CHAPTER 28

The summons that arrived the next morning came as no surprise.

Occupied with the digital displays set in her desk, Selene didn’t look up as Pity entered her office, escorted by Adora. The tight set to Selene’s lips showed she didn’t like whatever she saw on the screens. As Pity waited to be acknowledged, she stole a glance at Beau, but his expression was indecipherable.

He’s not going to be any more help here than Max was, she told herself. This is all on you.

Nearly a minute passed before Selene finally ruptured the silence. “Have you thought about what I asked you to do?”

“Yes.”

“And?” Dusky eyes flickered up. “Can I trust you to do what I ask?”

Pity knew the right answer—the one she needed to give if she wanted to maintain her position in Casimir—was yes. But no matter which way she tried to force herself to say it, the word stuck in her throat.

“The next Finale…” She had to say something, but every word tripped her like tangled roots. “You want me to kill Daneko.”

Selene leaned back and considered her. “Perhaps. But I have a more pressing task for you right now.” She tapped a screen on the desk. “After much coaxing, Patrick Sheridan has returned to Casimir.”

Sheridan? Pity frowned, confused. What does he have to do with anything?

“This took no small amount of effort,” Selene continued. “Following the attack, he came under the impression that Cessation, and Casimir, might not be the safest place for him.”

Adora gave a snort of laughter. “What a silly notion.”

Selene shot her a quieting look. “So I made some… concessions. Allowing a private bodyguard, increased security around him… and you.”

“Me?” Wariness trickled down Pity’s spine, sickly warm. “I don’t understand.”

“It was Patrick’s idea,” said Selene. “His campaign is floundering in the east. He needs my help, but he needs it without anyone thinking that’s what he’s come to Cessation for. Which is where you come in. As far as anyone will know, Patrick Sheridan is an overambitious, failing candidate, returned to Cessation to drown his shortcomings in gambling, drink, and the Theatre performer he’s taken a special interest in.”

The way she’d said special set Pity’s skin crawling.

“None of this goes beyond this room, do you understand?” Selene continued. “Friend or foe, I want whoever might be paying attention to Sheridan focused on his indulgences, the lovely young lady keeping him company, and nothing else.”

“What if no one is fooled?”

“Well,” Selene said, “you’ll have to play your part convincingly, won’t you?”

It was meant to be an order—or a warning—but there was something more, veiled beneath Selene’s unequivocal tone. Pity studied the woman more closely. The corners of her mouth were tight, her skin slightly flushed.

She’s worried, and she doesn’t like it. Why? “If you can’t get him the presidency, that’s all that Sheridan loses.” She hesitated. “What do you lose?”

At first, Selene’s gaze narrowed to an icicle point. Then it melted, and she laughed. “You are learning, aren’t you?” Her expression sobered. “I’m afraid it’s what we lose. When I took control of Cessation, CONA was still licking its wounds from the war, trying to keep its new, fragile society from breaking apart at every unfamiliar turn. Now? The core of CONA’s power grows stronger, creeps a little farther west with each passing day. And when they come up against an obstacle?” She let the question hang.

Pity thought of the battered dissident refugees. “They remove it. Or get someone like Drakos-Pryce to do it for them.”

Selene nodded. “It’s only a matter of time before they turn their gaze to Cessation.”

It isn’t that Selene wants a pet politician, Pity realized, it’s that she needs one. Threats like Daneko were nothing compared to CONA. “You want Sheridan to protect the city.”

“Yes. In a way I will never be able to. As it stands, we are tolerated. The deals made here, the desires indulged, the secrets kept—they help keep our enemies in the east at bay. But I’d be a fool to think that will last forever.” Selene stood, pressing her palms flat on the desk. “Cessation is no backwoods settlement, easily toppled by Drakos-Pryce’s little death squads. If threatened, it will fight.” She sighed. “And it will lose. But a military movement of that caliber would require approval by the president. My goal is to prevent that from ever happening. Fortunately, as rich and brilliant as Sheridan is, he doesn’t have the right associations to gain the presidency on his own.”

“Do you?”

Selene blinked at her. The room seemed to chill. Careful.

“Max said that only the Drakos-Pryce Corporation can guarantee something like that. And it’ll have nothing to do with Cessation.”

