by Lyndsay Ely
“That’s been taken care of, too.” Sheridan paced across the thick carpet. “I told you, I’m not alone in this.”
Who? Not a single name came to mind. Instead she thought of the aftermath of the assassination attempt—Casimir’s anger and tears on Selene’s behalf. Would it have been the same if she hadn’t survived? Pity wanted to believe it would, but Casimir was a place of safety and luxury far beyond the normal reach of its residents. Maybe Sheridan was right; maybe everyone would fall in line so long as a firm hand still held the city.
“And when Casimir is ours, Max will be, too. You two will be together again before this time tomorrow—if I can count on you to keep this quiet. Please, Pity, I need your help.”
No, you don’t. Sheridan would make his play with or without her—she had no doubt. But finally she saw a glimmer of light, the opening she was searching for. If Sheridan freed Max, maybe there was a way for the two of them to escape, beyond the reach of Selene or Drakos-Pryce or anyone else who threatened them. It was a slim chance, but what choice did she have?
A dark thought thrust its way to the forefront of her mind. “There’s going to be resistance.”
“I know,” Sheridan said. “It’s impossible to promise that no blood will be shed, but I promise no one will be harmed when it can be avoided.”
She tried to picture it: Sheridan’s men storming Casimir and the chaos that would ensue. But her thoughts kept twisting to Max, so close—only a few stories below her feet—and yet as unreachable as the moon. Something in her hardened. She couldn’t let the weight of her mistakes fall on him.
I’ll do what I need to, Selene had said.
Well, so would she.
“Yes,” Pity said. “I’ll help you.”
“Good,” said Sheridan. He guided her gently toward the door. “Now, I want you to go to your room. Selene is probably having you watched. Pack enough to make it look like you’re accompanying me east and then return here.” He gave her an encouraging squeeze of her arm. “Be quick. The wheels are in motion, Pity. There’s no stopping the train now.”
The sentiment echoed in her ears as she left the suite, tangling with the thoughts ricocheting through her mind. All this time, from the very moment Sheridan stepped foot in Cessation, he had been planning. And Selene, for all her calculations, had missed the threat of him entirely.
That’s why he fled after the assassination attempt. His life wasn’t in danger until Selene survived and the possibility she might discover his involvement arose. But by then he knew about Max, the ace up his sleeve with which he could leverage Drakos-Pryce. And while their sham romance had been a misdirection, it was one meant to keep Selene worried about the unknown threat in the east instead of the one standing at her very door.
Adora appeared around a corner, blocking her path. “Well?”
The single word cracked in Pity’s ears like a shot. For a heartbeat, she forgot the original objective of her visit to Sheridan and the plot she already had a part in. Adora waited, a smug smile on her face. Pity imagined throwing her against the wall, removing the expression with a well-placed fist. Instead, she stared straight ahead, blood burning in her veins.
Selene still thinks she’s got the upper hand. Well, she can go on thinking that.
“You can tell her it’s done,” Pity said. “I’m going with him.”
CHAPTER 37
The journey back to her room was a fever dream.
Get what you need, her mind screamed when she finally made it there. Get what you need and get back to Sheridan. She fought to stay attentive, to focus on the instructions like a target. But her limbs moved like clay as she changed into traveling clothes. Move. Don’t think. No matter what is about to happen, you need to protect Max. She didn’t think for a moment that she could trust Sheridan once Max was freed. And she wasn’t about to allow Max to be handed over like currency.
We’ll escape. Get out of Casimir, Cessation, and then… then…
No plan came to her, but she’d have to worry about that later. Getting to Max was her first priority. She grabbed her gun belt, the beautiful thing he’d bought for her. It felt like eons ago. Instead of putting it on, Pity froze, mesmerized by the glossy black leather and the weapons it cradled. An almost electric sensation crawled down her spine.
It’s going to be a bloodbath. Casimir wasn’t going to roll over. People would resist. Fight.
