A murderer is judged by the kill; a hunter, by the restraint to forgo it.

  —ELEANOR CLARKE, DANGEROUS-GAME HUNTER

  CHAPTER 16

  Confusion roots me to the floor in the doorway. If Irene wanted a meeting, why didn’t she reply to Dickie’s text? And if this isn’t about a meeting, if she brought me here to kill me, why go to all the trouble? There must be easier ways than involving the Coppers, risking a surveillance trail, and forcing me here against my will.

  The Purple Copper nudges me into the room, then closes the door behind me. I glance back, and the door is gone, hidden behind the mounted head of a taxidermied elk. Its antlers resemble a crown of knives, with nine points on the left and eleven on the right.

  I inch forward, but even with the click of my heels, Irene remains still in her armchair. All her focus is fixed on an outdated bolt-action rifle—more museum piece than weapon—disassembled on the table in front of her. She runs an oiled cloth along the silver-inlaid barrel, carefully wiping away the residue of burned powder. She looks ready to hunt in a heavy, forest-green woolen jacket with leather buttons and embroidery spilling down the lapels, featuring oak leaves and pheasants. There’s a spatter of dark blood on one of the sleeves.

  Five other Blues lounge in armchairs by the fire, the same women Irene was with in the dining hall. Their conversation fades to whispers as I pass. Judging by their clothes, they’re hunters like Irene. A few of them enjoy cigars and blended whiskey in crystal glasses, but there’s no mistaking their readiness for a fight.

  I edge closer to Irene, still trailed by my three Pinkies. Overhead, security camera lights blink in the ceiling shadows. When I reach the table, Irene finally sets the oiled rag down and rises from the armchair.

  Up close, I realize she’s even taller than I thought. Her intelligent blue eyes sweep over me in a way that feels surgical, from the hem of my gown to the arch of my neck and the set of my jaw. I get the distinct impression she’s comparing herself to me, and when a slow, confident smile spreads across her face, I know she’s decided she’s won.

  In the Speakeasy, where etiquette rules are absent, I’m unsure how to greet her. But a memory surfaces, my fencing instructor’s advice before we traveled to the Rainbow District for the Junior World Fencing Championship: Greet every Blue the same. Smile and curtsy, no matter what.

  So, I do it.

  Irene’s expression hardens instantly. “Wipe that look off your face, Miss Waldsten. Smiles aren’t for pleasantries. They’re for triumphs.”

  I drop the smile, hating my fencing instructor.

  Irene turns away, and as she reassembles the rifle, I notice her engagement ring from Edmund, set with a sapphire so large I’m surprised she can lift her hand. “Is it true,” she says, “that you were invited to Mr. Prew’s private salon on the Regal Express?”

  The question catches me off guard. Edmund? I thought Irene dragged me here because of Bliss. The ban has knocked her entire future off track. Rapture, worth fifty billion and operating a large-scale Bliss manufacturing network across the Civilized World, is the backbone of the Hussey family’s wealth and power. Thanks to Dad, that empire ground to a halt overnight. As the sole heiress of Rapture, Irene has spent the last two days watching her future gutted like one of her kills. Is she really going to take this lying down?

  “Yes,” I reply cautiously.

  “And how was Mr. Prew’s physical state?”

  I recall Edmund’s sweaty face, the scratches on his skin smeared with blood, his torn vest, and his damp hair sticking wildly to his forehead. I tell Irene as much, but the words don’t sit right in my mouth. Something doesn’t add up.

  Jack and Dickie told me that Edmund was with Irene before he discovered Charlotte and me in his salon. That’s not true, though. I can see it in the way Irene snaps the rifle parts together with angry clicks.

  “Did Mr. Prew mention which salon he was in previously?” she asks.

  “No. Mr. Carroway and Mr. Langley told me he was with you.”

  Irene’s mind works for a moment before the coldness in her eyes begins to ease. “I have an offer for you, Miss Waldsten.” She pauses to replace the rifle magazine, punching it firmly into place with her palm. Then she slides the bolt back and forth to check the action. “I wish for you to befriend Mr. Prew and remain in his company. During that time, you’ll provide me with a list of everyone he meets with, except Mr. Carroway and Mr. Langley. Most importantly, you’ll uncover the identities of the women he’s meeting with.”

