ONCE AGAIN, CHATINE WAITED UNTIL everyone was asleep. It took longer this time because of the fête. The Défecteurs didn’t make their way back to their respective chalets until the early hours of the morning. Chatine could hear them outside, still dancing and singing and celebrating, while she lay on her bed in the treatment center, seething and raging and simmering, her breath a mess of gasps, her mind a tangle of bitter, dark thoughts.
Finally, however, the camp fell quiet and Chatine eased out of her bed, donned her coat, and slipped out into the darkness.
She limped down the grid of walkways, checking every corner, eyeing every door to make sure it remained closed. The last time she had snuck out in the middle of the night, Etienne had somehow found out and followed her. But she could not have him following her this time.
He was already suspicious enough. He’d seen Chatine’s reaction when she’d come face-to-face with her parents. She’d probably looked like she’d seen a ghost. And she wished she had. All of Laterre would be better off if the Renards were dead. But they weren’t dead, as she’d spent so long hoping. They were alive. They had somehow managed to escape the Policier droids. And now they were here. The scums of Laterre. In this camp. With these innocent, unsuspecting, peaceful people.
Etienne had obviously sensed something was off. But when he’d tried to ask Chatine what was wrong, she’d dismissed him without an explanation. She’d simply muttered that her leg was bothering her before turning away and returning to the treatment center without another word.
Now, as she moved silently through the camp, she thought back through everything the Défecteurs had told her about their favorite new “gridders.”
“Everyone loves Fabian and his wife, Gen.”
“The people here can’t get enough of them.”
“One of the pilotes took them to look for their lost children.”
“Fabian does magic tricks. He makes things disappear.”
Chatine grunted.
I bet he does.
It was a con. She was sure of it. That was the only reason her parents would infiltrate a Défecteur camp in the middle of the Terrain Perdu. The only reason they had gained these people’s trust, invented new names and a ridiculous sob story about missing children.
As always, the Renards were plotting something.
Checking one last time to make sure she hadn’t been followed, she eased open the door of the farthest chalet and slipped inside.
“There she is,” came a gruff female voice. “Our darling daughter. Our lost child. We thought we’d never see you again.”
Chatine squinted into the low light to find her parents sitting at a table in the corner, fabric scraps spread out around them. It took Chatine all of two seconds to realize they were sewing a collection of handmade sacs. Perfect for looting.
She clenched her teeth to keep from lashing out.
“Yes,” her father added in a sugary tone that made the faint scar on Chatine’s left palm twitch. “We heard you had a little run in with the Policier. Got yourself shipped off to Bastille. But I wasn’t too worried. I knew you’d land on your feet. Just like you always do, my little kitty cat. After all, you have Renard blood running in your veins. And we all know the Renards always land on top. With all the squabbles and riots and silly rebellions on this planet, we’re the ones who make it in the end.”
“Stop,” she spat. “Just stop. What are you doing here? What are you planning?”
Monsieur Renard tipped his head back and let out a long, deep belly laugh before sharing a knowing look with his wife. “Didn’t I tell you, chérie? Didn’t I predict she’d come here begging for a cut?”
“You’re wrong,” Chatine replied. “I don’t want a cut. I don’t want anything to do with you.”
“Oh, but you will when you find out what we’re after,” Monsieur Renard said. “It’s the con of the century, my dear. You’d be foolish not to want a cut.” Chatine rolled her eyes. She’d been listening to her father claim he was planning the con of the century since she was a child. “And since you seem to have won these people over as well, we could probably use your help. How’s ten percent?”
“No!” Chatine bellowed.
“Keep your voice down!” her father scolded her.
Chatine bristled but lowered her voice. “I don’t want any of it. I want you to leave. Now.”
Her mother chuckled. “Leave? Why would we leave when we’re so close? We’ve already secured a buyer.”
Comprehension struck Chatine in the chest. So that’s what they were really doing this week while they were out “searching for their lost children.”
“A buyer for what?” Chatine asked. “What are you selling these poor people out for?”
Her father let out a huff of frustration. “My sols, Chatine, you really can be dense sometimes, can’t you? Sometimes I think you’re even thicker than Azelle was.”
Chatine flinched at the mention of her sister’s name but fought to keep her expression neutral.
“Have you not noticed the stockpiles of a certain highly valuable metal these people have been hoarding?” her father asked.
Chatine clenched her fists. The zyttrium. Of course that’s what her parents were after. It was the most valuable commodity in this camp. Bastille was running out of it. The Ministère needed it to keep the Third Estate Skinned and obedient. And the Défecteurs were rich in it. Her parents probably had no trouble at all finding someone who would pay top larg for it.
“You can’t steal their zyttrium,” she said.
