Terror replaced rational thought when Kali looked out the window and down at the pentagonal city below.
No.
She blinked, rubbing her eyes and willing herself to see a different picture when she opened them again. It was a childish wish with a real-world result. When she opened her eyes, she saw the exact same scene as before she closed them.
Without a doubt, Kali had gotten herself onto the wrong plane. Because worst-case scenarios didn’t get any worse than what she was looking at. She’d run this sim hundreds of times. And she’d failed it every time.
This was the one-way city.
That’s what the people called it in the sim, and that had been her experience of trying to break out.
It wasn’t possible. Her only hope was to stay on the plane, undetected, and wait for it to fly back to the island ... which wasn’t possible because the floors in the hangar automatically weighed the plane for discrepancies while scanning it for heat signatures.
The second the plane landed, security would know she was on board.
Internally, Kali was freaking out while, in reality, she simply stared out the window gripping the water bottle in her hand. The four ounces she’d had to drink suddenly wanted out with an intensity that was making her cramp up a bit, making the whole situation that much more ridiculous.
She was heading into the most secure building in the world and her bladder was trying to make itself the most important factor in the room.
Not knowing what else to do, Kali laughed. She laughed until tears came and her bladder threatened to follow the lead of her tear ducts and start a waterfall of its own.
Well, Kali didn’t control much in her life at this point, but she could control whether she faced the last minutes of her life comfortably.
Ignoring the sharp decline of the plane as it made its approach to land, Kali found the cupboard-sized bathroom and put it to use. She was pulling up her pants when the plane landed, knocking her lightly to the side before the wall held her up.
There. Bladder solved.
Time to go face the music.
Her heart pounded even as her body stayed still. Survival instincts insisted she try something—anything—to get her through this, but hundreds of runs in a VR simulation had conditioned her that there was nothing to be done. The moment she stepped on the ground, software would identify her by weight and footprint and be able to locate her anywhere in the facility from that moment on. And as quickly as it could locate her, it could kill her.
There was no way around it, and she had yet to figure out how to escape a facility without touching her foot down while trained killers chased her. Her mind could scream all it wanted for her to do something, but Kali knew the long list of what she couldn’t do. That list included touching the ground. If she miraculously sprouted wings maybe she’d have a chance.
Maybe.
But as a small lake of people gathered outside the airplane’s door—some in medical coats and others in tactical gear—Kali knew even wings couldn’t help her. They knew she was here and they were ready.
A soft pop came over one of the speakers and a man’s voice spoke. “Are you ready for your final destination, Ms. Jensen?”
Man, it had been a long time since someone called her that. It wasn’t even her married name. It had been her name back when she was young and stupid and had gotten herself into this whole nightmare.
Hearing the old name messed with her mind for a moment. Kali might not be the biggest fan of her new name, but it certainly helped her keep things straight in her head. Old-her had died. Literally. There was a headstone, a widower, a grieving father, and friends who probably still hadn’t given up on her.
But if Kali thought about all that, she went crazy pretty quickly. Old-her had no place in this new world, and new-her could only endanger those she’d left behind.
‘Ms. Jensen’ was no longer in the building. Kali was, and she needed to figure things out. Fast.
The plane’s side door opened, and two guards with automatic rifles surged in. When they screamed for her to put down the water bottle, she laughed. She couldn’t help it.
They wanted her to put down the water bottle? Sure. She’d put it down.
Outside the plane, two men started arguing.
“I got her here. I get her for four hours,” one screamed. “Break your word, and I’ll burn this place down.”
Burn down a building made of pure metal? was all Kali could think. That would be a fancy trick.
“You’d be wise not to issue threats,” a second man replied, his voice cold and forceful.
“You’d be wise not to break your word,” the other man warned.
That was the last thing Kali heard before one of the guards pulled the trigger and the world went dark.
Chapter 6
Claire
Claire stepped through the jet’s portal and into the clouds. Literally. Two minutes ago, she’d thought the fur coverup her dressers draped over her shoulders to be ostentatious, but she quickly drew it close against her as she stepped out into a brisk breeze that seemed to carry a hint of snow.
Straight across from the jet’s door, snowy white peaks stretched as far as the eye could see. The ridge they’d landed on stood at odds with it all, its edges smoothed into columns, arches, and towers creating structured symmetry against a rough backdrop—all of it seemingly carved into the mountain itself.
“Hood up, m’lady?” one of the dressers asked, indicating the hood on her coverup.
M’lady. The term was growing on her.
“Yes, please,” Claire said, starting to feel a little bit like an actor getting into character. She was wearing silk gloves and a gown of silver perfection. She couldn’t let her hair get wind-tossed out there. Now was a time to be high maintenance and take all the precautions. Her current styling was as impractical as walking around with a book on her head. Maintaining it would require a lot of third-party supervision, so Claire would take as much attention as possible in the name of not going full-pumpkin before midnight.
To her surprise, the cloak’s hood had a framework built into it so it didn’t touch her hair when raised. All of the function, all of the fashion, none of the fuss.
