TICK, TICK, TICK.
Natalya Filipova was dead. To every twenty-four-hour news station, the headline had fallen like manna from the heavens. The Matryoshka Princess. Russia’s pride, dead at twenty-five. Why? they asked. How? What’s next for the Sect as an organization, its agents, its Effigies?
Who would succeed her?
For the next week and a half, it was all the media could talk about. Why hadn’t the Sect confirmed the cause of death yet? When would the family release a statement? Why hadn’t they buried her? Nine days. And each day was a ticking clock, whittling down the time I had left.
I need to tell him, I thought for the thousandth time on Friday morning as I descended the stairs to the kitchen below.
Uncle Nathan’s cooking weighted the air with too many sinful aromas: bacon, pancakes, scrambled eggs. Plates of them were already on the table. He even had his ASK ME ABOUT MY MASCULINITY apron on, which, along with his floppy brown hair and thick black glasses, finished off his sensitive-hipster look.
Right now, the sensitivity thing was kind of the problem.
It never took the Sect too long to find the next Effigy. And then once they found me, how long would it be before my obituary ended up on the evening news? Maia Finley, sixteen, murdered fulfilling her duty in battle. Uncle Nathan had already lost his brother, his sister-in-law, his niece. Hell, he’d cried more than I did at the funeral. How long would it be until I was just another dead family member?
Regardless of how Uncle Nathan discovered the truth, his reaction would be the same: terror. He knew what being an Effigy meant. Still, it was better to find out from me and not some headline. Right?
“Maia! Great, you’re up on time!” He grinned with all his teeth, looking even younger than he actually was. He was so tall and scrawny that sometimes I forgot he was thirty. “Hungry?”
My lips felt dry. I turned away. To bide some time, I grabbed the remote control out from in between the cushions of our sofa, turned on the television, and there it was: Natalya’s funeral, broadcast on nearly every station.
“Oh, they’re doing that today?” Nathan asked. “It’s been a while since she died, hasn’t it?”
“The family wouldn’t release the body at first,” I said. “No clue why.”
A long procession was already making its way through the streets of Moscow, hundreds, maybe thousands of mourners lining the barricade for one final glimpse at the world’s heroine. Maybe Belle was there too, somewhere among the crowd, weeping with them. Crying over a dead loved one. An all-too-familiar scene for me.
The controller almost slipped from my hands.
“Maia?”
“I’m okay,” I said quickly. I couldn’t look at him. Instead I kept my eyes on the ivory horse-drawn carriage carrying Natalya’s body.
Uncle Nathan stayed silent for a time. “Maia, why don’t you turn that off and eat something before you go to school? I know you were a big fan of Natalya, but . . .” He paused, trying to find the right words. “You know. The whole . . . funeral . . . death thing.” He stopped.
I knew what he was trying to say in his own extremely clumsy way. I also knew why he was frying half the contents of our fridge, even if he wasn’t consciously aware of it himself: The anniversary was coming up. It would explain how uncomfortable the wailing from Natalya’s funeral had suddenly made him—the sound of televised grief blanketing him in painful memories.
Not just him.
The smell of burned pork pierced the air; Uncle Nathan had left the bacon on the pan for too long. Flicking off the heat, he hurriedly shifted the smoking pan onto the next burner.
I just watched him. “You okay over there?”
“’Course,” he answered hastily before wiping the sweat from his brow. “Anyway.” His face was still ruddy from the heat. “You really should turn that off. We’re already going to have enough gloom tonight, don’t you think?”
“Oh god,” I muttered under my breath. “So we’re still going to that dinner thing?”
“It’s the yearly benefit.” Nathan wiped his forehead again.
“And?”
“Your dad was in the company. Plus, didn’t your mom help organize the last two?”
“But she didn’t make me go then, and I don’t want to go now. Honestly it’s a bit hard to get excited at the prospect of being surrounded by stuffy people shooting pity glances at you when they think you’re not looking.” I slumped over the seat. “Then again, if either of us breaks down, I suppose it’ll make for good gossip. Wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the real reason they want us there.”
“Hey, I’m not thrilled about it either.” Uncle Nathan came around the counter. “Probably should have just said no in the first place. But I . . . I don’t know. The head organizer called me herself and insisted. I think they’re planning some kind of commemoration thing.”
“Oh, great.” Shine that spotlight even brighter. “And that made you say yes?”
“I guess they just wanted to honor them somehow. So do I.”
I stayed silent as he approached.
“Look.” Once he was close enough, he placed his hands on my shoulders. “It’s been almost one year since . . . since it happened.”
