The girl was lying motionless over the toilet bowl. Her cloud of dark hair spread over the seat and some of it draped in the water, floating on its surface. Davis moved closer and saw several smudges of blood decorating the girl’s hands and the porcelain of the bowl where she must have grabbed it.
Davis tilted the girl’s head sideways, trying to get a better look at who it was. Memories of Caitlyn at the party flooded back, and her whole being filled with the unmistakable beginnings of panic.
“Emilie,” she whispered, holding the girl’s head aloft. “Emilie, talk to me.” But Emilie was unconscious. Davis’s heart raced and she felt tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Then the door to the bathroom swung open, and Sasha walked in.
“You okay?” she asked Davis. Her words expressed concern, but her tone was flat and disaffected. She walked over to the mirror, barely glancing at Emilie as she passed.
“Sasha, get help! Emilie needs a doctor.” Sasha glanced in their direction, rolling her eyes when she saw Emilie’s body slumped in Davis’s arms.
“Please,” she said. “That girl’s always been melodramatic. Trying to get attention for a little hangover. Pathetic.”
Davis’s chest tightened. Emilie wasn’t even moving, and she’d been coughing up blood before she passed out. This wasn’t a hangover. Anyone could see that.
“Are you kidding? Look at her. We need to help her.” Davis’s voice was rising, becoming shriller with each word. She felt woozy and light-headed. Sasha was still standing at the mirror, reapplying lipstick like nothing was the matter while Emilie bled in Davis’s arms. What was wrong with Sasha?
“Davis, take it down a notch. We’ll get a doctor as soon as I’m done here, okay? Will that make you happy?”
“Open your eyes, Sasha!” Davis said it more sharply than she’d ever spoken to anyone. She laid Emilie’s body on the floor, turning her on her side just in case she coughed up more blood. Then Davis ran for a proctor.
Ten minutes later, Davis watched as some of the PA attendants—including the one who’d examined her—led Emilie’s body out of the bathroom on a stretcher. She stood there long after the stretcher was gone, staring at the blood that decorated the porcelain-tiled floor.
She lingered there, leaning against the doorjamb, even after some Imps went in with mops and buckets of soapy water. “Will she be okay?” she asked no one in particular. “Will she? Will Emilie be okay?”
The Imps ignored her, going about their business as if she weren’t there, although she saw the younger one lift his shoulders in an apologetic shrug.
Then nausea overcame her; she felt her knees buckle beneath her, and everything went dark.
6
COLE
Cole needed to think. He sat down on the same steps where he’d found Davis (not so accidentally) a few minutes before. He had wanted to talk to her—really talk. He’d wanted to tell her the truth about Caitlyn—but she’d looked so nervous about her PAs, whatever they were, and then her dad had shown up …
He’d barely slept since Worsley had told him about Narxis. He was relieved that Davis didn’t seem to be affected, but how long would she remain safe? The thought of her sick, suffering … it was almost more than he could take. The idea that it could happen shredded him. There was no reason for this reaction; he barely knew her at all, but he couldn’t get her out of his head. The worst was the physical ache he’d felt when he saw her—the need to protect her, to wrap his arms around her and pull her to him, where she’d be safe in his arms. It was a compulsion he’d barely been able to control. And one he didn’t understand, not when she was a Prior—a Prior. Every part of it was horrible. But no matter how much he told himself to stop feeling for her, he couldn’t.
And then there was the whole Caitlyn situation. What had he gotten himself into? What might happen if someone had seen him and Davis with Caitlyn? What would happen when Davis found out that Caitlyn was dead—would she tell someone that Cole had been the last person to see her alive? He couldn’t decide what worried him most—the trouble he’d be in if anyone knew, or the disgust Davis would feel when she found out he had lied. It was unreasonable—insane—to care what she thought. But he did.