Monsieur Renard snorted. “Why not? They stole it first.”
“They need it to survive.”
“So do we,” Madame Renard said with a shrug.
“I won’t let you go through with it.”
Her father cackled and stood up from his chair. He began to stalk menacingly toward Chatine. She backed away until she was pressed up against the wall of the chalet. “And how on Laterre do you plan on stopping us? Are you going to chase after us in your condition?” He glanced down at her leg and let out a pitying cluck of his tongue. “Oh yes, I heard about your little injury.” His hand reached toward her left knee. His fingers outstretched.
Chatine braced herself. The pain came a second later. A sharp, penetrating bolt as her father’s grip squeezed around the fabric of her pants, twisting the flesh of her wound.
“You’re not going to try to stop us,” he breathed against her cheek, and Chatine flashed back to the thousands of other moments in her life when her father had threatened her. Hurt her. Breathed his rancid breath on her until she backed down.
Because she always backed down.
Because he was Monsieur Renard, leader of the Délabré gang. And she was just a lowly Fret rat, dependent on him for food and shelter and survival.
He squeezed her leg harder, and she felt a wave of dizziness rush through her. “You’re going to keep your wretched little mouth shut and let us do what we came here to do. And if you help us out, we might even be nice and give you five percent.”
“I thought it was ten,” Chatine muttered through her clenched teeth.
Her father snorted. “Chatine, Chatine. Have I taught you nothing? First offers always come with an expiration. I suggest you take this second offer now before it, too, expires.”
She grimaced through the pain, the anger building inside of her.
“Just think, Chatine,” her father whispered silkily. “Five percent can set you up for good. Five percent can get you the life you always wanted.”
The life she always wanted.
The words flittered jarringly through her mind, like they didn’t quite fit together. The sentence was complete, but she couldn’t make sense of it.
What was the life she always wanted? For a while, she thought it could be found on Usonia, far away from Laterre and its harsh laws and unjust Regime. But now? Somehow Usonia didn’t seem far enough. Or maybe it was never the distance that she craved. Maybe it was something else.
Something that she’d stumbled upon without even knowing it.
With a sudden, fierce determination, Chatine lifted her hands and planted them on her father’s chest. Grimacing through the pain, she shoved him as hard as she could. He stumbled back—more out of surprise than Chatine’s actual strength—and fell onto the bed.
“What the—” he growled but Chatine cut him off.
“Shut up,” she snapped. Her mother opened her mouth to speak but Chatine cut her with a glance. “Both of you. This is how it’s going to work.”
Her father’s shock quickly gave way to a knowing smile. “Ah, there’s the Chatine we know and love. A counteroffer. I’m listening.”
Chatine took two purposeful steps toward him. “You’re going to pack up your things and leave. Tonight. You’re not going to speak to anyone. You’re not going to take anything that doesn’t belong to you. You’re just going to leave and never come back.”
Monsieur Renard leaned forward slightly, waiting for the rest. “And?”
“And nothing,” Chatine fired back.
Monsieur Renard shared a look with his wife before they both broke into wild hoots of laughter. “Well, well, well,” he said through his cackles. “Look at our little Fret rat all grown up and making demands she can’t follow through on.”
“I can follow through,” Chatine swore.
“Oh yeah?” Madame Renard replied, amused. “You and what droid army?”
“I don’t need an army.” Chatine glared at her father. “You, of all people, must remember how quickly I can ruin your plans with nothing more than a scream. If you don’t leave right now, I will scream. It will be the loudest thing you have ever heard. And then, when they all come running, I will tell them everything. I will tell them who you really are. I will tell them what you’ve done. All of it. Every con, every crime, and every severed toe. I will even tell them what you did to baby Henri.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Chatine saw her mother flinch.
“Yes,” she went on. “I know the truth. I know he wasn’t really dead. I know you lied to me for twelve years, made me believe that that little girl Madeline killed him, when really you sold him off to pay for your own mistakes. You have robbed and cheated so many people, but nothing is more unforgivable then what you stole from me. You stole my life. And his life. And Azelle’s life too. You stole my childhood. And my innocence. And my ability to believe in anything. And now, here, thanks to these people, I have managed to get a sliver of that back. And I will not let you take it away again. I will tell them exactly what you’re planning, and then you can deal with that army.”
For a split second, Monsieur Renard actually looked uncertain. But he quickly wiped the expression from his face and stood up. Again, he walked toward her. But this time, Chatine did not back away. She stood her ground. Even when her father pinned her with that dark, sinister stare that had haunted her for almost her entire life. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Chatine raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”
“You like it here,” Monsieur Renard stated as though this were a key piece of intel that Chatine had foolishly given away.