It. The “thing.” It was really the only way we could mention it around each other.
“It’s been hard,” he continued. “There’ve been lots of changes, for both of us. Tonight’ll probably be pretty hard too. But, hey, look at us.” He pointed at the mirror at the side of the wall, where his reflection gave me a smile so forced I had to lower my eyes. “We’re fine. Things are okay, right? Things have pretty much settled down.”
“Settled,” I repeated lifelessly.
“Right. We’ve survived a whole year. We’ll survive another. So don’t worry about tonight, okay? Or any other day for that matter. We’re okay, and it’s going to stay like that.”
During my third night living here, I’d snuck into Uncle Nathan’s room while he was sleeping to grab something for my headache. That’s when I’d noticed the self-help books. The lamp was still on, so I could see each of them strewn about the floor. Coping with Grief. Dealing with Loss. Exactly how many would he read once I was announced as the next Effigy? Once the Sect whisked me off to one of their training facilities to learn how to avoid being torn to shreds?
How many would he read once I died in battle?
Maybe some people were just supposed to lose everything.
“Maia? Hey, are you okay?”
I couldn’t tell him. I turned, hastily wiping my eyes. “I’m late; I should go.” Keeping my face hidden from his, I grabbed a single pancake off a plate, pulled my bag over my shoulder, and headed out the door.
Tick, tick. It was only a matter of time.
• • •
Seven o’clock. Just survive the night, I told myself in front of the mirror after strapping on my short peach dress like battle armor.
My dad had worked at Seymour and Finch, one of those research and development firms. They held their benefit dinner on the fifth floor of La Charte, some swanky hotel on the Lower East Side. All I’d have to do was survive a few hours and I’d be back in my room playing my PC games in peace. I couldn’t get out of it now.
“I think I left the water running,” I tried anyway as we rode the elevator from the underground parking lot. “Seriously. The whole house could be flooded by now. I don’t think the sofa can take it.”
Uncle Nathan fidgeted with his black tie like it was a ground-dwelling ectotherm coiling lovingly around his neck, which was why a dry cough came out of his mouth instead of the laugh he’d probably intended. “It’ll all be over soon.”
“He said before delivering the injection.”
“Truthfully?” Uncle Nathan sighed as the elevator slowed to a halt, live music muted behind the metal doors. “I think this’ll be more painful.”
Great. The doors opened. I kept my head down, steering clear of whatever black loafers and silk hems crossed my path. I navigated the halls, stepped over the ballroom threshold, and—
“Holy crap,” said Uncle Nathan.
The closest I’d ever been to luxury was streaming Celebrity Homes on my laptop instead of finishing a two-page essay on Hegel. So when I stepped into a ballroom made of pure white marble, I knew I was in over my head. Patrons clinked glasses underneath the high coffered ceiling, gossiping and laughing conspiratorially near columns that glimmered red under the cast-iron skylights. In front of a wide stage and translucent podium were rows of long tables covered in white linen, each one supporting a dozen neatly set crystal dishes. On the other side of the room, a photographer snapped pictures by a set of Victorian windows, the glass only partially veiled by champagne-colored drapes. What in the Gatsby hell?
I gripped Uncle Nathan’s arm, suddenly self-conscious enough to feel each swish of my dress against my legs. Thankfully, he chose a table near the back. I read off a card propped up on the white tablecloth. “Fourth Annual Global Orphans Foundation Benefit.” Of course it was.
Near the front stage, a live band played thirties-era swing over the chatter. Maybe it was a theme. I’d stupidly left my phone at home, so I couldn’t mindlessly peruse the internet. I would have been perfectly fine with spending the night quietly listening to the band from my seat, but I unfortunately ended up spending the next half hour suffering through the inanities of far too many people who, despite being at a benefit for orphans, didn’t seem to have the tact required to have a functional conversation with one.
Are you okay, do you need anything, how have you been, how are you holding up, oh she’s so young, oh it’s such a tragedy, isn’t it a tragedy?
I’d have appreciated the sympathy if it weren’t for the way they all gazed at me as if I were a stray in need of feeding and bathing and maybe regular sessions with a psychiatrist.
As innocently as I could make it look, my ginger ale tumbled out of my hands and crashed against the floor. “Uncle, would it be all right if I go get another one?”
“Go ahead. Really.” Uncle Nathan sounded seconds away from pulling the same line himself.
“Be right back.”
