You have Coppers who want the power to protect, and Coppers

  who simply want the power. That’s it. There’s no in between.

  —SERGEANT ARTHUR CROFT,

  COPPER PUBLIC ORDER DIVISION

  CHAPTER 13

  Dad’s news gives me the pick-me-up I needed. The doubt, apprehension, and even the fear fade the moment he hangs up. I quickly call Charlotte to explain what’s happened, then collapse into bed. For seven long hours, I drift in darkness so deep it feels like death. At 5:00 p.m., the mechanical hands of Pinkies bring me back to life, working swiftly to prepare me for the Stag Leap Gala.

  I keep my hair out of my face in a solid yet stylish updo. If shit hits the fan, I need to be able to see which way it’s flying. My emerald velvet gown, glittering like champagne in a glass, has a fitted strapless bodice and a flowing skirt that moves easily with me if I need to run.

  Using the mirror on my vanity, I pin Dad’s daffodil brooch onto my gown while a Pinkie straps a pair of sparkly slingback heels onto my feet. I’d rather skip the heels, especially tonight, but the dress code requires them.

  Winston Glass’s gift arrived while I was asleep. The Pinkies remove the small, circular, metal device from a box engraved with the Cerebrum sunburst logo and attach it to my chest. The device chafes uncomfortably beneath my gown and is so bulky it feels like I’ve sprouted a third boob.

  Dad promised he’d keep his phone on during the Bridge Banquet, but I don’t plan to call him. Tonight, whatever happens, I face it alone.

  By the time my Pinkie bodyguards and I join Charlotte on the beach, the last rays of sunset are fading beyond the horizon. Thick fog rolls off the cliffs, carrying the brackish scent of brine and wet stone. Six hoverships with full white sails jut from the sand like treasures swept in with the tide. Students, bundled in fur stoles and wool coats, huddle in clusters, quietly speculating about the Stag Leap Gala.

  I lean in to eavesdrop on a pair of students whispering about the traditional hazing ritual for first-years. If we can reach the seventh story of the Speakeasy before dawn, they say, we’ll win a mysterious prize.

  “Students rarely make it to the top,” a doe-eyed girl says to the broad-shouldered boy beside her. “What makes you think you will?”

  The boy grins. “Perhaps I received an inside tip.”

  I turn away, hoping this contest won’t be a distraction. Charlotte and I can’t afford to be slowed down. The instant we step into the Speakeasy, we need to find a place to hide.

  We board the first-year hovership and push through the crowd to the bow, where the rising tide crashes against the hull, sending up a fine mist that clings to our skin. The atmosphere here is hushed and somber. Pale faces glow under the deck lights, eyes fixed on the Speakeasy’s invisible shape in the dark. I can feel the other students’ thoughts as if spoken aloud: What’s it really like up there?

  The hovership lifts off with a shudder. A collective gasp rises from the students as the beach drops away, and we soar toward the cliffs. Icy wind tugs at our gowns, suits, and carefully styled hair. I brace myself on the railing as the hovership gains speed, sailing higher until the dazzling bronze lights of the Speakeasy wink through the fog.

  The Speakeasy is even bigger than I imagined, yet the cypress grove conceals it like a secret. The seven-story lodge is built of pine and stone, likely sourced from the surrounding area, where massive boulders and wind-warped pines scatter across misty heather fields. The arching porticoes rest on large columns of raw timber, their silhouettes framed by double-hung windows that mirror a sky brushed with stars. Hundreds of armed Coppers patrol the grounds, stationed at the entrances, among the trees, and even on the balconies and rooftops.

  Our hovership lands on an airstrip behind the lodge. Pinkies descend swiftly and herd us toward discreet side entrances. Nearby, parties of Blues are welcomed through the grand front portico. Charlotte and I choose a side door leading to the east wing of the Oval Floor, where fewer Blues are likely to be. It’s quieter and safer, and it provides a direct route to the second-floor private rooms in the Triangle. To reach it, we have to slip past one of the four staircases on the first floor, because in the Speakeasy, elevators don’t exist. You either climb or you don’t move.

