And if my plans succeed—the ones I’ve been busting my ass to see through for the past several months—then maybe this whole thing could be a hiccup in her life. Maybe it is too late for Harlow and me to be normal again. Maybe this whole thing has marked us past what we’d be able to return from fully. But I do hope, somewhere deep in the part of me that still can hope, that Vanessa will keep being Vanessa when this is over.
Until then, the more she acts like it, the better.
Because I heard what the Vessels said. I felt the sickness crawling up my throat at the thought. They were looking for the Chosen One, and they were only miles away.
I step back off the dismount mat, and Vanessa’s shoulders relax slightly. I mean, Harlow is already pissed at me. I don’t really want Vanessa on my bad side, too.
Footsteps sound behind me, and I turn to find Kyle, a grim expression on his face as he hovers in the doorway. Next to him is Alan, one of Dean’s closest friends and the arms specialist of the Palisade. His dark skin is covered with sweat. He ties his braids into a ponytail as he cocks an eyebrow at me.
“The Council wants to see you,” he says, giving me a warning look when I roll my eyes.
I nod, turning to watch Vanessa as I back toward the door.
“Your right knee was bent,” I say, and a grin spreads across my sister’s face before she gets back on her toes, ready to try again.
I turn, letting the smile slip off my face.
The Council’s voices are muffled through the door as we walk into the hallway. Kyle motions for me to wait as he walks inside.
After looking over my shoulder to make sure no one else is around, I inch forward, leaning as close to the door as I dare.
“The movements are more calculated now,” a deep male voice says. “They are centralizing or something. Traffic at the Blood Market has almost doubled in the past month.”
The Blood Market. The words send a small chill over my shoulders. The Blood Market is where the Runners take Curseclean to sell to the highest bidder.
The Torch has tried for almost a year to take it down, but they can’t get close.
“Well. We’re going to have to put more watchmen on the walls, then. If Runners want to sweep through here, then they won’t catch us by surprise,” a familiar female voice answers. Harlow. “But if we’re facing Runners and Vessels like the kind we saw today—three, working together, almost all fully aware—we will have to figure something else out.”
I don’t realize I’m leaning on the door to listen until Kyle pulls it open and I stumble inside, barely catching myself before careening to the floor. I look up and find the faces of the Council staring back from behind a line of tables in the middle of the school’s massive cafeteria. Harlow sits next to a man with graying hair and dark skin—Malcolm, the leader of the Palisade. On the other side is James, a woman with a lean face covered in a line of scars across her light skin. Next to her is a seat where my grandmother had sat up until three months ago. It’s still empty.
There’s a door in her heart that’s closed. Nine and thirteen.
I blink, shoving the memory of those words as deep as it will go.
Dean stands in front of a crudely made wooden table, and he casts a glance over his shoulder at me as I walk farther inside.
Of course Harlow would tell the truth about today in her report. Of course she couldn’t just cover for me for once in her fucking life.
“By all means, come in, Charlotte,” Malcolm says. I can’t read the emotion in his deep voice, but I know I don’t have anything to fear from him. He was voted to this position for a reason—he’s one of the best men I’ve ever known. Though that means that he’ll be impartial now, and the fact that he was a friend of my grandmother’s—more than a friend—won’t factor in when he considers punishment.
I stand next to Dean, stopping myself from giving him the same look I’d given him a thousand times over the years when we got caught doing something stupid.
“You had permission to go check the nets down at the shoreline, Charlotte,” Malcolm says, his voice vibrating through my lungs. I nod.
“Normally, I’d go over the bylaws that your own grandmother helped draft, but we don’t need pomp and circumstance. You both know that you jeopardized more than your own lives today. What I want to know is why.”
I bite the inside of my lip. My plan isn’t ready yet.
“I was being dumb,” I say, raising my eyes only slightly. I hope they buy this. Dean is still by my side.
I hear the clink of metal, and my eyes dart up just in time to see Harlow drop the headdress on the table in front of her. My heart sinks.