I passed the bar without a glance. Folding my arms to keep my hands from shaking, I crossed the ballroom with faster and faster steps until I reached the balcony, shut away behind double glass doors. With one violent heave I shoved them open, the sounds of the streets below rushing past with the night air. After shutting the doors behind me, I draped myself over the balustrade and blew out a long, whining sigh.
“Oh, are you okay, Maia? Are you okay? No, I’m not okay, but by all means please feel free to do everything in your power to remind me of my family’s rotting corpses, you fake assholes.”
I pressed my forehead against the smooth wooden railing and moaned. Wrapping my fingers around the rail, I peered over the edge, at the parked cars, the valets, the handsomely dressed couples just entering the hotel below. “I need to get out of here.”
“Even if you do, it’s five stories down. Granted it’s quicker, but I think far messier than an elevator.”
I swiveled on my heels. I hadn’t even seen the guy in the corner, but how could I have? He was lying down on the floor, practically hidden behind a fully set table. With his back propped up by a wall, his fingers were busy clicking away at a handheld game console. I could only just make out the sound whispering through his earphones because one of his buds was out.
For a minute I was too shocked to speak. “Uh, I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I’ll just—wait, I wasn’t going to jump!”
“That’s between you and god.”
“Cute,” I muttered with an incredulous huff.
If it weren’t for his hair, I would have thought the most striking thing about him was his lazy, sea-blue eyes, ghostly clear. But his hair—I couldn’t stop looking at it. It was silver, like it’d been drained of its color, packed into a short ponytail at the back of his head. Looked good. Looked natural, though a bit jarring against his more ballroom appropriate—and, um, nicely fitting—gray vest and white dress shirt. Considering he was tucked away in a corner playing video games, I figured he was enjoying the benefit as much as I was.
“Is that next gen?” I asked, pointing at his handheld.
“Just went on sale.”
“What’re you playing?”
“Metal Kolossos 3D: Reve—”
“Reverse Reincarnation!” Covering my mouth, I gave myself a second to feel embarrassed before scurrying up to him. “You have that game? Oh my god, I hate you!”
He smiled. “I get that a lot.”
“No, seriously, my preorder was delayed or something.” I stopped at his feet. “Um . . . The graphics must be so awesome. . . .”
And I smiled at him. Taking the hint, he passed it over.
“You know I haven’t even started playing that yet.”
“Sorry.” I sat down in the chair next to him. “I honestly just want to watch the opening video. That’s all, I swear.”
“Keep it as long as you like.” He laid his head against the wall and shut his eyes.
He was cute. Slim, muscular build, a pretty, sculpted pale face, and full lips. He was probably only a few years older than me too. . . .
Swallowing a lump in my throat, I focused on the game, on the lush graphics of its gorgeous yet confusing opening movie as it quickly recapped the story thus far. The Metal Kolossos series told the tale of Earth’s final Effigy, Aki, who alone defended the last of humanity in a postapocalyptic underground city called Ring. The fact that she was part cyborg made everything all the more badass, but this time, apparently the series’s Japanese creators had decided to tell a related side story taking place in sixties-era Seattle.
Of all settings.
“The Seven-Day Siege,” said the mournful narration. “Indeed it took only seven days for humanity’s bane, the phantoms, to obliterate a once-flourishing city. Seven days to reduce it to nothingness.”
“God, Japanese games are so dramatic, aren’t they?” he said.
“Aki time-travels back to the sixties in this one. The entire game takes place during the Seattle Siege, right?”
“Depressing, isn’t it?”
On the game’s thread in the Doll Soldiers forum, there were plenty of people annoyed at the fact that such a horrific moment in US history was going to be used as the backdrop to a video game. I was on there for days defending the narrative’s deeper thematic possibilities to the naysayers, losing sleep over it because that’s what happens when nerds fight other nerds on the internet. Dark times.
“My name is Saul, by the way.” He sat up. “I thought you might like to know the name of the guy whose game you’ve hijacked.”
“O-oh, right.” My face flushed again. “Sorry.” I wasn’t really. I handed it back to him.
Saul laughed, and when he lifted his arm to smooth his fine hair with his long fingers, I noticed a bright ring around his right middle finger.
“Ooh, that’s nice,” I said, pointing at it.
“Oh, this?” He turned it over. Though the jewel’s dazzling white reminded me of a pearl, heavy brushstrokes of smoky black streaked the center. “Got it off my dad.”
And I suspected he’d be paying a visit to the local pawnshop after the party.
“But enough about that,” he said. “You know, about that game?” He leaned back, giving me a rather mischievous sidelong glance that, truthfully, quickened my pulse. “I heard the development team wanted to make the main villain another Effigy. But not one of the regular four—a fifth one.”