He chewed on one cuticle, already ragged. Parson hadn’t told him to seek out Davis that afternoon. But then, Parson didn’t know what had gone down after the party. Parson would freak, Cole was sure of it. And if Parson pulled Cole out of the FEUDS … what would Cole’s family do then? He took a deep breath and struggled to calm down. Should he wait for Davis to finish her tests? No—“bumping into her” again in the same afternoon would be way too obvious. It occurred to Cole then that maybe Parson was the person he should be looking for. If he knew about the disease, maybe he could do something; he had enough power, money, resources … he was the most powerful person Cole knew—one of the most powerful people in Columbus, period. He could do something. Cole had to tell him. More than that, Cole wanted out. This, all of it—his strong aversion to the idea of deceiving Davis, the incident with Caitlyn—was way more than he’d signed up for, and everything in him knew it was wrong, and it had to stop here.
Cole looked out at the landscape and the taller buildings rising up maybe a mile beyond the school gates, past the imposing building facade from which Davis’s dad’s car had spirited her away. He knew that among those buildings loomed the gray structure of the factory where his mother had worked for longer than he could remember—since he was maybe five or six years old. And a few streets down from Factory Row was the political district and Parson Abel’s office. Cole made his decision.
It was roughly a mile, or a fifteen-minute walk, but Cole jog-walked, quickening his step the closer he got. Anticipation sped his heart, adrenaline shot through his limbs. Once the decision was made, it all felt critical. He wanted to get there right away to tell Parson it was over.
Parson had to do something about Narxis instantly. There was no time to waste.
He wasn’t sure which office was Parson Abel’s, only that the three behemoth, glass-fronted structures that shared a common entrance near the fountain at the center of town usually housed offices belonging to politicians. Cole drew in a breath, wondering for the first time exactly how he was going to manage to get in. Security in these buildings was extra tight. He hadn’t thought it through at all. He sidled up to the entrance, trying to get an idea of where to go next while remaining relatively inconspicuous. It wasn’t working; he was drawing looks. Moving toward the lobby entrance, he noticed a banner hanging above what appeared to be a conference room inside. It was labeled CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS, and adorned with the signature yellow emblem signifying Parson Abel’s political party.
Cole had just edged though the sliding doors and had begun to shoulder his way through the busy lobby, keeping his head low, when he heard a commotion at the entrance to the campaign headquarters. He ducked behind a broad stone pillar as a burly security guard appeared in the lobby, hustling a lean blond man in a beige suit out of the room. The man’s face was twisted in a grimace, as if he’d smelled something bad. His reddish, fancy scarf-thing was flopping out of his suit jacket, and beads of sweat were forming at his temples. Cole’s heart sped up and he felt his adrenaline spike.
“Get the hell out of here,” the guard was saying in a voice low enough that Cole had to strain to hear it. “If I ever see your face in here again, I’ll make sure you leave a little less pretty. Parson Abel can take the first swing. You think he cares who you work for? Hm?” The security guard yanked the man’s arms backward a little harder at this, and the man gritted his teeth to avoid crying out. “Here’s a piece of advice: he doesn’t give a shit who you’re with. We don’t deal with extortionists here.” At that, the guard shoved the man toward the lobby door; the man stumbled a bit, almost toppling over before regaining his balance. Then he looked side to side and straightened the red scarf, hurrying quickly out of the lobby.
Cole kept his eyes focused on the marble floor, careful not to attra
ct his attention as he brushed by. But his heart pounded wildly. If Parson would do that to a well-dressed Prior, what would he do when he saw Cole? Still, Cole ground his teeth and watched the security desk from behind the pillar, waiting until the lobby guard lowered his head and began shuffling through some paperwork. Then he beelined toward the entrance to the conference room. He had no choice. Too much was at stake.
Cole made it inside the headquarters and scanned the room. It was wide and open and contained about two dozen work stations staffed with interns and managers who were working busily. He didn’t see Parson anywhere. The good news was that no one was paying him any attention—most of the staff were probably around his age or early college age. He looked down at his jeans and the same button-down shirt Parson had given him to wear to the party the other night—he’d washed it since the night of the party; it was the only nice thing he had, and it helped him blend in. Anyone who hadn’t seen him slip in probably thought he was an intern, too.