When Malachi appeared past the curtain in layered furs that looked like they belonged on a medieval royal, the whole situation started to feel a bit like a movie.
Who dressed like this? And how was the mountain castle outside real, and not CGI art on a green screen?
Was this the part of the dream where Claire realized she was dreaming? Had things just gone that one step past too weird to ring the alarm that this was all most definitely not possible?
She’d gone from starting out the dream sneaking into Margot’s office wearing a Nadia mask, to getting caught by an imaginary boss’s son, to getting “punished” by being flown to a private jet. There, she’d been pampered for hours before being dressed in a gown that miraculously fit in every way, and was now being escorted to the Neuschwanstein of mountain peaks by a man dressed up like a prince.
And all this without a single panic attack.
Claire was no expert on lucid dreaming, but this was all getting a little crazy. It had to be a dream. That said, she really didn’t want to wake up. She wanted to act like a princess for the night, go find her prince in that castle, and dance like a princess—not a metronome—for once in her life.
Thoughts of Jack pulled Claire’s eyes away from Malachi and back to the mountain palace. Suddenly eager to be there, Claire stepped out of the jet and into the frosty wind. The arctic air wrapped around her, touching nothing but the tip of her nose with its chill while she stayed warm under the cloak.
The air felt thinner outside, like she needed more of it to get the same amount of oxygen. Worried she might be waking up, Claire breathed deeply to keep herself anchored in the moment. Because this was amazing.
A glance each direction revealed plummeting valleys all around, like elemental centurions keeping the uninvi
ted at bay. Finding the right peak out here without a map would be like finding one wave in the ocean.
Good luck.
Claire inhaled, taking it all in. So … this was what feeling small felt like.
Claire thought she’d experienced that particular sensation many times in her life—like all those times her parents had spent holidays away, or that time they’d forgotten to send someone to pick her up from school for summer break. But nope. Standing on a mountaintop dressed like a queen surrounded by endless mountain ranges and elements that would obey exactly zero of her commands was the true feeling of impotence. A thousand servants could star-stud Claire for hours, and she still wouldn’t hold a candle to this glory.
It was a lot to take in.
Claire spent her life obsessing over details … trying to control them. The more she could break something down and control its parts, the stronger she felt.
Standing on this peak felt like witnessing the opposite of herself.
The nature around her controlled nothing in its environment and yet somehow emanated power and peace.
How did it do that? How could she do that?
Was it even humanly possible?
When Claire returned her gaze to the mountain palace, it seemed more miraculous somehow. She hadn’t noticed before, but its entrance looked like it was carved out as if expecting giants, not men, to enter its arched gates. The airplane hangar to the right of it gave new perspective to the flight of stairs leading in.
So. Many. Steps.
Claire mentally measured the daunting staircase, reminding herself that, even if this wasn’t a dream, she was one of the people who went to the gym now. She did cardio five times a week. She could climb those steps in a ball gown. Definitely … maybe. Time would tell. But to find out, she was going to have to make it off the jet and down to the ground first.
Looking down from the jet’s doorway, all Claire could see was copious amounts of skirt glinting back at her. All that shimmering fabric might make her the belle of the ball later, but kind of made her as coordinated as a cat in a bathtub when it came to navigating teeny-tiny jet steps.
As if perceiving her dilemma, a militant man dressed in a black version of a British guard uniform stepped to the side of the railing.
Where had he come from?
The black fur cap on his head was the only sign that the man might be an actual human capable of getting cold. Everything else about him seemed impervious to anything but his duty to help her take eight steps without falling. He presented a hand in her direction to assist her descent.
Without hesitation, Claire accepted the help, noting that the man had the grip of a marble statue—his body more secure than the hand railing built into the stairs.
“Thank you,” Claire managed, her voice sounding slightly out of breath with the realization that this man had more strength in one arm than she had in her entire body. And while that was nice for the part of her that didn’t want to face-plant off the stairs, it was terrible for her sense of control, which was already reeling from taking in the view of the surrounding mountains and noting how remote all this was.
So remote.
If this wasn’t a dream and Malachi had any ill intent at all, she was screwed. Seeing the mountains in all their majesty had felt poetic there for a second, but all that vanished after touching hands with the guard.
Reality check: She was the weakest thing on this entire mountain, dressed in impractical silk. The only thing she controlled at this point was whether or not she screamed.
Halfway down the stairs, lightheadedness set in, making her steps a little less confident. She tried to tell herself it was the thin air, but she was far too familiar with panic to miss its signature haze in her mind.
Claire cast a nervous look back toward the relative safety of the jet, part of her wanting to race back in.
Man, that aromatherapy wore off quick.
No screaming now, she coached herself, taking the final downward steps. If you were going to go full crazy, you should have done it before takeoff. It’s just pathetic now. You’re wearing a silver ball gown, for crying out loud! Have some dignity. Besides, gym or no gym, those stairs look tall. You might want to conserve your energy. You’re going to need it.