That’s how wars go. She heard her mother’s voice suddenly, thick and sullen. People fight, people die.
But Pity didn’t have to do either. She strapped on the gun belt. All she had to do was walk away for a little bit, and Max would be safe.
All she had to do was stand by and let others die.
And who is it going to be? This time she heard Finn. Luster? Duchess? Garland? How many friends do you want to lose, Serendipity Jones?
She tried to ignore the thoughts, but they burrowed out of the earth of her mind like worms during a rain.
I can warn them. Tell them to stay hidden in their rooms. But if she did that, they would alert Selene. And Selene would kill her and Sheridan, maybe even Max. And probably not in that order. Even if Pity convinced them to obey her without question, who else might die? Which lives were worth Max’s, and how many of them?
All of them, the selfish part of her said.
None of them, said another, and that part sounded too much like Max.
Her skin crawled with frustration. He wouldn’t let this happen, she thought. He wouldn’t risk losing the friends—the family—that had embraced him when he’d had no one.
She was the one about to do that.
Max would tell Selene. Max would stop it all.
“Dammit,” she hissed, because the decision wasn’t Max’s.
It was hers.
But if she went to Selene, tried to bargain Sheridan’s betrayal for Max’s life, would Selene even believe her? She wanted Sheridan in her grasp so badly. She’ll think every word out of your mouth is a lie to save Max. And even if she did believe it, what would happen to Max when Selene discovered who he was? He would be in more danger than ever.
But at least Casimir would be safe.
What is it going to be? she asked herself. Stand up, take a risk… or stand by and watch the slaughter?
“Dammit, dammit, dammit.”
With a last, decisive yank on her gun belt, Pity flew out the door and into the graveyard silence of the hall. By the time she reached the end, she was almost running. Consumed by her thoughts, she rounded the corner and collided with an unyielding mass of flesh. The impact sent her sprawling to the ground, but when she looked up, cool relief coursed through her.
“Santino!”
“Pity?” He yanked her back to her feet as if she were made of straw. “Where are you headed in such a hurry?”
“Thank goodness!” She dropped her voice. “I need to talk to Selene. Now.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I’ll explain when we get to Selene. But she’s in danger. We’re all in danger!”
“Pity, chica, relax.” Santino pressed his hands down on her shoulders, then gestured behind him, to a pair of Tin Men she hadn’t even noticed. “They’ll take you to Selene. I’ll get more men and meet you there.”
Pity’s hands tensed into fists. “You need to hurry!”
“I will.” He turned to the Tin Men. “Take her up the restricted way. And don’t let anyone near her.”
They parted, Pity and the Tin Men heading for the nearest elevator. Her body ached with anxiety as they traveled. Distant sounds of laughter and music echoed in her ears. The Gallery was doubtless in full revelry, unaware of the danger that was camped just beyond the city limits, readying to strike.
And Max… did he have any idea what was happening? Why he was imprisoned?
Pity roused from her ruminations as they entered the elevator. It jolted beneath their feet and began to descend.
Down. She tensed. Not up. “Where are we going?”
> “The restricted way,” grunted the Tin Man to her right. He stood a step in front of her, the other, a step behind.
The floor numbers ticked lower. “Is that through the basement?”
“You’ll see when we get there.” He didn’t quite manage to keep the note of irritation out of his voice.
Instinct kicked in, and Pity went cold. Santino hadn’t asked what she knew or how she knew it.
He trusts you, she tried to tell herself. That’s all.
But the icy feeling spread. I’m not alone in this, Sheridan had said. What was Santino doing near her room so soon after she had left Sheridan?
Pieces began to slot together.
Santino was too late to stop the assassination attempt. Daneko narrowly slipped through his grasp, and he was the one who took control of the gang leader as soon as he was captured.
At every juncture, what appeared to have been innocuous timing on his part suddenly seemed as precise as a clock.
And now he knows you were going to warn Selene.