Cole approached a pretty blonde in a pencil skirt and gray blouse, who was squinting at her tablet, her brows knitted and her face pulled into a frown. He took a deep breath. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for Parson.” He smiled broadly, hoping his smile passed for Prior. Hoping the small chip in his tooth from a baseball injury when he was a kid didn’t mar his grin too much. Did Priors get chipped teeth? Probably not. And if they did, they’d have it fixed right away.
“He just left,” she told him in a bored tone, like it was obvious and Cole was some kind of idiot. “Didn’t you hear him make that announcement?” She leaned back in her chair and studied Cole, her expression wary.
“I just walked in,” Cole said, improvising. “I work in the … satellite office.”
“The satellite office.” Her tone was suspicious.
“Yeah,” Cole told her, affecting an impatient, confident tone. “Are you new or something?” The girl blushed in response, and Cole soldiered forward, hoping desperately that his act would work. “I’ve got to get back over there,” he said, “but can you give him a message for me?” He smiled again, this time throwing in a wink, to warm her up. She looked up at him, her expression softening just a little.
“Sure,” she told him. “Shoot.”
“Just let him know he needs to meet Cole at the regular place in two hours,” Cole said. “I have something to tell him.”
“Yeah, okay,” the girl said, sounding bored. She scribbled something on a notepad. “That all?”
“That’s it,” Cole said. “Don’t forget.” He smiled again, and she smiled back, and he was off, feeling euphoric. He broke into a broader grin as he went, imagining Parson’s reaction when he realized Cole had made it into his headquarters, broken through his safe, protected Prior bubble with no trouble at all. He couldn’t help feeling self-satisfied at this. It wasn’t until he crossed the expanse of the lobby and hopped down the steps bordering the building, though, that he again allowed himself to breathe.
The Swings were at the edge of his neighborhood. Cole had chosen it strategically—first invading Parson’s turf, then requesting that he come to Cole’s. The question was, would Parson show up?
Here, Cole had the advantage. Cole had always loved the Swings, a big empty lot that he and the other FEUDS fighters used as a makeshift training ground. Even as a kid, he’d looked forward to being old enough to work out with the other guys. It was just a big, open plot of land with a lot of rocks and overgrown weeds, but he’d grown up there.
The smell of rust and sweat and metal gave Cole a sense of nostalgia, the feeling that he was powerful and comfortable and home.
It was mostly empty at this time of day, though. There were just a couple of people working out: another FEUDS contender from a few years ago, Jason, as well as an older guy and a kid about his age whom he didn’t recognize. Cole air-high-fived Dustin, the neighborhood kid who was always hanging around the Swings with his ratty gloves on. They were way too big for his small hands, probably inherited from a relative. Dustin grinned in response. The kid was what, maybe six, seven? He worshipped the FEUDS fighters, that much was obvious. But it was weird that he was always alone, no one ever looking out for him. Cole made a mental note to talk to the kid after his workout, see how he was doing.
After changing into regular ratty clothing, Cole lay back on the bench and drew the weighted bar to his chest, bearing ten pounds more than his usual 260. He thought pushing himself—expending his energy this way—would help calm his anxiety. He didn’t know how Parson would react when he told him he was out; or even if Parson would show. Here, at least, Parson couldn’t hurt him—not overtly. But who knew what he would do when he’d had time to process Cole’s decision? Cole shuddered, gritting his teeth and pushing the bar into the air, then lowering it back to shoulder level and repeating. Every muscle in his upper body—even his neck—strained with the effort. But the endorphin rush he was used to didn’t come, and his heart beat so fast he thought he might pass out. Even after he’d managed to push the image of the security guard and the blond guy out of his mind, his brain kept ping-ponging back and forth between Caitlyn and Davis.
