Awakening
Author: Shannon Duffy
Date: 2015-04-07 09:22:17+00:00
Keywords: General; Juvenile Fiction; Mystery; Thriller; Romance; Suspense; Adventure; Action; Fantasy; Young Adult; Science Fiction; Dystopia; Love & Romance
Description: Desiree Six (because she was born on a Friday) believes in everything the Protectorate stands for. She likes the safety and security of having her entire life planned out—her career, her mate, even the date of her death. She doesn't even think to question when Darian, her childhood friend and neighbor, is convicted of murdering his parents. They had seemed like such a loving family. But if he was convicted, then he must have done it. Then Darian shows up in her room late one night. He has escaped the Terrorscape—a nightmare machine used to punish all Noncompliants—and he needs Desiree's help.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Shannon Duffy. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Entangled Teen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Edited by Liz Pelletier

Cover design by Amber Shah

Interior design by Jeremy Howland

Author photograph © Arthur Arsenik Studios

Clock photograph © peterzayda/fotolia

Couple photogragh © EpicStockMedia/depositphotos

Cityscape photograph © diversepixel/depositphotos

Hardcover ISBN 978-1-62266-522-8

Ebook ISBN 978-1-62266-527-3

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition April 2015

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Acknowledgments
About the Author

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To my mom, Dorothy Chapman Lethbridge. You were my everything—my rock, my cheerleader, my biggest supporter, my best friend, my beautiful mother. I miss you every single day and aspire to be more like you. I love you to the moon and back.

Chapter One

My nails bite into the edge of the sofa. I know my parents are stealing glances at me from the couch beside me, but I pretend not to notice, not to flinch. I keep my eyes locked onto the port screen.

There was a massive power shortage in Tower province last night—one that allowed a convict to escape from Olympus Jail. Normally, a jailbreak would be bad enough, but this wasn’t just any convict. This was Darian One Sterling.

A murderer. And my childhood friend.

The newscaster scowls as Darian’s picture flashes in an emergency announcement.

“Desiree,” Dad says. He opens and closes his mouth, then shakes his head. I can tell my parents are worried I’ll pity Darian because of our childhood friendship. But I don’t. Going against The Protectorate wasn’t just a violation. It was plain dumb. The Protectorate provides the citizens of Tower with everything we could need.

Darian’s infraction, breaking into a head Protectorate office and stealing government files, is a serious crime. It would have led to at least five years in jail. But when his parents attempted to turn him in, Darian murdered them in cold blood. That’s a crime punishable with life in the Terrorscape, where you experience the worst nightmares imaginable.

“He used to be such a good boy,” Mom mumbles.

I know what she’s thinking. She says it all the time about the convicts. The Protectorate guarantees, within a 99 percent accuracy rate, that every citizen will feel like he or she is a valuable part of society. Anyone who doesn’t is just trouble.

Dad leans in toward the port screen, gazing at Darian’s jail photo. Darian’s dark hair has been buzzed short, and his crystal-blue eyes pierce the screen. “He isn’t good anymore,” Dad says, stealing another glance at me as if for a reaction.

I blow my hair out of my eyes with a huff, then turn to face Dad. “They’ll find him,” I say. “It’s just a matter of time.” Mom squints, studying my features. “Can you turn it off, please,” I say, then yawn dramatically. “I’m going to bed.” I smile and kiss them both on the cheek before I leave the room.

I don’t really have to fake sleepiness because I’m actually exhausted. When the power outage occurred last night, the Dreamscape shut down. The whole province of Tower woke up in the middle of the night, so I didn’t get my usual eight hours of sleep.

Without the Dreamscape, we can’t sleep.

My parents remind me all the time about stories their parents told them, of how things were in the Manic Age. The time before our bodies were upgraded to sync with the amazing invention called the Dreamscape. Thirty-eight years ago, people actually had to fall asleep on their own and, sometimes, they would toss and turn for hours. My grandparents said when sleep, in its mercy, did come, it often brought with it horrible images I’ve heard people used to call nightmares.

The thought sends a chill rushing through my veins. In all my sixteen years of life, I’ve never experienced a single nightmare. The Protectorate manages our dreams—and our lives—to perfection.

Until last night when the power went out.

One power outage isn’t really cause for concern, I remind myself.

I head across our flat toward my bedroom, my shoes clicking against the steel floor. Here in Emerson district, as in all of the six districts of Tower, The Protectorate ensures all homes are made with the finest steel walls and floors, and equipped with air-purifying systems. Viruses and ailments can’t spread as easily in such an environment. Just another way they protect us—and another reason why Darian is so painfully ungrateful.

I scurry toward my large, steel bedroom door and press my face against its cool surface a moment. Darian got what he deserved. He’s not the Darian of my childhood—the one who played jacks with me on the sidewalk, despite being a year older. Nor is he the Darian who stood up for me when Asher bullied me and called me Carrot Top until I cried. I’d tried telling Asher my hair was auburn and not like a carrot at all, but that just made him laugh harder. Darian shoved him down, threw sand in his face, and told him to leave me alone. At the time, I thought it was heroic, but now I realize it was a sign of the violence brewing inside him.

