A gun and a large case of bullet clips wait for me inside the broom closet in the first floor. Lyra should have never showed me their arsenal. It was too easy to sneak in and out and get what I needed.
I wring my hands together as I sit at the edge of my bed. I check my watch again, something I’ve been doing compulsively since I woke up. Elliot’s meeting is in thirty minutes. The barracks are empty. Everyone in charge of anything is in position for the event. Today no one will slack. There are guards in every corner.
One hundred strong.
One hundred.
Against one.
My stomach tumbles. I press a hand to the spot and will my nerves to settle. A presentiment of something bad to come, I suppose. How useless these feelings are. What is the point of a premonition when the actions that will lead you there are inevitable?
I slip the bullet out of my pocket. It’s the same one I snatched from the metal box the day Lyra made me stack ammunition. I rub my thumb against its cool, golden metal, imagining it traveling through the air, spiraling toward Elliot and striking him right in the chest.
The thought of ending his life leaves no guilt behind, only satisfaction. True, Oso is dead because I couldn’t fend off the agent, but it was Elliot who caused my lapse.
I picture him crumbling to his knees, shocked that I’ve been the one to deliver the killing blow—much the way Oso was. I think I should feel evil, but I don’t. Instead, I feel at ease, like everything will be all right with the world once Elliot’s gone.
I’ve killed before, but it was in the heat of the moment, to save James and myself. There was no premeditation, no plan. So different from now. Funny how uncomplicated it is to become a murderer. I wonder if I’m not sane anymore. How could I be?
Time ticks by as I stare at my boots lined up perfectly next to each other. I wear a black uniform like everyone else. The boots are a match. I wait—breaths even, mind made up. A certain calm has come with resignation. I will probably die within the hour, and that’s all right. I will make my stand and, if it’s the last one, I’m okay with that. At least, my life won’t be given up in vain, like Oso’s life, like Xave’s.
The ache of remembering is raw; an open wound that won’t close, no matter how much I pretend it’s not there.
I pull my boots closer, set my bullet between them. I slip one foot in, then the other. My fingers move calmly around the shoelaces, tugging and tying.
One bunny ear.
Two bunny ears.
I remember Dad teaching me. What would he think of me, now? Would he be proud? Would he ache seeing what’s become of his little girl?
The bullet goes in my pocket. I stand, throw my head back and take a deep, deep breath. I march out of the barracks, my steps echoing through the empty room. At the entrance, I run into Lizard Woman, a.k.a. Lamia. Her tail swings up and out of the way to let me pass. I don’t acknowledge her, but I can feel her eyes on me as I firmly walk away. I turn the corner, leave her behind and retrieve my gun and bullets.
I’m ready for this.
One hundred and ten freaking percent.
* * *
I’m a mole in more ways than one. I’ve crawled through these dark tunnels, the bowels of the building, once more. Now, I sit here in the dark, waiting. I’m a ghost, a nonentity, forgotten by everyone, even by Lyra.
The conference room is beyond me. Through the metal grate of an air vent at floor level, I see everyone in the room. Shadows envelop me inside and outside. I breathe in deep, deep, deep, then hold it. I think of freedom.
Blacktop sliding by … Xave’s laugh behind me.
Wind blowing on my face … Small kisses on the back of my neck.
His arms wrapped around me as we ride.
It’s an ever-present memory that I’ve pushed away many, many times. Today, I embrace it. I savor it. Maybe there is a heaven and today I’ll see him. And dad.
That isn’t bad at all. I smile.
My buzz-o-meter is off. Both ways. I’ll do this as a human.
The gun is in my hand.
Ready.
In the room, Tusks, Lyra, Dillon, and the tall, horned Amazon from my barracks stand at attention in different corners of the room, waiting for the meeting to begin. All four look like warriors. Either muscular or lean, there’s a deadly quality in their gazes.
Vertical blinds hang shut, blocking the view outside the room. After a moment, the door opens and Elliot walks in, alone.