  While a Copper at the door scans our Blood Rings, Charlotte grips my hand. Her tense, terrified expression mirrors my own. It feels like we’re at the starting line at our old track meets, the anxious anticipation before the gunshot, when we launched into the race and ran for medals and glory.

  This time, we run to survive.

  The Speakeasy doors open like gates to another world. Even though we’re using a side entrance, the party is in full swing, with music loud enough to shake the ceiling. A holographic jazz band, high on a velvet-curtained stage, is the room’s main entertainment. Trumpets blast. Horns wail. A pianist slams the keys as if they’re on fire. Each beat pushes the crowd further, encouraging them to dance as freely as they wish.

  At the coat check, students throw off their furs and hats. Pinkies scramble to keep up, but the pile on the floor grows, trampled and crawled over by overly eager students. They surge forward like a wave crashing over the cocktail bars and onto the dance floor.

  Charlotte and I don’t stop long enough to shed our coats. The glowing shapes of my Pinkies are barely visible in the crush of bodies as we run. I ignore the pinching pain of my slingback heels and slip through a set of double doors into a gambling lounge. We cover ground quickly by sticking to the room’s edges. The staircase to the second floor looms ahead, and I tighten my grip on Charlotte’s hand as we join the line of students. They’re restless, jostling and pushing to get ahead, eager to climb and claim whatever prize waits at the top.

  But we can’t climb yet.

  Twenty Pinkies stand guard at the base, hemmed in by tables laden with crystal flutes of colorful alcohol. A gilded sign gleams in the low light: Wisely choose or sorely lose.

  “What is this bullshit?” Charlotte says, her chest heaving. Her cheeks are flushed, but as a long-distance runner, I know she’s still got plenty of wind left. “We’re not in it for the stupid prize. We just need to get to the second floor.”

  “Apologies, miss,” a Pinkie replies mechanically. “All students must consume a drink before proceeding.”

  I scan the drinks without the slightest clue. Most students choose the clear liquids and toss them back before heading up the stairs. I shift uneasily, watching the line inch forward. Then I hear the sound of vomiting. Two students, mid-climb, suddenly double over and splash clear liquid onto the steps.

  “Pick a colorful one,” I tell Charlotte.

  “That doesn’t exactly narrow it down.” Her eyes dart over the endless rainbow of options. “I’m not a lucky person, Lore.”

  “Then go with your gut.”

  I grab a glass of a streaked purple-and-pink mixture, while Charlotte chooses a bright green concoction. We throw them back in unison. Mine tastes like a sweet blend of berries and champagne.

  “How do you feel?” I ask, wiping droplets from my mouth.

  Charlotte grimaces. “It was sour, but fine… so far.”

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  We toss our empty glasses onto the trays and race up the winding staircase. Behind us, the chatter and laughter from the gambling lounge fade into distant echoes. All that’s left is the sound of our heavy breathing.

  Ahead, the doors of the Triangle come into view, their edges flickering with light. Relief builds in my chest, fragile and all too brief. It shatters the moment I see two Coppers patrolling at the top of the stairs. Their helmeted heads swing back and forth, as if searching for someone. One spots me, nudges the other, and both begin descending toward us.

  “Shit,” I gasp.

  “What’s wrong?” Charlotte asks, just before spotting the Coppers, too.

  We turn and rush back the way we came. My Pinkies follow us down the steps until heavy boots echo from below. Shadows stretch along the walls as two more Coppers appear, ascending the stairs with long strides.

  Charlotte’s hand clamps around my arm so tightly I can feel her pulse pounding through her palm. “What the hell is going on, Lore?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, racking my brain for another way out. Running from Coppers is illegal, but the law feels distant and meaningless now. For all I know, these Coppers could be here to kill me, like the one on the Regal Express.

  The Coppers weave through students on the staircase with unwavering focus. Around me, the walls seem to close in. There’s no side exit or window to escape through. We’re trapped.

  One of the Coppers halts on the step above us. The others remain behind him, hands resting loosely on their firearm holsters.