“Max stays well-informed.” Every syllable carried warning. “But Drakos-Pryce isn’t the only way to the presidency. There are many, many powerful people in CONA who owe me favors.”

Pity swallowed, hesitant. “What about Daneko?”

Selene smiled as if she had been waiting for the question. “I’ll get to him eventually. Your participation in that matter will depend on how otherwise engaged you are.”

There it was: the sugar to entice Pity to swallow the bitter. Agreeing to entertain Sheridan was more than a second chance to regain Selene’s favor; it was her way out of executing Daneko.

But he won’t be the last person to end up in the arena. Her hand twitched, trigger finger curling into a claw before relaxing again. Sooner or later someone else would cross the wrong line and Pity would be back in the same situation. I can’t stop the Finales, but…

“If I do this”—the words had risen to her lips, escaping before she could stop them—“I never want to perform another Finale.”

Selene’s face pinched in displeasure. Even Adora appeared taken aback by her boldness.

“You want Sheridan, and Sheridan wants me.” Pity wondered if she were digging her own grave, but bloodthirsty applause hissed in her ears, urging her onward. There was no going back now. “I’ll do what you want. But if I do it right, I don’t want to kill Daneko in the Finale or anyone else ever again.” She took a steadying breath. “Seems like a small price to pay in the pursuit of Cessation’s continued safety.”

Selene didn’t respond immediately. A line of sweat ran between Pity’s shoulder blades. She prayed her nervousness didn’t show on her face.

“Agreed.” The word clicked like a bullet entering a chamber. Selene sat back down in her chair, eyes flashing. “You certainly are bold when you want to be, Serendipity Jones. Let’s both hope the day never arrives when you wish you had simply pulled the trigger when you were told to.”

“Champagne?”

Sheridan served it himself, pouring until the honey-colored liquid nearly reached the brim of the glass. Pity kept her hands in her lap, fingers entwined, and watched the bubbles race to the surface. The festive buzz of the Gallery surrounded the booth they occupied. Its location was discreet enough that they wouldn’t be overheard, but it did little to shield them from the stares. Pity felt simmered by hundreds of tiny flames as all around the room people looked without looking, a skill widely mastered in Casimir. It was not unlike her first night in the Theatre, when the audience had been waiting for her show to start. Then, she had been terrified; now, she was irritated. She wasn’t doing any more than what half of them did—less, in fact—and it was at Selene’s order.

You knew there’d be curiosity. On the heels of her conversation with Selene, an invitation had arrived from Sheridan, asking her to join him that evening for dinner in the Gallery. She tugged the skirt of her dress over her knees, feeling foolish in it.

It’s only another costume, she told herself, the same way this is just another act.

“How many bottles?” said Sheridan.

“Hmm?” Pity roused to find him beaming a smile at her.

“How many bottles do you think I need to order to make it look like I’m trying to forget a floundering campaign?”

Pity took a bracing sip of her champagne. “If that’s the idea, you might consider switching to something stronger, Mr. Sheridan.”

He gave her a disheartened look. “This isn’t going to work unless you start calling me Patrick.”

“I’m sorry… Patrick.” Pity tried to force herself to be as relaxed as Sheridan looked. Despite his rapid departure from Cessation after the attack, nothing in his manner suggested a man worried about his surroundings. But that was likely owing to the extra Tin Men in the Gallery, as well as Sheridan’s austere mountain of a bodyguard stationed nearby, glaring at anyone who strayed too close.

This is part of the act, she reminded herself. You need to learn to play this part, same as you did the first time Eva worked with you in the arena. Unlike in the Theatre, however, where she gave no thought to the specifics of her audience, Pity found her attention continually drawn to the crowded Gallery, anxious to know who was observing them. Selene’s orders meant she couldn’t tell anyone the truth behind her actions. Not Luster or Garland or Duchess.

Not even Max.

Their argument about the Finales had left Pity with a persistent bee-stung feeling, one that mixed unpleasantly with her current situation. But she hadn’t seen him anywhere when she and Sheridan arrived. She silently hoped he wouldn’t visit the Gallery at all tonight.

“I want you to know,” said Sheridan, as if sensing her troubled thoughts, “that this isn’t some kind of ruse; I have no ulterior motives toward you.”