  Women? I suddenly realize the lipstick smudge I saw on Edmund’s cheek on the train wasn’t Irene’s. Is he cheating on her? Beneath the anger tightening her face, I notice traces of humiliation, even a flicker of hurt. It makes me wonder whether, despite the Tattletale article claiming that Irene and Edmund despise each other, there’s still something between them, at least on her end.

  “You want to make a formal agreement?” I ask.

  “No.” Irene crouches and strokes the springer spaniel beneath the table. “You’ll take me at my word.”

  There can only be one reason for that. She doesn’t want our agreement on record. A high-citizen asking a low-citizen to expose a cheating fiancé—Irene can’t risk that getting out.

  “What are your terms?”

  The five Blues rise from their chairs in quiet, synchronized motion. As they pull up behind Irene, my Pinkies close around me, forming a defensive line.

  “You have until December to uncover the women’s identities,” Irene says. “After that, you’ll drop out of Grandmaster and return to the Green District.”

  “And if I don’t find out who the women are?”

  “Then the deal is void.”

  I pause to make Irene think I’m considering her offer. I find her fixation on the women odd. People say there’s hardly a Blue marriage without infidelity, mainly because most are arranged. The promise of unfaithfulness is practically built into the proposal itself. Irene had to know what she was getting into when she agreed to marry Edmund.

  “Why do you want their names?” I ask.

  “I wish to know who has dishonored me.”

  I nod slowly as I begin to understand. If Irene learns these women’s names, the dishonor will be enough to challenge each of them to a death duel. She’s asking me to serve the women up on a silver platter so she can kill them.

  Irene’s friends close in until they’re shoulder to shoulder with her. Their saber hilts glint from their scabbards, daring me to refuse.

  My options are clear, opening like roads before me. If I refuse, I’m dead. If I agree, I might as well be. All the roads lead to the same place: a cage wrapped in the illusion of safety, waiting for me to lock myself inside. Harrison faced the same choice. So did hundreds of other low-citizens before me. Harrison was right when he said that this shit sells itself. We bend to the Blues to survive, even if it means breaking ourselves.

  I see that now, and I accept it.

  But that Blue will never be Irene.

  “No,” I say.

  “You would dare defy a high-citizen?” Irene draws closer, her shadow swallowing me whole. “You might think you have protection, Miss Waldsten, but there’s no one left to offer it.”

  The words settle in my mind like a cold, heavy weight. One of the women standing behind Irene smiles, as if she knows something I don’t.

  My hand closes around Winston Glass’s gift, still fixed to my chest. The device failed to protect me from the Coppers before, so I know there’s no point hoping it’ll save me now. Coming here was a coin flip with no winning side. But I can’t crawl into Irene’s pocket to buy time. If I do, she’ll own me like one of her trophies. Sooner or later, she’ll push for more, maybe even demand that I publicly denounce Dad or the Bliss ban, and I’ll have no power to refuse. I’ll be her hostage, her low-citizen lapdog. And when Dad finds out, he’ll never forgive me.

  “Not the high-citizens,” I say. “Just you.”

  The words barely leave my mouth when Irene’s friends lunge. The Pinkies spring into action, sleek pistols snapping from their wrists. The robots form a wall in front of me, a last line of defense. The Blues move with blurring speed, locking onto the Pinkies before they can fire a single shot. Sparks fly as mechanical limbs are ripped from joints and hurled across the room. The robots’ graphene alloy torsos crumple under the assault. Smoke hisses from the wreckage, and the air is choked with the stench of scorched circuits.

  Irene leaps over the wreckage, closing the gap between us. With a brutal, fluid motion, she brings the stock of her rifle to her shoulder and slides back the bolt, chambering a round. Then she locks onto me, her cheek pressed against the stock as she sights down the barrel. A slow exhale escapes her lips, and she disengages the safety.

  Then, without a hint of hesitation, she squeezes the rifle trigger.

  Time slows. I expect my life to flash before my eyes, but instead I recall a single memory of a garden, a rose, and a thorn.

  I was five. My tiny fingers reached for the flower, then jerked back when a thorn pricked me. The shock of green blood welling from the wound made me cry. Dad knelt beside me, trying to calm me, but no words could cut through my tears. So he took the stem, pressed his thumb to the thorn, and pricked himself, too.