  “Good evening, Miss Waldsten,” the Copper says, bowing in greeting.

  The T-visor on his gunmetal gray helmet reflects the lights from the tiered chandeliers overhead, making it look like he’s winking at us. The sandalwood scent of cologne clings faintly to his starched uniform, but it’s the Blood Ring on his thumb that draws my attention. He’s a Purple, which is unusual because Purples generally lack the physical strength to become Coppers.

  Clearly, he’s an exception.

  “Your presence has been formally requested,” he says. “I am here to escort you.”

  “Escort me where, officer? Who made the request?”

  “My orders do not permit me to disclose details.”

  “Then I deny the request.”

  The Purple Copper cocks his head, mildly surprised by my refusal. “You are not at liberty to refuse this meeting, Miss Waldsten. If you do not allow me to escort you willingly, I shall use force.”

  The severity of his tone tells me he’s not bluffing. I can’t afford to lose civil credits, but if he’s escorting me to my death, I’d be a fool to go willingly. Charlotte, still standing beside me, squeezes my hand.

  “Then use force, officer,” I say.

  The Purple Copper turns on the Pinkies and waves his Blood Ring, transferring his orders into their systems. Within seconds, the robots process the command and step aside.

  Outranked.

  The Coppers descend on us in a sudden, brutal strike. Two of them seize Charlotte and drag her up the staircase as she thrashes and screams. The others grab me, their hands like shackles on my arms, hauling me backward as my heels scrape the stair carpet. I clutch Winston Glass’s gift, still attached to my chest. The device is meant to activate and protect me when I’m under threat.

  But it doesn’t.

  I fight with more desperation than reason, my legs lashing out and my body flailing. Instinct kicks in, and I twist with sudden force, wrench one arm free, and drive the edge of my hand toward the Purple Copper’s exposed throat. He tries to tuck his chin, but it’s too late. The blow sends him gasping and buckling over. The other Copper—a Green like me—quickly puts me in a wrist lock. I struggle, each movement a shock of pain as his grip tightens.

  My Pinkies gather around me in a protective circle. Their presence should soothe me, but I know the robots will only intervene if my life is in immediate danger.

  “Three of you, go with Charlotte!” I shout.

  The Pinkies break off and follow Charlotte’s echoing cries upstairs, while the rest of the robots remain with me, monitoring the Coppers.

  Although the gambling lounge is busier than before, no one looks up from their cards or seems to notice my struggle. Most are absorbed in betting on a cobra fighting a mongoose. The Coppers drag me past one of the corner bars into a cellar lined with wooden shelves of wine and spirits, where a lone Pinkie stands guard.

  The robot scans the Coppers’ Blood Rings, then asks, “Where to?”

  “The Trophy Club,” the Purple Copper replies.

  The name sets my mind working. Trophy Club? The words mean nothing, yet I know they should. I frantically search my memory of the Speakeasy’s blueprints. Did Charlotte and I miss something?

  The Pinkie rotates a bottle of glistening cognac on the shelf. There’s a soft click, and a hidden door in the shelf swings open, revealing a corridor bathed in lamplight. At the end, I spot a row of elevators—elevators that aren’t supposed to exist in the Speakeasy. That’s when I realize.

  The Trophy Club isn’t on the blueprints.

  ***

  When I finally stop struggling, it’s not because the Coppers are too strong or because it’s clear I’ve entered high-citizen territory. I stop because of my civil credit status. The chart on my Bond, a stark, real-time tally of my behavior, displays two new alerts.

  7:32 P.M.: FAILURE TO OBEY A LAWFUL ORDER. MINUS 40 CIVIL CREDITS.

  7:34 P.M.: BATTERY ON A LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICER. MINUS 100 CIVIL CREDITS.

  Fuck. That leaves me with only 354 credits. I absolutely can’t afford another deduction. If I drop below 200, I risk expulsion.

  My fists unclench, and anger gives way to frustration as I cling to the thought that restraint is a matter of survival rather than submission. Deep down, I wonder if there’s any difference.