“Thank you.” Chastened by his contrite tone, she forced a smile onto her face, as if he had just said something incredibly charming. “But what your intentions are and what people are thinking right now are two different things.”

“Does that matter to you?”

“I guess not.” Even as she said it, she knew it was a lie. Your pride isn’t what’s important, she reminded herself. Satisfying Selene and avoiding the Finales was. “But why me? There are plenty of better choices here.”

“None that have saved my life.”

“I was saving my life, too. Doesn’t seem like enough to hang your trust on.”

Sheridan chuckled. “It’s more than that, of course. No matter where you call home now, you grew up under CONA, unlike most of Selene’s people. And I think you know what it can be like there for a former Patriot.”

“I do. At least I know how it was for my mother.”

“Do you mind if I ask what happened to her?”

Pity shook her head. “After the war, she cut a deal to keep her neck out of the noose. But like you said before, some people never forget the past. My father included. He hated my mother and he hated me. I left when he tried to ship me off to another commune that needed fertile women.”

Sheridan’s expression soured. “Is that a regular occurrence on the communes?”

“Regular enough.”

“Well, when I’m in control of CONA,” he said with a wink, “I’ll make sure to put a stop to that.”

She eyed him. “Really?”

“You look so skeptical. Of course. It’s a small enough thing.” Sheridan beckoned a porter. “A bottle—no, two, of the best whiskey in the house. And then champagne for everyone here.” He slurred his words slightly, as if already half drunk. “If I can’t celebrate success, I’ll celebrate failure instead.”

“Yes, sir.” The porter set off.

He’s a better actor than you are. But something in her brightened. Back east, Sheridan’s past made him a pariah. Yet in Cessation, home to those who refused to live under CONA’s stringent rules, it made him an ally, even a friend. Maybe protecting the city wasn’t the only thing he could do. “That’s not the worst that goes on, unfortunately. Like the dissident settlements that CONA’s been destroying.”

“I’ve heard.” His articulateness returned. “It seems unnecessarily brutal to me.”

“Most of them were Patriots, too. If you’re president, you could put a stop to it.”

“So I could.” He sighed, but it was one accompanied by a confident smile. “There are many, many matters that will need attention once I’m president. With the combined power of Columbia and Cessation, well, what can’t be accomplished?”

“So you really think Selene can deliver what she says she can?” said Pity.

“Maybe.” Sheridan swirled his glass so that the champagne glittered like liquid gold. “What I know is that doubt won’t get me what I want. And I wouldn’t be here unless I thought Cessation could.”

It was a relief when Pity was finally able to leave behind the stares and whispers of the Gallery, though not as much as she would have expected at the start of the evening. Despite the unpleasantness of her task, there was an agreeable earthiness to Sheridan. He seemed like a man who didn’t take for granted the wealth and power he had gained. As she punched in the code to her door, she realized she even liked the way he navigated Cessation with easy self-control, unlike so many of the other patrons who treated the city like something to be consumed when it suited them and discarded afterward.

“About time.”

Pity froze.

Adora lounged on the love seat, Pity’s revolver in hand. “I’d begun to wonder exactly how much you were dedicating yourself to your assignment.”

“Put that down.”

Adora’s eyes went wide with false innocence. “I was only looking.” She held up the gun, not quite pointing it at Pity but not putting it down, either. “Very pretty.”

“Put. It. Down.” Pity gauged the distance between her and the weapon’s twin, still in its holster.

Too slowly, Adora’s arm lowered. She deposited the gun next to her on the couch. “You’re wound awfully tight, you know. I unloaded it first. I’m not stupid.”

Pity crossed the room and snatched the revolver away. She checked the chambers. They were empty. “What do you want?”

“Everything.” Adora sat forward so that her elbows rested on her thighs, her chin cupped in her hands. “What you ate, what you talked about—spill.”

Of course. Not only did Selene want Pity to pretend with Sheridan; she wanted her to inform on him as well. Did she see Sheridan as anything more than a game piece, being moved around on a board of her own devising? Or Pity, for that matter?

Who cares? she told herself. So long as Selene kept her promise about the Finales, she was welcome to the information. Pity returned the gun to the holster beside its mate, making sure to remain between them and Adora, just in case.

Then she began to talk.