  Blood dripped down his palm, green like mine. Dad held his hand up to my face, his baritone voice steady and sure. “The world doesn’t care about you, Loredana. If you bleed on the ground, the ground will drink it. But family is different. No matter how old I get or how far away I might be, I’ll always fight to keep you safe.”

  Dad never broke that promise. Not then or now, even as the ground again waits for my blood.

  The rifle fires, and the recoil jolts through Irene’s shoulder like a hammer. But just as the bullet leaves the chamber, a roar echoes in response. Blinding yellow light erupts as the device on my chest activates, and a shield materializes, its blazing energy flaring into a protective wall that envelops me completely. My ears ring from the gunshot, and what follows seems to happen in a soundless room.

  Irene’s bullet strikes the shield, and the surface ripples, generating a pulse of energy that sends the round flying. The bullet ricochets and shatters a decanter in a spray of whiskey and glass. Irene lets out a muffled cry of shock. She staggers backward, nearly tripping over her spaniel as the rifle slips from her hands and clatters to the floor.

  Irene and her friends shrink into the corners of the lounge. Their eyes are fixed on the glowing shield around me, their faces frozen in disbelief.

  I can’t believe it either.

  Winston Glass gave me more than a gift. He gave me a prototype still in development, something most people, including Blues, don’t know exists.

  A creaking door breaks the silence. The women’s heads snap toward the elk-head door as it swings open, revealing the Purple Copper. His expression morphs from neutral to alarmed as he takes in the shredded Pinkies, the destroyed lounge, and the armed Blues.

  “Miss Waldsten, are you—”

  The Purple Copper falters when he spots the shield, glowing around me like a halo. His eyes widen, linger for a moment, then his hand jumps to the plasma pistol holstered on his hip.

  “In the name of the law, you will sheathe your weapons and stand aside.” He aims his pistol at the Blues, holds it in a double-handed grip, and pulls the charging handle.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Irene grits her teeth. All her weight shifts as if she’s about to rush the Purple Copper, until one of her friends grabs her shoulder.

  I bolt toward the door, my thoughts reeling. I’m shocked the shield worked, shocked the Purple Copper kept his word, and most of all, shocked that Irene actually tried to kill me. There’s no way she and her Blues could have bypassed the Speakeasy’s surveillance. So what the hell was their plan?

  “An earnest effort, Miss Waldsten,” Irene calls from behind me. “But boots are faster than heels.”

  I’m unsure of her meaning until I notice the rapid change in the shield. The walls are fading to a pale, sickly hue, and the hum grows fainter as the electromagnetic energy sputters like a dying engine.

  Dad warned me there’s no way to control the device manually. The shield is a prototype and still prone to glitches. It might cut off too early or fail to activate when I need it most.

  When I reach the door, the shield sputters loudly, then the glow around me dies.

  The Purple Copper meets my gaze, his face lit with sudden, frantic clarity. “Shit,” he breathes. “Run.”

  We hurl ourselves into the corridor. Then we’re sprinting, feet pounding the floor, breaths coming fast and ragged as the elevators loom at the far end. Behind us, sabers spring to life with an electric whir.

  “Faster!” the Purple Copper shouts.

  I push harder, each step agony as my stiletto straps bite into my blistered ankles. The Purple Copper scans his Blood Ring against every private salon door we pass. One. Two. Three. The doors keep rejecting us, their lights flashing red.

  The thunder of boots grows louder. When I hear a clicking sound, like a rifle bolt sliding back, I know Irene is right behind me.

  On the fourth try, a salon door finally opens. I launch through, and one of my stiletto heels snaps as I hit the floor. The Purple Copper spins, slams the door shut, and locks it with a swipe of his Blood Ring.

  The banging starts immediately. Dents bloom across the titanium, and the door shudders with each strike.

  “Can they unlock it?” I rasp, eyeing the plasma pistol in the Purple Copper’s hand. Even with a full seventeen-round charge, it won’t save us.

  “No.” He backs away from the door. “Blue salons can’t be unlocked from the outside while they’re in use.”

  The pounding intensifies, each blow rattling the lamps on the tables near the sofas. The titanium door groans as if it might split open.

  Then… silence.

  The Purple Copper and I exchange a tense glance, sweat and fear tangling between us.