  The Coppers push me into a narrow elevator designed to travel through the Speakeasy’s hidden arteries. Only three people fit inside. The Purple Copper rides with me and one of my Pinkies, while the Green Copper and my remaining two Pinkies pile into the neighboring elevator.

  The control panel displays unfamiliar titles: The Lucky Dice Loft, The Smoky Cabaret, The Midnight Terrace, and The Bronze Taproom. None of these places appears on the Speakeasy’s blueprints, meaning there’s a secret world inside the lodge, built for Blues alone.

  The Purple Copper presses the Trophy Club button, and the elevator lifts off. He draws a hoarse breath, as if my throat punch caused damage, and then raises the visor of his helmet to reveal his face. He’s young, probably in his late twenties, with a neat straw-blonde comb-over and an aquiline nose that Vivian wouldn’t hesitate to compliment.

  I press my back against the elevator wall, trying to pull myself together. The questions come faster than I can answer them. Where is the Purple Copper taking me? Who called this meeting? And why now?

  My gown clings to my legs, soaked in a film of sweat. I shrug off my coat and hand it to my Pinkie. The Purple Copper brushes a finger across his bruised throat, his eyes fixed on the elevator buttons, but I know he’s aware of every move I make.

  I text Charlotte on my Bond: “I’m all right. Are you?”

  “The Coppers brought me to a private room on the second floor, then left,” she replies. “Your Pinkies are with me, but… Lore, I don’t feel so good.”

  My thoughts flash to the bright green liquid Charlotte drank earlier. Could it have been more than just alcohol? If so, she’s going to get sick, or worse.

  “Call Jack to pick you up,” I text.

  “No, Lore. I’d rather choke on my own vomit than ask him for help again. I texted Dickie, but he didn’t answer.”

  I know why he’s not answering. Dickie made it clear he’s done sticking his neck out for us. But this favor involves no risk. Charlotte just needs help getting back to the Green Dormitory.

  I pull up Dickie’s contact and text, “Charlotte’s sick on the second floor. Please help her.”

  Three dots appear, a sign Dickie is typing, but then they vanish.

  He leaves me on read.

  Shit.

  I fire a text to Charlotte: “Dickie’s a no-go. Call the medics now.”

  The message fails to send.

  My shaky breathing fills the silence as I look around the cramped elevator. Wherever the Purple Copper is taking me, the internet must be blocked. I reach for Dad’s daffodil brooch pinned to my gown, trying to activate the camera, but it fails. The camera should work without an internet connection, so it must’ve been damaged in the struggle with the Coppers.

  “I know who you are,” the Purple Copper says. His shoulders are hunched, as if bracing for something.

  “Then you’ll understand why I denied the request for this meeting,” I say.

  “I’m simply following orders, Miss Waldsten.”

  I’ve heard those words before, back in the locker room, standing over Charles Blackwell’s dead body. The Coppers dragged me away, throwing me into a holding cell without food for two days until surveillance footage proved I acted in self-defense. How many times have Coppers like him used those words to absolve themselves of responsibility or guilt?

  “There’s no need to be afraid,” he continues. “I’ll stay outside during the meeting and personally escort you to a destination of your choice afterward.”

  If I believed he was telling the truth, I might feel hopeful.

  The elevator stops on the fourth floor, and the doors open to a long, empty corridor. Everything feels deceptively silent, yet faint echoes of conversations, laughter, and the occasional clink of glasses drift through the walls from the private lounges lining the hallway.

  The Green Copper and my two Pinkies join us a moment later, falling into step behind us. My feet are starting to blister in my heels, and I focus on the discomfort to ground myself.

  At the end of the corridor, a stone wall looms, broken only by a single wooden door. The Purple Copper dismisses the Green Copper with a nod, then turns to me.

  “I’ll await you here. Your humanoids may accompany you.”

  He scans his Blood Ring on a biometric panel, and the door swings open with a rush of smoky heat. Firelight flickers across the stone walls, illuminating a lone figure seated in a leather armchair. I don’t need to see her face. I recognize the tall profile, the sleek black bob, and the springer spaniel at her feet.

  Irene.