The Pythia?” Agent Sterling said. “She’s the one who decides if you live or die?”
No answer.
“Let me talk to him,” I requested. Neither Briggs nor Sterling gave any sign that they’d heard me. “Let me talk to him,” I repeated, my fingers curling themselves into fists and releasing, again and again. “I’m the only one he’s ever really spoken to. He won’t tell you about my mother, because you’re not a part of this. But in his eyes, I am—or at least, I could be.”
The last time I’d spoken with this man, Nightshade had told me that maybe someday, the Pythia’s choice—to kill or be killed—might be mine.
With a slight nod, Agent Sterling removed her earpiece. She set it on the table and turned up the volume so that Nightshade could hear.
“It’s me.” I struggled to find the right words. “Lorelai’s daughter. Your Pythia’s daughter.” I paused. “I think my mother is the reason you took Laurel when you left for Vegas. You weren’t supposed to. And you certainly weren’t supposed to tell me where she was. You all but gift-wrapped her for me, knowing I would hand her over to the FBI. My sister hadn’t been tested. She hadn’t been deemed worthy or unworthy. And you let her go.” Still no reaction, but I could feel myself getting closer. “You treated Laurel like a child—not like your future leader, not like Nine.” I lowered my voice. “She told me about the game she plays, when my mother is in chains.”
If I’d been on the other side of the glass, I would have leaned forward, invading his space.
“You know what I think? I think my mother wanted Laurel out. She can be very convincing, can’t she? She can make you feel special. She can make you feel like you don’t need anyone or anything else, as long as you have her.”
“You sound like her. Your voice sounds like hers.” That was all I got in reply—nine words.
“You took Laurel away from that place for her. You knew they’d find a way to bring the child back. You knew the other Masters wouldn’t be happy with you—but you did it anyway. And now you’re saying that my mother is going to tell the others that you have to die? Why?” I let that question hang in the air. “Why would she do something like that after all you’ve done for her?”
“Haven’t you learned yet?” The reply was low and fatally amused. “The Pythia does what she has to do to survive.”
“And to survive, she’ll have to tell them to kill you?”
“You mentioned the game. But do you know what that game involves?”
I know it involves my mother chained to the wall. I know it involves blood.
“In order to render judgment, the Pythia must first be purified,” Nightshade said. “To admit someone to our ranks, she must go through the Rite of Seven. Seven days and seven pains.”
I didn’t want to imagine the meaning behind that phrase, but I did. Seven Masters. Seven ways of killing people. Drowning, burning, impaling, strangling, knifing, beating, poisoning.
“Seven pains,” I said, the thudding of my heart drowning out the sound of my words in my own ears. “You torture her for seven days.”
“If she rules the acolyte unworthy, he is discarded. We find another, and the process is repeated. Again. And again. And again.”
You’re enjoying telling me this. You like that it hurts me. Just like you like hurting her.
“Why did you save Laurel?” I asked dully. “Why take her with you when you knew they would take her back?”
There was no answer. I waited, letting the silence build, and when he showed no sign of breaking, I turned and walked out the door. My steps never faltered as I entered the interrogation room myself.
The expression on Briggs’s face told me that I’d pay for this later, but my attention was focused wholly on Nightshade. He raked his eyes over my face, my body. He drank in every detail of my appearance, and then he smiled.
“Why bother helping Nine break free of the Masters if you knew they would get her back?” I repeated.
I could see Nightshade’s thoughts in his eyes, see him searching my features for a resemblance to my mother.
“Because it gave the Pythia hope,” he said, a smile crossing his lips. “And nothing hurts the way hope does when you take it away.”
A flicker of white-hot rage burned inside of me. I stepped toward him, every muscle in my body taut. “You’re a monster.”
“I am what I am. And she is what she is. To save herself, she has condemned others. She will condemn me.”
“After they torture her for seven days?” I said, my voice low.
Agent Sterling stood to prevent me from going any closer. Nightshade angled his head downward. His body shook. It took me a moment to realize that he was laughing—silent, amused laughter that made me physically ill.