“Careful with that!” I cry, stepping forward. Dean grabs my arm, pulling me back.
Malcolm looks at the headdress and then slowly turns back to me. “Charlotte Holloway.” He breathes my name like a curse. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is. Tell me you didn’t jeopardize your lives for one of your puzzles.”
Heat singes the back of my neck as Malcolm’s words cut through the room.
Puzzles.
Like I’m a kid on the floor of a playroom. I cock my jaw to the side. I can’t tell him why I really needed it, because then I’d have to tell him how I know all of that.
I feel Harlow’s glare from across the room, and I don’t dare meet it. I know she knows what I’m really looking for, and why. And she knows that I can’t explain myself.
“I thought . . . ,” I croak out, my voice sounding small as it gets swallowed up in the vast quiet of the room. I look up, seeing the disappointment in Malcolm’s eyes as he sits back in his chair. “At one point, Anne had that headdress. It was in the hull as she docked in Bordeaux.” All that is true.
I hope Harlow will jump in. That she’ll stop me from having to stumble over a lie that will make me look like an idiot. But when she doesn’t, I know I have to jump in. “I thought it might be of some . . . use. It was stupid. I just . . .” I take a deep breath as I look to Malcolm. “If the Vessels are staying like . . . that, like the ones we saw today, then we’re in trouble. And if they’re centralizing . . . mobilizing, then we have to do something. Even the Torch Enforcers are pulling back. So I know it was a long shot. But I can’t just sit here and hope we figure something out.”
I look up, meeting Dean’s eyes for a fraction of a second before he looks down.
“Har—” he starts.
“That’s ‘Commander’ to you, Sergeant,” Harlow bites out. Dean falls silent for a moment, absorbing the blow as the air in the room thickens with tension.
“Commander,” he starts again. “We broke the rules. But Charlotte’s right. We have to change something, and soon.” Dean looks around to make sure the only people in the room to hear his next words are the ones who are supposed to be there.
Malcolm stands. “That isn’t for you two to decide. You are not Lou,” he says, his voice booming through the room as he invokes my grandmother’s nickname, immediately cutting off the argument rising in my throat. “Our troops had to go in, blind, to save you,” he continues, his voice more subdued now.
“We didn’t ask them to do that,” I retort, knowing that it’s a stupid thing to say even as the words slip past my lips. Malcolm’s gaze darkens. He looks down at me. “Know your place, Charlotte. And it’s not leading futile, renegade missions. From now on, you’re needed in the garden. Dean, you’re needed on the wall. That will be all,” Malcolm says by way of dismissal. I don’t look back at Harlow as I turn on my heel and walk out of the room, shoving the crash bar down harder than I need to—hard enough that my teeth rattle.
I know it’s the apocalypse, and everything has already come crashing down.
But even in this brave new world, I still feel like I’m the other sister, referred to in the possessive: Harlow’s shadow. Vanessa’s keeper.
Because my older sister is a commander.
And my younger sister is the Chosen One.
Chapter 6
I MOVE THR
OUGH THE COURTYARD, STOPPING AS I walk past a small mess hall and see a group of people crowded into the common room—it was once a teacher’s lounge. A voice wafts over the crowd gathered inside. I look through the window at the mass of people gathered around a small flat-screen propped up against the wall. It has a crack that leaves a neon-green line down the middle of the screen, but it works, thanks to the feeble generator Malcolm lets us use for these broadcasts.
On the screen, a woman sits at a desk, her suit jacket clean and pressed. She reads from a list of names, pausing only slightly between each one.
I stop for a moment, listening to the words as they slip past her perfectly lined lips.
Somewhere, people’s lives are changing as she reads.
In the Torch, the world is almost . . . normal. And if you can afford an application, you can enter the lottery.