Humiliating visions of needing to be carried up the stairs had Claire taking three calming breaths as her footman escorted her.
In and out…she walked from tarmac to carpet.
In and out…she paused and noted that the air didn’t feel so thin anymore.
In and out…she nodded her thanks to her footman as he took his leave.
She didn’t feel better in the slightest, but if she could not freak out for three breaths, then she could do it for four. Then five. Then six. Then more.
She could do this.
In. Out.
Count the number of windows on the building, her false sense of control urged, offering her an olive branch on restoring mental stability. Counting windows was something Claire could control.
Malachi deplaned and stepped up next to her, offering his arm as an escort. “Shall we?”
This was it. Dream or not, this was the moment of commitment.
Last chance to freak out with any real credibility, a little voice warned. No playing victim after this. No wildly swinging on an emotional pendulum, and no being the weakest link. Game on, or go home.
Her inner voices were using sports metaphors now. Things really had changed in the past year.
I choose game on, she thought, sliding her arm through Malachi’s like a proper lady.
His encouragement seemed genuine when he said, “Let’s go meet the boss, shall we?”
“And Jack,” she clarified.
“And Jack,” Malachi repeated before looking back at the fortress. He took a breath as his gloved thumb stroked up against his signet ring finger. “And Margot.”
Wait, what?
“They’re all inside,” he promised, not missing a beat. “And it’s much warmer in there. I promise.”
The not-so-subtle hint to start walking didn’t go unnoticed, but Claire still stole one last glance at Malachi’s glove, realizing that she wasn’t the only one anxious to see someone on the inside.
Malachi and… Margot?
I gotta see this, pretty much every voice in her internal peanut gallery said at the same time.
Buoyed slightly, Claire gave a prim nod and they both started forward.
Chapter 7
Jack
Rank didn’t matter on a Day of Anemone; but if it did, Jack would be the bottom of the pile. The guest list for the ball consisted entirely of Royals Jack either hadn’t seen in twelve years or had never met at all. He’d heard tell of a few of them from Margot, but not much. The woman was pretty tight-lipped about her double life.
Now, not only was Jack in the same room as the Royals, he was seated in the fourth-highest place of honor as an adviser to the king-of-the-day.
He still wasn’t sure how he’d landed the gig, but he was going to enjoy every moment of it from his perch twelve steps above everything.
Sitting near the main throne gave Jack a bird’s-eye view of the action playing out below. Adjustable mirrors positioned all around the massive ballroom allowed those in the high seats to keep an eye on the guests. Their wants, their needs, their moods ... any last-minute covert moves.
The latter were definitely afoot. Today was a day of challenges and wit, after all.
Rather than gifts, each guest would offer Prince Abed a challenge. The prince’s ability to rise to each challenge then became a display of his development and worthiness of his station. If he succeeded in thwarting his challenger, he earned their respect; if he failed, the challenger became one of the prince’s mentors for the next seven years.
The Royals called the rite of passage the Day of Anemone. Everyone left their titles at the door, and the child ruled for twelve hours, choosing the venue, attire, customs, menu, and everything in between.
For his big day, Prince Abed had chosen eighteenth-century customs with the dress code of Rococo.
Jack hadn’t seen that coming from a twelve-year-old boy, but now that he was watching the event unfold from the prince’s viewpoint, it was a surprisingly intelligent choice. The gaudy extravagance of the Rococo era was about as high maintenance and cumbersome as eras came. The party was approaching its fourth hour and most of the women in attendance had disappeared into the powder room at least once each hour to keep their hair or dress from falling into disrepair.
The same oversight applied to the opulent décor and overflowing banquet tables, making discrete tactics nearly impossible for anyone to pull off unnoticed. Most of the women had to check their clearance three feet every direction before so much as turning.
Rococo was many things, but subtle and discreet were not among them.
The boy might be young, but like most Royals, he was no one’s fool.
Jack had heard more than a few Day of Anemone stories from Margot over the years…or at least the ones she remembered. Royal gatherings were the only time Margot indulged—and some might say overindulged—in alcohol. Her memories tended to be on the fuzzy side, but he’d gotten the impression that the only way for someone of his station to attend the event was as a servant or entertainer.
Yes, the child could choose any three advisers he or she wished on the day, but Jack had never heard of a non-Royal serving in the role. The very reason there were three advisers was to allow the child to choose one Royal from each banner to mentor them for a day.
According to Margot, Prince Abed had broken two traditions with his choice of advisers. First, he’d chosen no Royals. Second, all of the prince’s advisers were chosen from his own banner. It had been hundreds of years since someone had made the same choice, and everyone was watching. Even Margot, who liked to pretend she didn’t pay attention to Royal matters. But everyone paid attention when a prince chose three lessers—a spy, a general, and a fixer—when he could have his superiors at his service instead.
Jack had tried to pry more details out of Margot on the flight over, but her mind had been elsewhere. It always was when she knew she was going to be in the same room with Osment.
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