“For lesser matters, a single rite of purification will do. If the Masters are feeling generous, they might even give her a choice.”
A choice of how she’s tortured. My stomach revolted, but I clamped my jaw closed, refusing to give in to the bile rising in my throat. “And what if they don’t like the answer she gives them?” I asked, once I had control. “What if she tells them to let you live?”
“She won’t.” Nightshade leaned back in his seat. “Because if her judgment appears compromised, they’ll purify her again.”
Torture her again.
“Where is she?” I asked sharply. “Tell us where they are, and we can stop this. We can keep you safe.”
“No, Cassandra,” Nightshade said with an almost loving smile, “you can’t.”
YOU
This time, it was the knife. Five’s weapon—quicker than some, slower than others.
Chaos and order, order and chaos.
Now you’re on the floor, and your memory is full of holes. You don’t remember Laurel coming back. You don’t remember how or when she got the bruises on her throat.
But you do remember your blood dripping off of Five’s knife. You remember the music and the pain and telling the Masters that the traitor had to die.
You remember Laurel dipping her fingers in your blood. Smiling, the way you taught her.
“Did I do good, Mommy?” she asks, curling up in your lap.
The wheel turns. You tried to stop it. But some things will not be stopped.
The FBI put Nightshade in isolation and installed agents to watch him round the clock. By two A.M., he was dead.
The Masters can get to anyone, anywhere.
“Today is April second.” I forced myself to say the words out loud, standing in front of the evidence wall in the basement.
4/2. The first of four Fibonacci dates in April.
“April fourth is next,” I continued. “April fifth. April twenty-third.”
“Cassie.” Dean came up behind me. I’d been down here since we’d returned home. I’d barely blinked when we’d gotten word that Mason Kyle was dead.
“You need to sleep,” Dean murmured.
I didn’t reply, staring at the victims on the wall. I thought about the fact that for each string of nine victims, a Pythia had given the go-ahead. She’d deemed an acolyte worthy to kill, because if she didn’t, the pain would start all over again.
You choose abuse survivors. You choose fighters. And you make them sentence others to die.
“Cassie.” Dean stepped in front of me, blocking my view of the wall. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”
I can, I thought, and I will.
�
��Look at me.” Dean’s voice was familiar—too familiar. I didn’t want comfort. “You’ve barely slept since Laurel went missing. You don’t eat.” Dean wouldn’t let up. “It ends now, Cassie.”
I pretended that I could see through him. I knew this wall well enough that I could hold each and every photo in my mind’s eye.
“When we discovered that my father had a copycat, I withdrew. I beat at a punching bag until my knuckles were bloody. And do you remember what you did?”
Tears threatened my eyes. I knelt in front of you and wiped the blood from your knuckles. I pulled you back from the edge every time you went too far.
Dean latched one arm around my torso and the other around my knees and lifted me into his arms, physically prying me away from the wall. I could feel his heart beat in his chest as he carried me toward the basement door.
Drop me, I thought, my body going stiff as a board. Just drop me. Just let me go.
Dean held me close as he carried me all the way to my room. He sat down on the end of my bed. “Look at me.” His voice was gentle—so gentle, it undid me.
“Don’t,” I choked out.
Don’t be gentle. Don’t hold me. Don’t save me from myself.
“You think what happened to Laurel is your fault.”
Stop, Dean. Please don’t make me do this. Please don’t make me say the words.
“And you’ve always believed, deep down, that if you hadn’t left your mother’s dressing room that day, if you’d just come back sooner, you could have saved her. Every time the police asked you a question you couldn’t answer, what you heard was that you weren’t enough. You weren’t enough to save her. You weren’t enough to help them catch the people who did it.”
“And now they’re hurting her.” The truth burst out of me like shrapnel, exploding with deadly force. “They’re torturing her until she gives them what they want.”
“Permission,” Dean said softly. “Absolution.”
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