by Sarah Fine
“I’ll be more careful.”
She frowns as she hears footsteps in the entryway. “Perhaps you should find other ways to meet with your lovely lady, Percy.”
I slump and let my voice roughen. “She is the bright spot in my life, Auntie. When I’m with her, the burden of my grief lifts for a few sweet moments. I feel normal.”
When I raise my eyes to hers, I see that she’s fighting tears. “Oh, my darling boy,” she says huskily. “Love is the highest calling.” She rises, dabbing her eyes with her napkin and patting my arm. “I will send these silly, prudish fellows on their way. We will not allow anything to interfere with affairs of the heart.”
I place my hand over hers. “I am eternally grateful, Auntie.”
She kisses the top of my head and disappears into the hallway. I stare down at my half-eaten croissant and consider what the hell I’ve done.
As far as I know, the Fortins should be nearly to the Canadian border by now—minus their son, Hammond. I’m headed to school shortly to see if the fellow shows up, because I need to find him and get him out.
Bianca is dead. She was a petty, mean girl. For that, she deserved social humiliation, perhaps. I would have believed that to be just. Instead, she’s in a morgue somewhere, wearing all the gruesome evidence of the last few painful hours of her life.
And I just told my aunt I was carrying on a passionate affair with the girl who is responsible for Bianca’s death. I push my plate away and jump to my feet.
“Percy, would you like to have your breakfast wrapped and warmed for the ride to school?”
“No, I’m not hungry, Sophia. Thank you.” I stalk down the hall to my room, my heart rate rising over a hundred beats per minute, my teeth clenched around the rage. I had thought that the most important thing I could do was to find out what really happened to my parents, but now I know I have to set that aside, for now at least. My parents are dead. There are people like them, living people, who are in danger. I approach my desk screen, thinking about the vid I’m going to create this afternoon—and I see that my darling little murderess, Marguerite, has created a new vid of her own. I motion for the vid to play and let her rise up in all her glory to hover in the air above the desktop.
“A few days ago,” she says, her brown eyes full of fire, her stare boring a hole in my heart, “over eighty people were killed in a terrorist attack. No one else should die.”
Here, she chokes up a bit. As if she actually cares.
“No one,” she says again. “Should. Die. I know all of you out there feel the same. No matter how you feel about the technocrats, no matter what’s going on in your daily lives, I know you recognize that all of us are human beings. With families. With children.”
A tear streaks down her face. Damn. She is good.
She draws in a shuddery breath as I sink into my chair and let my gaze trace her features, marveling at how fine-boned she is, wondering how much pressure I’d need to use to crush her windpipe, to give her even a taste of what Bianca must have experienced in those hours of utter agony and terror.
“I know at least one of you out there is taking matters into your own hands. Is it you?”
I swear, she’s looking right at me.
Why is it that I am imagining kissing her and choking her at the same time?
“Percy, your biostats register an extreme stress response. Your heart rate is one hundred—”
“Seventy-eight beats per minute, Sophia. Yes. I know. Privacy.” My voice echoes off her painted plaster skin.
“Yes, Percy.”
Marguerite continues. “But is helping terrorists really the way to get justice? Is that brave? Wouldn’t it be braver to let the authorities who risk their lives to keep us safe do their work?”
Watching her is the strangest experience. Her eyes are intent. Full of secrets and promises. Her mouth is full of lies. I can’t decide where to focus. She is more skilled than I gave her credit for. I can’t believe she’s doing this, and doing it so well, even though I shouldn’t be at all surprised.
“I know most of you have no idea what I’m talking about, but if you do, talk to me,” she says. “I’ll listen. I want to understand. I know I’m just a kid.” Now she tilts her head, her eyes glittering with tears and dangerous sincerity. “But I believe in equality. In the right of every American to live and work and have a shot at a happy life. I still believe that. Maybe you believe that, too? Maybe that’s why you’re doing what you’re doing?”
She smiles, suddenly, and her cheeks become the most delectable shade of pink. “Washington is such a strange place, you know? I don’t really belong here, but I came because I wanted to help. And that’s why I’m staying. I want to help.”
The way she says those final words . . .
The vid ends, and I freeze the final image. Marguerite is trying to draw me out. Well. She has no idea it’s me she’s trying to lure, but still. She is a weapon of the government, and like she betrayed Bianca, like she would have betrayed Anna had I not intervened, I know she will betray me if given the chance, and possibly my aunt by extension.
“I won’t let you, darling,” I murmur. I open my private portal and log in, using the AI ghost program Chen gave me to render the connection untraceable. “But you’re welcome to try.”
I type a few words and smile grimly as they appear below her vid, the last in a column of comments.
FragFlwr: Catch me if you can.
The herd has thinned. As I disembark from the embassy vehicle (not Yves, though I’ve told him to be on standby, with my aunt’s approval) I can already see that so many of my classmates are either gone—fled with their families, perhaps sweating bullets in their respective luxury apartments—or dead. It’s impossible to know which, because a quick check of the school’s social network shows that nearly all of them are off-line, and the Mainstream crowdsourced news reports nothing except speculation. Auntie told me that in the past there were actual news organizations with professional news reporters. Now, we have a host of aggressive freelance amateurs who are usually strikingly good at showing the world things other people would prefer us not to see. But in this case? Almost nothing. Just the vids from a distance at the airport and nothing from the other raids.