  Minutes crawl by before either of us moves. I pull myself onto one of the sofas and strip off my heels. My feet are a mess, the blisters torn and oozing. The pain cuts through my panic.

  Beside me, the Purple Copper kneels with a pale, focused expression. His fingers fly over the controls of the comm-link embedded in a bracelet on his wrist, tapping through menus and flicking between channels.

  “No reception,” he mutters. “Emergency channels are silent, too. This isn’t right.” He cycles through encrypted frequencies, desperate yet methodical. Static greets him on each channel. “Something’s blocking them. Or us.”

  “Could it be the room?” I ask.

  “No. Something else. I don’t know what.”

  It strikes me then that we’re trapped in this room until the Stag Leap Gala ends. All. Night. Long. But at least we’re alive.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I thought you were lying about helping me earlier.”

  The Purple Copper pauses, rubbing the swollen bruise on his neck where I hit him. Then he holds out his hand. “Sergeant Arthur Croft.”

  I shake it with a faint smile. “Loredana Waldsten.”

  “Glad to meet you, miss.”

  He sits on the sofa beside me, and we wait a long time, listening for sounds outside the door. The seconds stretch too long, and the silence is so heavy it seems to seep into the walls, the floor, and us. Croft continues working his comm-link, with no better results, and I notice the confusion on his face slowly turn to worry. Eventually, I grow restless and glance around for a distraction.

  The lounge is lush and cozy, but the walls spoil the illusion. They’re covered from floor to ceiling with glowing digital photographs. Hundreds scroll and shift, each new image fading into the next.

  I step closer for a better look. Photos of smiling faces fill my vision, a constellation of power staring back at me. Politicians. Tech moguls. Scientists. Celebrities.

  And then… Dad?

  He appears in one of the old photos, captured mid-laugh, in a moment from decades past. He’s wearing his Fraternity uniform, his flat-top cap tilted at a roguish angle, and there’s a wild, carefree spark in his eyes I haven’t seen since I was a child.

  For a moment, I take in the image with a stinging heart. Then my gaze shifts, and I feel the air leave my lungs as if I were gut-punched.

  Standing beside Dad, with an arm draped over his shoulder, is President Theodore Reeve when he was a student. An unlit cigarette dangles from Reeve’s mouth, and he’s wearing his own Fraternity uniform, the vivid blue clashing with Dad’s green. The shadow that usually casts sadness over Reeve’s face is gone, as if whatever caused it hasn’t happened yet. He looks genuinely happy.

  What the fuck?

  Dad always said to stay away from Blues. Time and again, he warned me never to get close to them, much less trust them. And yet here he is, looking like a best friend to one of the most powerful Blues.

  Croft, noticing my alarm, steps closer. “Something wrong, miss?”

  “No, I just—”

  The crash of shattering glass cuts me off. We both spin toward the door, where a dark shape moves beneath the narrow gap and across the floor over the broken glass. I stagger back, my pulse spiking as deathstalker scorpions skitter toward us in a pale, glistening stream.

  Croft doesn’t bother drawing his weapon. The scorpions are everywhere, far too many. Their claws scrape the floor, and their tails lash back and forth as they scurry closer.

  I leap onto the nearest sofa and tear the digital photographs off the walls, hoping to find a hidden door or window. Then I spot the ceiling vent.

  “There!” I cry, pointing to the vent. “Give me a boost!”

  Croft sidesteps a swarm of scorpions and locks his hands together. “Hurry, miss,” he shouts as more deathstalkers close in, their claws clicking at a frenzied pace.

  I step on his hands and push off hard enough to grab the grate, then curse when I realize it’s bolted in place. I punch hard, my knuckles cracking against the metal. Blood spurts across the grate, but my adrenaline is too high to register pain.

  Croft staggers beneath my weight. The scorpions are swarming the sofa now, a feverish, poisonous mass. My heart kicks wildly as I continue punching the grate. Then, my fist tears through the metal, right into the hollow shaft above. Blood winds down my arm in thin trails as I grab the edges of the grate and pull until the screws loosen and fall away with a clatter. I tear off the grate, dropping it as I pull myself up into the shaft, my breath sawing in and out of my lungs.