“Anyone getting any life-changing news?” I whisper to Marjorie, an elderly woman who always wears an army-style utility vest over her flowery blouses. She shakes her head slowly, and the familiar smell of her AquaNet hairspray fills my nostrils.
The camera pans over, leaving the woman reading the list to show a man standing next to her. His blond hair is swept out of his vivid yellow eyes, a reluctant smile on his handsome face—Abel Lassiter, the leader of the Torch.
“I know they have reliable electricity and health care there, but damn if I wouldn’t be excited to win just to see that jawline up close,” Marjorie whispers loudly, elbowing me in the ribs. Two girls in front of us turn around to give Marjorie a nod. Someone else lets out a “mmm-hmm” in agreement. Sergei, our cook, leans backward in his seat, resting it against the wall. His tattooed arms are bigger than my thighs, and he holds them out for balance as the chair pivots.
“Abel Lassiter is a former navy fighter pilot, top of his class at Johns Hopkins, and one of the world’s top virologists. His mother was an engineering genius who designed walls that withstood the apocalypse and saved Western civilization. But you’re going to sit here and ogle his looks?” Sergei asks, disappointed.
Marjorie and the girls turn back to the screen for a moment, watching as the lottery ends and Abel thanks the woman before walking to the podium to speak to the press gathered there. He brushes a hand through his hair absently as he looks over his notes.
“Yup,” Marjorie answers decisively, and the other girls nod in agreement.
Sergei sits forward, and his chair thuds as it hits the ground. “I thought women were supposed to be better.”
Marjorie picks at her nails. “It’s a brave new world, Sergei.”
I lean against the doorway and watch on the TV as Abel adjusts the microphones on the podium. Marjorie isn’t wrong, and she’s clearly not alone. From the moment he stepped out beside his mother, Genevieve Lassiter—the architect of the Torch—Abel was of particular interest. It was weird, but it was almost like we had our own royal family. The Lassiters were people we could follow. Hope was a rare medicine, and we took it where we could. Hearing that the Torch was succeeding—that our way of life was not completely gone—was hope.
Genevieve had been fearless and brilliant, and her son was self-made. And not even a postapocalyptic hellscape and the threat of flesh-eating monsters could stop the thinned-out press corps from pointing out that Abel Lassiter wasn’t bad-looking. The fact that he was a leading virologist was just icing on the cake. He vowed to find a cure for the Crimson.
But things are a little different now.
A few months ago, Genevieve went out with her fleet, and wasn’t seen again. Abel took some of his best men and went searching, but she was gone. Her boat had sunk off the coast—a Vessel attack. When Abel returned and took up his place as the general, he was changed. The twinkle in his eye had sharpened, and his smile was not as easy. He brought Admiral Marsali into his circle—the patriarch of an old military family—who led the Torch’s navy with an iron fist. He didn’t smile on camera, and had no interest in mincing words. This is about survival was all he’d ever say. He had two children—twins—though they kept out of the limelight. Until Abel fell in love with Admiral Marsali’s daughter, Evelyn.
It was a fairy tale, and even Harlow—who wore Marvel shirts with “Hulk Smash the Patriarchy”—couldn’t help but roll her eyes and begrudgingly admit that they were adorable.
Evelyn had studied nursing before the Crimson, and she looked at Abel Lassiter like he was the only man in the world. He, in return, looked at her like she showed him that there was good in the world worth fighting for.
Evelyn disappeared six months ago, when she led a supply run to one of the more unprotected settlements south of Portland.
No one has seen her since.
Abel puts on a brave face—we all see it. But every drawing—every announcement—he looks a little more broken. The circles under his eyes look a little darker.
I listen to his voice while my fingers play with the splintered wood peeling from the doorframe and force myself to pull out of the sad thoughts surrounding Abel and Evelyn.
“General, any comment on the new reports of the Vessels . . . changing?”
Abel stops, his expression hardening. “People have been scared for a long time. But fear isn’t what drives us anymore. If the Crimson is shifting, then we will shift with it. We will do whatever it takes to defeat this thing.”