“A fifth Effigy?” I frowned. I hadn’t heard this. Why hadn’t I heard this? “Was this during the early stages or what?”
“I thought that might interest you.” Saul lifted his hand. “Earth, fire, ice, wind.” He counted them off with his fingers. “Everyone knows there’s only four.”
“So they were just going to throw in another Effigy?” I didn’t know what pissed me off more: the fact that they dared consider messing with real-life canon, or the fact that I hadn’t even heard about it up until now.
“Their original idea was that she’d be the one who caused it. This fifth Effigy. In this continuity, she was the one who destroyed Seattle.”
One girl razed an entire city to the ground? I shook my head. No, what destroyed Seattle was a freak accident. Its Space Needle was the country’s first antiphantom device of its size and scale, but there were too many bugs and it flaked. Simple. Having some perpetrator behind it all was pretty revisionist, even for this series.
“Okay, but why would an Effigy destroy Seattle?”
Saul smiled. “Obviously to kill people.”
“O . . . oh . . .” I shifted uncomfortably.
“Or something. Who knows?” He shrugged. “I just think it’s interesting, what with all the stuff that’s been going on lately. You’ve heard the theories, right?”
“I thought conspiracy theories were for basement-dwelling tinfoil-hat wearers.”
“The arrogance.” With a pretty laugh, he reached into his finely cut gray pants and drew out a cell phone. “See this?” He got up and took the chair next to me. “One of my friends has some connections of the shadowy variety. He showed me these pictures.” He started flipping through them. “You know when all those APDs went offline. Moscow, Incheon, Frankfurt, Bern. Even here.”
“O-oh yeah?” I nodded stiffly, trying to not think about the light brush of his model-long legs against mine. “Wait, what is that?”
As I leaned in, my narrowed eyes locked on one picture. I couldn’t tell where it’d been taken, but it didn’t matter. There was something grotesquely universal about the desperation to stay alive. It was there, captured in the frame, frozen on the faces of the fleeing masses. But somewhere in the midst of the dark, blurry chaos—
“Is that a mask?” I squinted. I could barely make out the person wearing it, but I could see the round, black shell clinging to his face.
“It’s a ‘false face,’” said Saul. “There’s no mouth, but do you see those slits for eyes?”
That was the problem with conspiracy nerds: geeking out over the very thing that should terrify them. But I wouldn’t let myself cross the panic threshold just yet.
“Okay. So what are you implying?”
Saul leaned against the table, his slender back tugging the cloth. “This guy isn’t in all the photos, but the fact that he’s in more than one? Imagine.” He clicked his phone off. “So?” he asked with an unmistakably Cheshire grin. “What do you think?”
He waited. It wasn’t every day I stumbled into a conversation with a good-looking guy, but this particular conversation had gotten a little too weird, even for me. I tried to form a response. Something like: How should I know? But the words stayed buried in me. It was the way he looked at me. His eyes pierced mine, expectant, impatient. Why was he looking at me like that? Why did any of this even matter? But still, he waited. He barely even blinked. His frozen smile sent a not-so-subtle shiver through me.
Instead of answering him, I rose to my feet a little too quickly. “I think a game is a game. Don’t start freaking yourself out over nothing.” Don’t freak me out over nothing.
It’d been a while since the music had stopped playing, replaced by a long-winded speech from whoever was running the event. It would be cruel to leave Uncle Nathan there alone for any longer. As fascinating as it was bumping into an Effigy fanboy here of all places, it was time to go.
“You never told me your name, poupée.”
“Huh?” I turned, confused. The boy’s demeanor had changed. I couldn’t put my finger on how. But Saul was simply watching me.
It was really time to go.
With a hasty smile, as polite as I could make it, I waved good-bye and shut the glass doors behind me.
The rest of the evening should have passed by like a dull groan. The plan was to wait down the clock and then escape the premises without any more complications.
Alas:
“Holy shit!”
Twenty minutes after my conversation with Saul, I overheard the expletive from where I sat, though the young woman who’d uttered it sat at the table behind me. “Stacy totally just saw Belle Rousseau in the lobby!”
I gripped my half-filled glass tightly.
“Seriously?” said another girl. “You sure it was her?”
“I mean, it was a blond girl with a French accent who looked exactly like Belle Rousseau, so . . .”
“What’s she doing here? Hookup?”
“Stacy said she’s here looking for someone. An Effigy.”
My hand dropped like a stone against the table.
“No way, seriously? There’s one here?”
Tick, tick. Time was up.