  Croft bites off a curse. His eyes are wild as he leaps over a patch of scorpions and swings onto the sofa’s headrest.

  “Jump!” I yell.

  He does, throwing all his weight into the jump, his hands catching mine as I brace myself. My body nearly rips free from the shaft at the contact. Fear flashes in Croft’s eyes, and for a moment, I know he thinks I’m going to let him drop to a horrible, painful death. I grit my teeth, muscles straining as I pull with every ounce of my engineered strength. I lift him high enough to grip the vent opening before letting go. Then we’re both inside, panting and gasping for air.

  Croft pulls his dangling legs out of the vent opening and slides deeper into the shaft, his face glistening with sweat. Only then do I slump against the shaft’s cold wall, my knees trembling so hard they knock together.

  “Thank you,” Croft says, his voice hoarse. “For a second, I thought—”

  “I know,” I say.

  He wipes the sweat from his face with a trembling hand, then checks his comm-link. Whatever was blocking reception is gone, and the comm is beeping now, a flood of messages pouring in. His eyes darken as he reads.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Follow me,” Croft commands, already crawling through the shaft.

  My torn knuckles scream as I scramble after him on all fours. We weave through countless twists and turns before descending a long ladder to the level below. I can almost feel the lodge’s weight pressing down on me with bone-crushing force. The air is mostly fresh, indicating the system is working properly, but some pockets still carry a corrosive odor.

  Everywhere, the shaft vibrates with the groan of pipes, the creak of wood, and the whir of fans. It’s as if I’m inside a body, hearing every sound of its functioning while crawling upward through its organs. The experience awakens a horror of narrow spaces I didn’t know I had. Occasionally, the skirt of my gown snags on an unseen edge. At one point, I even feel something soft and fleshy squish beneath my hand. Probably a dead rat, but I’d rather not consider the possibilities.

  Time drags on. Now and then, a grate in the shaft appears, revealing glimpses of the rooms below. The more I see, the more familiar the Speakeasy’s layout becomes. This is the third floor, the Diamond.

  In the distance, faint cries reach my ears. They grow louder and more desperate as Croft and I move toward the next grate. I peer through the slats. When I see what lies beyond, a scream wells in my throat, choked off only at the last second.

  A body swings from a noose tied to a chandelier, its glassy eyes staring vacantly as Blues swarm the room below. At least a hundred Blues surround two more terrified low-citizen students, who are backed into a corner and protected by energy shields like mine. But Winston Glass’s invention is barely holding against the assault. The Blues batter the shields with furniture. One throws a chair, then ducks as it ricochets in a spray of splintered wood. Jeering voices cut through the chaos.

  “Your president is dead,” dozens of Blues chant. “Your parents are dead. Soon, you’ll be dead with them.” Outside the room, fists pound on the doors. A Copper’s voice warns that if the Blues don’t unlock the door, his team will break it down.

  I freeze, unable to crawl another inch.

  President Reeve is dead?

  Shock slams into me like a hard brake. My mind somersaults, theories firing too quickly and erratically to form anything coherent. Then everything narrows to one gut-wrenching thought: a coup attempt. Not just an attempt, but a success. That’s why Sergeant Croft’s comm wasn’t working. The group behind the coup is trying to control the flow of information during the critical hours after the president’s assassination.

  The night reorders itself, pieces locking into place to form a terrifying sequence of events. The Blues in the Speakeasy probably heard about the assassination in the minutes before the networks went dark. With Reeve dead, they felt emboldened to go after the children of the representatives who had voted to ban Bliss. It’s the only scenario that fits, and it explains why Irene didn’t hesitate to try to kill me.

  Then another realization strikes, even more sickening than the first.

  Dad. He was with Reeve at the Bridge Banquet tonight.

  I dial Dad’s number with frantic speed. The call goes straight to voicemail. Panic and rage rip through me, blasting away my fear as I watch the Blues in the room below. If any of their kind touches Dad, no amount of civil credit deduction will stop me. I’ll break my weapons restriction and kill every Blue I see.

  “Is it true?” I whisper to Croft. My voice sounds distant, as if someone else is speaking. “Is President Reeve dead?”

  “I don’t know, miss,” Croft says, but his grave expression suggests he fears the worst. “All that’s being reported is that he was shot.” He nudges me urgently. “Get moving. Climb out into the next empty room.”