I walk toward the wheelboard rack, where Hammond is usually slouched with his friends, all of whom are in dire need of more frequent showers. Today there are only two boys there, and neither of them is Anna’s younger brother. “Greetings,” I say.
They give me the look I am so used to receiving, one that says they think little of my airy walk and immaculately styled and utterly classic ensemble. I smooth down a fold of my cravat and smile at them. “I’m wondering if either of you chaps have laid eyes on Hammond Fortin in the last day or two.”
The shorter of the pair is Winston, and he gives his taller friend a shifty look. “Why do you want to know?”
“I lost a wager, sadly. I need to know how he would like to receive the funds.”
The tall friend, a junior named Finn Cuellar, is square-jawed and muscular and perspiring despite the chilly winter breeze. “Haven’t talked to him.”
“Hmm.” Both of them look nervous. “I suppose he might have caught the same cold that’s going around.” My gaze sweeps the front of the school, where students are being scanned for contraband. A row of Secret Service cannies stands by. More than last time.
Finn coughs deliberately into his shoulder. “I’m feeling a little sick myself.”
“Maybe it’s the French stench,” Winston says, his lip curling.
“What a deft little rhyme, darling,” I say. “But there’s no need for it.”
“Why? My mom’s being followed by the freaking FBI, and you just zip in here, carefree, because you live at the French embassy! You have no idea what this is like.” His eyes are red, I realize. This overgrown boy has been crying. “She made me come here because she thought I’d be safer. In case they raid our house.”
His mother is the recently uns
eated secretary of AIR, as I recall. “You do have my sympathy,” I say, glancing around and tapping my auditory projector to prevent any nearby cannies or sets of augmented ears from catching my next few words. “And I might have a friend who can help.”
I thought of this in the car on the flight over. Quick as I can, I reach into my pocket and pull out a square of the embossed paper. “Destroy this contact method after you memorize it,” I say as I lean forward and shake his hand, keeping the scrap of paper pressed between our palms.
Looking startled, Winston tries to pull out of my grip as Finn looks on with wide eyes. But as so many others do, Winston underestimates my strength, and I keep a grip on him. “Read it in a place where there are no eyes on you, then destroy it. Swear.”
“You’re hurting me, man,” Winston whines.
“Swear,” I say. “Your life, and the lives of your family, might depend on it.”
He goes still. “Okay. I swear.”
I don’t let go quite yet. “And if you tell a soul that I’m the one who gave you this information, I will happily break every bone in your body. Understand it would be easy for me. Much easier than you might expect.”
His eyes go wide as I squeeze a little more and then abruptly let go.
“Hey,” says Finn. “What about my family? Both my parents have been told to report to FBI headquarters. My dad says Sallese is probably going to have them arrested just because they work at Parnassus. Neither of them even expects to come home.”
“Tell your family they have friends on the outside. They will hear from someone.”
“My girlfriend, Hannah—her dad is the CFO at Parnassus,” Finn continues. “He’s been called in for questioning, too.”
“Their situation will be looked into.”
Honestly, I’m making stuff up now. I’m making promises I might not be able to keep. But I swear, I’m going to try. “But I need to hear from Hammond. My friend is interested in helping him.”
“I can get a message to him,” says Winston, his fist clenched around the paper, one that contains the contact information for one of my aliases. “He’s gone dark because he’s scared he’s next. They disappeared his whole family last night, man! He woulda been caught, too, if he hadn’t been late.”
“He can see his family again if he trusts me,” I say.
“Wait, they’re okay?”
I nod. “I think—”
“Percy!”
I freeze at the sound of her voice, and Finn and Winston flinch. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals Marguerite, her wavy hair pulled back, her brown eyes warm, standing on the curb. Her skin is paler than usual, but she’s no less beautiful for it.
I give her a fluttering finger wave before turning back to Winston and Finn.
Finn looks incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You can’t be friends with her after everything that’s happened. She’s in bed with the devil.”
“How well I know it,” I murmur. “But never show your hand, gentlemen.” I lock eyes briefly with Winston and he nods, looking scared but determined. “And I’ll talk to both of you soon.”
I turn to Marguerite, who is approaching with an open look on her face. She cranes her neck to see Winston and Finn behind me, so I walk toward her, giving them a chance to disappear. I give her an elaborate bow and straighten to find her smiling. “Here we are, back in the halls of learning,” she says.
I offer her my arm, and she bites her lip. Then she takes it, and I put my hand over hers. I lead her toward the security cannies at the door. “I see we have more blessed protection from on high today.” I incline my head toward the Secret Service machinemen. “Or you do, at least.”
She smiles at them, but I swear it looks forced. “Oh, yes, the president wanted to make sure we were all safe.” Her voice . . . has she been crying? Or is it an extremely accomplished act?
“I wonder what Bianca would say, were she here?” I ask, keeping my tone light. “Would she feel safe?”
She gives me a startled look. “Why do you say that?”