“They’ve arrived,” he says, taking the seat at the head of the long table. “Keep your eyes open, but no one make a move unless they do. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
After a moment, Elliot stands, walks to the thermostat and turns it all the way down. He returns to his seat. Cold air blows through the vents with a sudden whoosh. For once, I welcome the chill.
Steps sound outside the room. A few silhouettes are visible behind the blinds. The conference room door opens again and a petite woman with copper-colored hair and a narrow face enters. She looks familiar. I’ve seen her before, somewhere. It was at the nightclub, wasn’t it? She was with—
My thoughts stop short as the answer to my question walks in step behind her.
Luke—blond, tall and calm—is also here.
* * *
“Welcome, Mrs. Hailstone.” Elliot stands and shakes the woman’s hand.
She inclines her head in a very refined way.
Animals with manners. Who would have thought?
“Thank you, Mr. Whitehouse,” she says in an accent that sounds just like Lyra’s.
Zara Hailstone is French? My mind reels with possibilities.
“Let me introduce you to Luke,” Zara Hailstone says. “He is my second in command and my son.”
My body goes limp. The gun falls to my folded legs and slides down toward the metal flashing that makes up the tunnel. I catch it and clutch it to my chest, breathing hard.
Her son? Luke isn’t Zara Hailstone’s son. Aydan said Luke’s DNA matched Karen’s. Was Zara the one who raised him? Ernest Dunn’s wife? But Luke said his mother abandoned him after he was born. None of it makes any sense, especially the way he came into our lives and wrecked everything. Why? To what end?
I force my lungs to slow down. They will hear me if I don’t get it together. I’m here for a reason and one reason only. This doesn’t change anything.
I struggle to get myself under control. My hands are shaking.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Slowly, my heart rate calms. In a minute, it will be back to normal and then …
“Please, take a seat,” Elliot says.
Zara sits closest to Elliot, and Luke next to her. I see his profile. He eyes the guards at each corner.
“Our guards remained outside,” Luke says. “Is this really necessary?”
“My dear boy, you requested a meeting with me,” Elliot says as if he’s talking to an elementary school brat. “Therefore, this will happen on my terms.”
Luke’s jaw twitches. Tusks smirks in the far corner.
“This is fine,” Zara says, pronouncing this as dzees, “as long as a conversation in front of them is prudent.”
“It’s quite all right. These men and women have my complete trust,” Elliot responds in a tone that suggests that whatever they’re about to discuss doesn’t warrant risking his life by dismissing his guards.
“Very well.” Zara inclines her head. There’s something lithe about her movements. Her eyes seem to smile in a cunning, amused way, like she knows something no one else does.
“So you said you wanted to discuss an alliance,” Elliot says.
“Yes,” Zara assents. “Several of our bordering territories are experiencing a level of conflict that is quite worrisome at this stage in the game. Things aren’t proceeding the way they should as far as humans go. The Takeover has been more difficult here than in other areas. So, naturally, some adjustments are necessary.”
Elliot nods over his steepled fingers. “I quite agree.”
I lift the gun and stare at my hand. It’s finally steady, as steady as it’ll ever get. My bullet is ready. It’s the first one. I lower my ski mask, a souvenir I found tucked in one of Lyra’s drawers. If I survive this, maybe staying anonymous will be helpful. With one last look through the grate, I flick the gun’s safety off. When I look up, Luke’s face is slightly turned in my direction. He’s frowning, his blue eyes darting from side to side.
“Something the matter?” Elliot asks.
Luke rolls his chair back slightly. “I …”
He suspects something. I don’t know how, but he does.
I take one last deep breath. This is it.
Kicking from a sitting position, I jam my boots against the vent cover with all I’ve got. The grate flies into the conference room, tumbling end over end on the floor with several loud, metallic clanks. I shoot out, head first, and roll to one side. I come up on one knee, gun searching my target. Elliot’s startled eyes meet mine. He’s frozen on his tall leather chair.
I don’t hesitate.
I pull the trigger.