  “What about you?”

  Croft gestures toward the door below, where the pounding grows more forceful. “I need to let the other Coppers in.”

  I glance at his pistol—seventeen plasma rounds against a hundred Blues—and I know what comes next. The Blues will kill him before he even reaches the lock.

  “Unbutton your shirt,” I say.

  Croft looks me over, confusion dulling his violet eyes, so I add, “Just do it.”

  He fumbles with the buttons on his shirt. I twist off the energy shield from my chest and press it onto his. The device emits a soft pulse of energy as it clicks into place.

  “Are you sure?” Croft asks, clutching the shield in disbelief.

  I swipe my Blood Ring over his to transfer my student ID number. “So you know where to send the shield when this is over.”

  I crawl on without looking back. If Croft gets caught, if the shield fails again, and he dies, I don’t want to see it.

  I redial Dad’s number. This time, he picks up.

  “Loredana!”

  His deep, breathless voice sends tears spilling down my cheeks. I never thought I’d be so happy to hear my own name.

  “Dad.” The word rips from me. “Are you okay?” The connection is shaky, cutting in and out.

  “There was an attack, Loredana,” he shouts, fighting to be heard over the noise around him. “The president was shot. Hide.”

  The call drops, leaving the shaft in brutal silence. Dad is alive. At least I know he’s alive.

  I dial Dickie’s number, expecting voicemail, but he answers on the first ring.

  “Broad?” he says in a jittery voice. The video feed flickers on, showing him huddled with his Pinkie chaperone under a cypress tree outside the Speakeasy, wrapped in the crinkled folds of a thermal shock blanket. His face is drained of color, making his freckles stand out in stark contrast.

  I stare past Dickie, and my eyes flare wide at the chaos. Students pour out of the Speakeasy in a frantic stampede, stumbling and pushing, people falling in the crush as they flood into the surrounding gardens. Some look confused about why they’re being evacuated, while others appear too drunk to care. Their angry shouts tangle with the blare of sirens and the chopping roar of rotor blades.

  Armed Coppers swarm the scene like hornets. Hovercars jerk to a stop, their doors flying open as more police leap into the fray, plasma rifles drawn and ready. Others shimmy down ropes from helicopters, their face shields glowing under searchlights that carve through the darkness. The Coppers storm the Speakeasy in coordinated waves, battering down doors and shouting commands.

  “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Dickie’s mouth quirks into a joyless smile.

  “What’s happening out there?” I rasp.

  “The Blues are losing it. Well, most of them, anyway. It’s all over the news, broad. They whacked President Reeve at the Bridge Banquet.”

  The shaft floor seems to drop out from under me.

  “So, he’s really dead?” I whisper.

  “Don’t know. The media’s being stingy with the details. Some say yes; others say no.” Dickie pulls his thermal shock blanket tighter. “The Blues strung up two students in the Gin Gallery. I didn’t see it, but I heard. For a minute there… I thought one of them might’ve been you.”

  “It almost was,” I say, my throat burning. “Where’s Charlotte?”

  “Jack picked her up. They’re on their way out.”

  I almost fold in half with relief. “Dickie—did Edmund kill anyone tonight? Any family members of the representatives?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Bank on it, broad. Ed fights his duels clean.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “The Lucky Dice Loft. It’s not officially mapped, but you’ll find it on the Diamond floor, between the Lindy Hop Ballroom and the Cigar Den.”

  I know where that is. I hang up without another word and crawl forward, my mind a relentless drumbeat: move, move, move. I know what I have to do.

  Even if this coup fails and Reeve somehow survives, the Blues won’t stop. They’ll keep coming for Reeve, for Dad, for every representative who stands in their way, for their families, and for me.

  Unless I make myself untouchable.

  I push harder, faster, my body a roaring machine fueled by adrenaline. Harrison’s harsh voice echoes in my mind, his warning on the jet: There might come a time when you won’t have a choice. When you’ll be forced to join an entourage.

  But Harrison was wrong. I do have a choice, and I’m making it now.

  I’m choosing Edmund Prew. I’m choosing to cross my line, crawl over it, and plant myself on the other side rather than die on it. Right now, survival is the only victory against the high-citizens hunting us, and I’m taking it.

  Whatever the cost.