“Merely wondering. It’s a moot point. I suppose she’s sipping bubbly in a chalet somewhere. After her vid escapade, I’m sure you don’t miss her.”
Now Marguerite’s staring at the ground. “I . . . ,” she begins, then clears her throat. “I hope she’s somewhere peaceful.”
The urge to wrap my hands around her throat is on me again.
“Ow,” she says, pulling her arm away.
It seems I was squeezing her hand a bit too hard. Sometimes my body does operate outside of my control. “Apologies,” I say. “I’m always a bit nervous around these scanner creatures, you know.”
“Why?”
Because I am a trove of secrets wrapped in a cloak of skin. I raise a conspiratorial eyebrow at her. “Because who knows when they’ll discover the contraband in my pockets.”
“Contraband?”
I lean closer, close enough to smell mint on her breath. “Never say I’m not a sinner.”
Her gaze is on my mouth, and my body is confused. I have to remind myself that if she has the chance, she’ll offer my head to Sallese, most likely separately from the rest of me.
“What kind of sins?” she whispers.
“The kind that can’t be revealed at school.”
“Then you shouldn’t have anything to fear.”
“I never said I was afraid.”
“You don’t say much at all,” she says. “At least, not much that’s real. You hide behind this mask you wear, Percy. I’m interested in what’s underneath.”
Oh, I bet. “We all wear masks, darling. Sometimes the loveliest hide a rotten core.”
Her smile flickers. “Are you saying I—?”
“You? But why would you assume I’m speaking of you? Are those lightning reflexes triggered by a guilty conscience?”
“What would I be guilty for?” But she betrays herself—there’s a shine of emotion in those eyes.
“You tell me,” I murmur.
“You really know how to turn things around on people. Just another way to hide?”
“And now we’ve completed our circle around the dance floor. Care for another round?”
She laughs. “I’m not sure I can keep up with you.”
“No one can.”
She pauses before we reach security and gives me a shrewd look. “You must be very connected, I’m thinking. Living at the French embassy, being a star of the Mainstream, friends with Anna Fortin.”
We face each other and hold out our arms as the security cannies do their work. Because my paper isn’t metal or heat-producing, they ignore it. “True, true, and true,” I say. “Your point being?”
“I was just thinking . . . I’d like to meet more people. And with Anna gone . . .”
My, my. Marguerite is sleuthing. And she wants me to help her do Sallese’s dirty work. “You’ve developed a sudden interest in making friends? I was under the impression that you thought all of us were irredeemable technocrites.”
“Hey. You have seen my vids,” she says.
“Perhaps one or two. I had to see what the fuss was about.”
“Have you ever commented, maybe?”
“Commented on politics? Why would I?”
She’s smiling now. Fetching. Flirting. Trying to draw me in. “Because you enjoy needling me.”
I give her a smile of my own. “That’s quite a weapon you’ve got there.”
Her face falls. “It’s not a weapon.”
“Isn’t it? My dear girl, tell the truth. You’d like to see some of us get our comeuppance. In fact, what was it that you said, that you’d like to rip Bianca’s Cerepin from her pretty skull?”
“Why are you saying this to me?” she asks quietly. “Have you heard something?”
“There are rumors,” I whisper. “And I’m wondering if they’re true.”
Marguerite Singer has the most expressive face. In the seconds before she pulls away, I see surprise and fear and hope—th
en fear again . . . and then nothing. “I wouldn’t believe anything you see on the Mainstream,” she says breezily. “I mean, just this morning, I heard the strangest thing myself. I read a post on some board where someone claiming to be a skyway auditor reported that the Fortins might have left the city in a vehicle with a diplomatic chip.”
“I wonder if the FBI read that very same posting,” I mutter.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing. You were saying?”
“I just thought it was wild. I haven’t seen or heard from Anna since yesterday at coffee. This morning I read that they escaped in an embassy car, evading the FBI, who wanted them for questioning.”
“And as you say, the Mainstream is not always a credible place—”
“What if the person who helped them worked for an embassy?”
She’s just a step too close. “That’s an interesting theory,” I say. “I don’t doubt the Sallese administration is looking into it.”
“I’m thinking that person should be very careful.”
I pause at the base of the stairs and look down at her. “Is that what you think, darling?”
“I would warn the person myself if I knew who they were. I care about Anna. I don’t want to see anyone get hurt.”
I lean over her hand and kiss the soft skin between her knuckles. She smells divine to my heightened senses, and she gasps audibly as my lips make contact, but no matter. She’s also my enemy. “Then perhaps you should close your eyes, Marguerite. Because I have a feeling your side is playing for keeps.”
Chapter Sixteen
Marguerite
But I don’t close my eyes. Instead I stare down at the ruby flower fastening his elaborate French cuffs. I can’t figure him out. For a second, I thought he might help me. He lives at one of the embassies, after all. He could find out information. Then I’m reminded of what he really cares about: presence, not politics. “Those are pretty,” I say, nodding at the cuff link.
“A family heirloom on my father’s side. That’s a kind of English primrose, from the old family crest.”
A family crest? “I sort of wish I could step into your world for a while,” I say, trying to keep my tone light.