She sucked in a sharp breath as understanding gut-punched her. It must have shown on her face, because when the Tin Man who had spoken glanced back at her a moment later, his eyes were hard. But it was the flash of movement behind her—reflected in the polished metal wall of the elevator—that stirred her from the paralyzing realization. She reached for her guns and turned—
—a fraction of a second too late. The prick of a med injector registered right as her limbs went dead, a cry of surprise misfiring on her lips. One of the Tin Men caught her as she fell—she knew only because she stopped moving. She felt nothing. She was a doll, nothing but rags and stuffing.
The elevator stopped and opened. Her head lolled at an awkward angle, and Pity found herself staring out at the vast, deserted garage.
“Get the truck,” said the man holding her. “Hurry, she’s heavy.”
The other Tin Man rushed off, his boots thumping on the concrete. Pity blinked; she had that much movement still. But even her sight was beginning to dim around the edges. Her thoughts jellified, and she wasn’t sure if they had been waiting for a minute or an hour when her captor carried her a few feet forward and out of the elevator.
“What’s taking so long?” her captor called. His voice echoed faintly.
There was no reply.
With an angry scoff, he lowered her to the ground. Her head knocked against the floor, jostling her sight back into focus. But she was facing the elevator, the whole of her vision filled by its metal panels. The Tin Man’s reflection was a watercolor blur.
Get up! She tried to move, but nothing happened. The world distorted more as tears filled her eyes. She blinked them back. Dammit! Get up! Reach for your guns!
Fresh footsteps sounded.
“Stop!” the Tin Man ordered. “Turn around. This isn’t any business of yours.”
Another blur appeared in the panels.
“I mean it! Not another step forward or I’ll—”
There was a sharp, airy pop, followed by a heavy thump that Pity recognized all too well. Only one blur stood in the wall of the elevator now. Her sight started to fray again, the world churning as someone rolled her onto her back.
A weathered face stared down at her, framed by flickering spots.
Siena Bond.
The spots turned to clouds, and everything went black.
CHAPTER 38
Pity woke to an ebon haze, followed by the slow resolution of sensations: the jerking, heaving feeling of vehicular movement… odors of exhaust and tobacco. She blinked. One side of her vision glowed faintly, and after several moments a silhouette resolved before her.
“Where—” The thick, croaking sound surprised her. “Where am I?”
“Getting your voice back, huh?”
Siena.
“That’s a start.”
Pity still couldn’t move her limbs, but with some effort she turned her head to her right. The glow she saw was the horizon, a narrow strip of vermilion just beginning to chase the night away.
Dawn?
Panic gripped her as she fought to orient herself. Cessation was gone. They were in the desert. As she struggled to formulate why, the vehicle they were in slowed and stopped. Siena turned off the engine and flicked on a light in the ceiling, casting everything in pallid yellow.
“Where are we?” Pity demanded, her mouth tacky. “Why did you—”
“Relax, kid. You may be talking again, but it’ll be a little while before the rest of your body follows suit.” Siena pulled out an ugly hand-rolled cigarette and placed it between her lips. But when she lit it, its scent was as fine as any of the cigars Pity had smelled in Casimir. “Thirsty? It’s dry as old bones out here.”
Pity nodded, a movement that seemed easier than a minute ago.
Siena pulled out a canteen and lifted it to Pity’s lips. The water was warm and faintly metallic, but she swallowed several mouthfuls, letting it run over her parched lips.
“Where’s Cessation?” she said when she was done. Twin poisons of fear and anger coursed through her veins as her memories regathered. Santino. It made her ill to think about it. The big, friendly man who had saved her life on the plains and carried her to Dr. Starr when she was shot—a traitor. And if Santino could turn coat, who else might have? “We need to go back. Now. It’s a matter of life or death.”
“Always is.” Siena sniffed. “But we’re gonna have a little chat first, and it seemed smart to do that somewhere no one would interrupt us. You wanna tell me what was going on with those Tin Men?”
Pity narrowed her eyes. “You wanna tell me why you stopped them?”