The kiss flashed through his mind for what seemed like the millionth time. Her lips, searing into his. Her heart, pulsing against his chest. It was so overwhelming a memory that he nearly dropped the bar, nearly passed out from the exertion coupled with emotion. He struggled to replace the bar in its tray. He had to tell Parson, one way or another. He had no choice. The alternative was too awful: if Davis found out the truth—found out why he’d kissed her—she’d be crushed. Telling Parson was the right decision. The only decision.
An hour passed. Ninety minutes. One hundred twenty. It was now more than two hours since Cole had left the campaign center, and his muscles were so limp he could barely lift his body from the weight bench. He headed toward the showers of the nearest public bathroom, which served as a makeshift locker room and was used almost exclusively by the people who trained at the Swings. A couple of the guys who’d also been working out in the yard grabbed the remaining nozzles that lined the open, tiled room.
“… All over the place,” one of the guys was saying. “It’s sick. The squatters are moving out ’cause of the smell.”
“Jesus,” said one of the others in a low tone. “That’s some serious shit.”
“Yeah. And, like, they’re just leaving them there. Not even burying their own goddamn people.”
Cole suddenly realized what they were talking about:
Bodies.
The guy was railing now, his voice taking on an angry pitch. Cole’s heart stopped.
“Piles of them,” another guy added.
“Piles of them,” the first guy confirmed. “A dozen, maybe more. That’s what people are saying, at least.”
Cole turned up his faucet and ran his hands through his hair, hoping no one thought it was weird that he was lingering. He needed to hear more.
The first guy continued: “Lab rats make me sick. We’d never dump our own people without a burial.”
“Hell no,” the stocky guy said.
“It was creepy as hell, dude. I heard they had these weird marks on their faces, covered in dried blood, like their skin split open or someone took a knife to them or something.” He paused, letting the stocky guy take this in.
Cole’s fingertips turned cold. Blood. Split-open skin. It wasn’t just Caitlyn. Was it Narxis? How many others had died from it? How long had the Priors been keeping it quiet?
“Holy shit.” It was all the stocky guy could say. “What the hell happened to them? Is there some psycho killer running around?”
“No idea,” said the first guy. “Some people think it’s a strategy. To stop us from spreading.”
“Killing off their own people?”
“No, idiot. Throwing the bodies along the river. Keeps us out.”
“I don’t believe it,” the stocky guy said.
“I’m just telling you what I heard. Next thing, they’ll shut
down the Swings. We’re too close to the border.” He glanced over and nodded at Cole just as Cole was about to switch off the water, having taken way longer than usual. He’d heard enough to scare him shitless.
“Hey,” the guy said. “What’s going on? You’re using up all the water, man.” Everyone knew who Cole was because of Cole’s status among the FEUDS fighters, so he knew they weren’t going to get too aggressive.
“Sorry,” Cole told him, grabbing a dingy towel. “Just heading out.”
He was even more wound up now than when he’d first arrived at the Swings. Did Parson Abel know about the bodies? Did Worsley and Hamilton? Had they dumped Caitlyn’s body there, too, along with the rest of them? Assuming the other people died the same way Caitlyn had, how fast was this thing spreading? Cole caught himself; a week ago, he realized, he wouldn’t have cared. He would have made fun of those lab rats right along with the guys at the gym—would have assumed, like them, that all Priors were the same. But now he’d met one, had gotten to know one. She wasn’t at all what he’d expected … and he couldn’t get her out of his head.
* * *
He had just walked out of the bathroom when he saw a suited form in his periphery. Parson Abel’s fists were clenched and his stride was long. Even from thirty yards away, Cole could make out his fury by the way his shoulders pressed together and his fists clenched at his sides. Cole stood his ground, letting Parson come to him.
“How dare you?” Parson hissed, the veins in his forehead popping. “You summon me? You break into my headquarters? You invade my personal space? Let me remind you,” he continued, jabbing one finger into Cole’s chest, “you are working for me. Discretion is paramount.” He paused, taking a breath, and Cole took the opportunity to break in.
“I’m not doing it,” he said, his voice firm. “You think you can make me do your dirty work? There were a few things you left out. As far as I’m concerned, all bets are off. I’m out.”
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