“Any progress on the acquisition of the subject of the prophecy? The so-called Chosen One?” another reporter asks. My stomach drops, and my hand stills on the doorframe. Abel sighs and then laughs softly.
“Chasing a ghost is not high on our list of priorities right now. As we all know, my mother put her hope in such things, so I respect those who put theirs in it,” he says. “But I’m a man of science, and I will continue to work to find a cure and push infrastructure. A majority of our settlements are surviving without even one working generator. But we hope the construction of our new power rig will change that. That is our priority.”
The Rig. The first big construction project of its kind since the Crimson started. It’s just off the coast, and when it’s finished, it will provide reliable power to the whole western seaboard.
“Any updates on when we’ll be allowed to know the specifics about it? Maybe . . . visit?” a hopeful reporter asks.
Abel smiles. “Not until we know it can withstand the strength of our enemies. If the Vessels start putting their assets on a news channel, maybe I’ll think about evening the playing field.”
Chuckles and noises of joking disappointment roll through the crowd.
Another question arises from the crowd. “Sir? Any news of Evelyn?” Abel freezes for half a second, but pushes on, pretending he didn’t hear.
I’ve heard enough.
I nod to Marjorie before taking off across the courtyard.
I am almost back to the house when footsteps sound behind me. I turn around to see Harlow running toward me. I roll my eyes and turn back around.
“Charlotte,” she calls. I keep walking. I don’t want to talk to her.
“You couldn’t have my back? Once?” I hiss. “You know why I had to find that stupid headdress. You know.”
Harlow leans closer. “And I told you that it was a dumb risk. How would we explain that, Charlotte? ‘Oh hey, guys. Suit up. I know we need antibiotics and baby formula and food, but Charlotte thinks my sister’s nonsensical slam poetry nightmares told us to go on a mission to retrieve a fucking necklace.”
“It’s a headdress, and we’re past being able to explain things. We have been for a long time,” I shoot back.
Harlow’s eyes narrow for a second at my words, and she swallows hard as her eyes dart to her feet. I’m right, and she knows it.
“They were looking for Vanessa,” I whisper finally.
Harlow goes still, and then she raises her eyes to mine. “How do you know?”
I look around to make sure no one is within earshot before I whisper back. “That’s what the Vessels were discussing in the Getty. They said she sen
t them. Who are they talking about, Harlow?”
Her first instinct is to dismiss my question—I see it in the way she takes a deep breath.
“I heard what you were all talking about with the Council,” I say. “I know there’s more going on than you want us to know.” The naked irritation on her face quickly gives way to something I’m not used to seeing: fear.
Without a word, Harlow pivots on her heel and stalks toward our house. She pauses for a second and motions for me to follow, and we cut over an empty sidewalk and under a row of overgrown palm trees. Her stride is long and practiced, and I struggle to keep pace with her. When she speaks, her voice is low and quick.
“Some of the Vessels are staying aware for a lot longer than normal,” she starts, her eyes scanning around us to make sure—for the seventieth time—that we’re alone. “And they’re working together.”
“Everyone knows that,” I reply, coming to a stop. “There’s no need for the ghost protocol shit—they literally just asked Abel about it at the Torch lottery broadcast.”
Harlow halts in her tracks, turning to face me. Irritation ripples over her taut expression before she tilts her head back, letting a humorless smile slink over her dark lips. She drops her chin, and I hold up my hands in surrender.
“Sorry. Continue,” I say, taking a step to close the gap between us.
Harlow catches her tongue between her teeth, a thing she only does when she’s really debating something. “Not all Vessels are staying in that state. We don’t know why some degrade into mindless flesh-eaters, and why some stay like . . . before. But enough are staying aware, and they’re starting to mobilize, and . . . they’re following someone. They’re calling her the Vessel Queen. We’ve been examining their movements for the past couple of weeks. They’ve commandeered ships and made outposts. It’s like—”
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