“Okay, I’ll give first,” Siena said. “I saw you get into the elevator. Something was off, that was easy enough to figure. Good thing I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”
“On me?” A shiver ran through her as her old fear surfaced. “Did my father send you?”
Siena snorted in a way that might have been a laugh. “No, but maybe your momma did.”
“What?” Pity would have jolted straight up had she been able to. Instead, her arms jerked weakly in her lap. “My mother?”
“Uh-huh. ’Cause that’s who I thought I was seeing that day I rolled in and you were there: Joanna Jones, in the flesh. ’Cept you were younger than I ever knew her.” Siena reached out and took one of the guns from Pity’s belt. She rubbed the pad of her thumb over the inlay on the grips. “Beautiful as the first time I saw them, though they’ve lost a bit of that new shine.” When she saw Pity’s confusion, an amused smile deepened the lines around her mouth. “Geez, girl, didn’t your momma ever tell you where she got these?”
“She said some of the Patriots gave them to her, after the war.”
“Close. Though she lied about the ‘after’ part. She must have stashed them somewhere safe before she got caught. Joanna was always smart like that. Everyone in our squad had their special weapons, our good luck charms, we used to call them. Had myself a pretty shotgun, though it’s been gone a few years now.”
“Your squad?”
“Joanna didn’t tell you a damn thing, did she? The Reapers.”
Pity’s heart thumped against her ribs. Finn’s dumb story. “No. My mother said she guarded supply depots.”
“There are a lot of dead folks that would attest differently, were they able.”
“But…” Another piece of what Pity thought she knew shifted out of alignment. “Why didn’t she tell me? And why didn’t you say anything sooner?”
Siena returned the gun to its holster. “There’s one answer for both those questions,” she said, “which is that going around bragging that you were a Reaper is a good way to find a noose around your neck, or worse. There’s still a high bounty on them. Hell, that job’s been offered to me a few times.” She flicked ash onto the floor. “Truth is, I’m probably the only person who could find any of the Reapers still left on this earth.” Her voice turned nostalgic. “That’s how we ran things, you see. One person in command,
and that one the only link between us and the Patriot command. If the one fell, our next in command would make him or herself known. Otherwise, no one knew us from any other group of guerrillas that ran with the Patriots.”
“My mother—”
“Joined up a few years before the end of the war,” Siena said. “She was the most natural sniper I had ever seen, as good as anyone with twice her years. But we were on different missions when the turn came. I heard she got captured but not what happened after.”
It wasn’t a question, but Pity knew Siena wanted an answer. “She was in a prisoner camp for a while. But CONA couldn’t execute or jail everyone, so she bargained herself into a spot on an agricultural commune, with a marriage and the promise of children.”
“And?”
“And the marriage was hell, but she had three kids anyway and spent the rest of her years walking the wall and drinking herself toward a fall and a broken neck.”
A fog of silence fell.
Finally, Siena spoke again. “That’s a poor end for a woman like Joanna Jones.”
Pity nodded in agreement, not trusting her voice for the tightness in her throat. With concentration, she found that she could now raise her right arm. Weak as an old woman, she wiped at her eyes. As she did, Siena opened the door and stepped out into the desert, pacing off into the receding darkness.
“Hey! Come back!”
But Siena ignored her. Abandoned, Pity assessed her surroundings, angling her half numb body as best she could. There was a good-sized space in the rear of the vehicle. She saw a cot, a supply of tins and water, and an arsenal that rivaled that of a small commune. There were nonlethal instruments as well—flash grenades, shock sticks—and a variety of restraints. She smelled gun oil and steel and, underneath, the gut-quivering perfume of old fear.
A Reaper.
Pity fit the piece of information into the memory of her mother, the missing bullet in the chamber. She remembered her mother’s eyes, so caring sometimes, so haunted at others. By how many dead men? No, it was never ghosts that had haunted her mother—it was the cage she had found herself in.