“So?”
“You like it here too much,” he amended. “You’ve fallen in love with these ignorant dropouts.”
Madame Renard chortled. Anger coursed through Chatine, but she fought to keep her hands and her breath steady.
“Didn’t I ever tell you not to fall in love with your mark?” her father asked. “It’s dangerous and … messy.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Chatine said confidently.
“You’re not in love with them?”
“They’re not my mark.”
Madame Renard scoffed. “You expect us to believe that?”
“Believe whatever you want,” Chatine spat at her, “but the truth remains, if you don’t leave, I expose you.”
“As I was saying,” Monsieur Renard went on, undeterred, “you like it here. Too much. And if you expose us, we expose you. And then, it’s adieu darling Défecteurs. Do you really think they’d let you stay after they find out you’re a croc?”
Chatine snorted. “They know I’m a croc. They rescued me from Bastille. They’ve seen my tattoo.”
“Sure, but do they know about your nefarious plot to steal zyttrium right out from under their noses?”
“What? I wasn’t going to—”
“Who do you think they’ll believe?” her mother chimed in, picking up right where her father left off in the coordinated dance they’d been performing all their lives. “You, a known convict with a criminal past? Or their favorite new friends? Fabian and Gen,”—she nodded at the scraps of fabric on the table—“who discovered these sacs hidden under your bed and became the heroes who exposed a con artist in their midst.” She let out a scandalized gasp.
Monsieur Renard took another menacing step toward Chatine, his eyes narrowing wickedly. “Are you so sure they’ll trust you over us? Are you willing to bet your life on it?”
Chatine’s heart squeezed in her chest. She knew her parents were right. They were like celebrities in this place. Etienne had said so himself. Why would the Défecteurs believe her—someone they barely knew—over them?
Defeat started to clamp around her neck. Heavy and rusted like the chains on Bastille. When would she ever get out from under this shadow? When would she finally shed the burden of their name? Renard. As hard as she’d tried, she’d never been able to escape it.
Not when her family had run from Montfer and come to live in the Frets.
Not when Chatine had changed her identity and became a boy named Théo.
Not even on Bastille.
Everywhere she went, her past, her family, her blood followed her. And would continue to follow her. It had been branded on her as permanently as her prisoner tattoo.
When was she going to learn that she couldn’t escape herself?
Now, she thought, standing up taller and sucking in a deep, courageous breath. Right now.
“Fine,” she said, and her father seemed to sag ever so slightly in relief. That is, until she continued. “Expose me. Tell them who I am. Tell them whatever you want. I don’t care. I’m prepared to leave. Just as long as you leave too. Because whatever you say, I will make sure that we all go down together.”
Her father evidently wasn’t expecting her to call their bluff, because for the first time in her life, Chatine saw fear flash in her father’s eyes. True, genuine fear. He looked to Madame Renard, whose face was blank with shock. Clearly, they weren’t willing to bet on the trust of the Défecteurs either.
Her parents shared one of their silent exchanges that Chatine had never been able to decipher, and then Monsieur Renard turned back to meet her unwavering gaze.
“I have a counteroffer.”
Chatine smirked. “I’d expect no less.”
“We’ll go,” he allowed, and Chatine tried to keep the triumph from her face. “But … we’re not leaving empty-handed.”
Her mother gave a resolute shake of her head and added, “We’ve worked too hard and put in too much effort to leave without anything to show for it.”
Chatine narrowed her eyes. She didn’t like where this was going, but she knew the rules of negotiation. You never got exactly what you came for, but if you were lucky, you walked away with more than you were willing to lose. “How much is it going to take to get you to leave quietly?”
Monsieur Renard sneered. For a moment, Chatine believed that he was actually enjoying this. And Chatine supposed she would be lying if she said she didn’t get just the smallest drop of a thrill from it. She supposed all fathers and daughters had their thing. This was theirs.
“Ten blocs” Monsieur Renard announced. “That should give us enough to live on for a few years.”
“Five,” Chatine replied.
“Seven. And you have to steal it for us.”
Chatine considered. Could she really remove seven blocs of zyttrium from the storage chalet without anyone noticing? She’d have to be strategic, move things around a little to cover her tracks. Her breath hitched, and she felt ill at the thought of the task that stood in front of her, but then she returned her gaze to what was actually standing in front of her—the most hideous, vile, despicable vermin on the face of the planet—and all her hesitation melted away.
She could do this. She could figure this out. She had to. One last time. One final job.
It was the con of the century. Because, for her, it was the con that would end all cons.
“Pack up your things,” she said as she grabbed one of the handmade sacs from the table and turned toward the door. “I want you ready to go when I get back.”