With a sigh, I push the door open and head toward my bed. I pass my drawing easel with barely a glance. Not even the bluest shades of azure and cobalt mixed with swirls of ivory on my current seascape can pull me away tonight. Slipping out of my shoes, I plunk down on my mattress, too tired to bother changing. I lie on my back and slip under the crisp, cool white sheets.

Even if I did feel bad for Darian, I wouldn’t admit it. Siding with anyone who violates The Protectorate would make me Noncompliant. That would make me almost as corrupt as him. To side with those who violate The Protectorate is strictly forbidden and punishable by a week in the Terrorscape. Like always, whenever someone is jailed, the first five minutes of their time in the Terrorscape is televised nightly for all to witness. The thought of it makes me shudder. And the shame it would bring on my family is the stuff I believe nightmares are truly made of.

No, I’m not Noncompliant.

My parents have nothing to worry about.

I take a deep breath as I stretch both my arms behind my head and reach for the Dreamscape, eager for sleep. Its accordion-style Syncro-Drifter hums as I pull it out from the headboard of my bed until the spherical surface attachment stops and hovers inches above my face.

With a yawn, I hold the inside of my right wrist against the red, blinking scanner on the side of the Syncro-Drifter’s metal surface. It emits a tinkling sound, then flashes green as it syncs with the sensor beneath my skin.

“Relax, Desiree Six Haven,” the Dreamscape’s lilting voice says to me, chiming out its usual welcome. “The Dreamscape will begin its dream sequence in two minutes.”

Already I feel its soothing rhythm pulsing through me.

Still, a slight ripple of anxiety twists my insides as the Dreamscape starts pulling me under. Tonight I’ll dream the same thing I’ve dreamed about since I turned sixteen nine months ago.

The face of my future mate.

Guilt rips through me for letting myself be nervous. With all The Protectorate does for us I shouldn’t be anxious. They’ve done everything in their power to relieve the population of painful emotions. If anything, I should feel more grateful.

Images twirl behind my closed lids. It’s the beginning of every Dreamscape sequence. A set of hands, palms facing up, appears before me with the words “The Protectorate” floating above them.

“The Protectorate,” a woman’s voice whispers, misty and soothing, as if reading the words. “Here to keep you safe and guide you through life without worry. We are the helping hands of society. Come—rest your mind with us.” The hands spread out, rise up slightly, then disappear.

In their place an image of a snowy owl—the logo of The Protectorate—appears, fluffs its white downy feathers, and releases a low hoot. All my life I’ve grown to expect the image of the beautiful creature and the lulling sound it makes before the dream sequence begins. It’s always soothed me.

But tonight as I drift off to sleep, I remember that soon I’ll see Asher, my childhood bully’s face, in my dreams. Since he is my life-mate, we’ll be bound together at the age of eighteen. Every night, at the end of every dream, he holds out our binding necklace to me, wearing the same familiar smirk I’ve grown to resent.

In some ways, I wish we’d known who our binding mate was going to be from birth. Maybe then Asher wouldn’t have been so mean to me. But at least now I have just over one year to get used to the idea. I know this year of dreaming of my mate is The Protectorate’s way to better prepare me for our binding. I also know this should be enough and that it should make me happy.

It doesn’t.

Chapter Two

“Good morning, Desiree Six Haven.”

The Dreamscape shuts down, and I blink my eyes open. Every day since I turned fifteen, it wakes me at seven a.m. so I can be ready for nursing school at nine. Apparently, I was born a nurturer. On my fifth birthday, I received a cake, a card, and a pronouncement of my future vocation.

And unlike in the Manic Age when people wasted an extra three years in school, we get to skip ahead to prepare us for an early start as a contributing member of society.

But today there’ll be no nursing school. Instead, I’ll be attending the pre-binding formal for all the sixes born in my year of birth.

The white blinds stir, lifting automatically to reveal a gray sky. Sunlight tries to peek through the scuttling sea of thick clouds.

Mom rushes into the room, tea in one hand, my new dress slung over the other. A part of me wishes she would slosh the tea all over it. Maybe then I could avoid going altogether. The moment I think it, my stomach twists with guilt again—a familiar feeling since Asher started coming to me in my dreams. I don’t like this new me so much—the me who’s unsure and worried.

Mom places the mug on my nightstand. I sigh and slide out from beneath the sheets, resigning myself to her doting.

“Good morning, Desiree,” Mom squeals, looking like her face is about to break from smiling so big. “Today is such a special day!” She spins in a slow circle holding the ivory satin dress close to her body. Her light brown hair sways against her shoulders. “I remember the day I went before The Protectorate with your dad for our pre-binding formal.” I hear the smile in her voice as she hangs my dress on a wardrobe hook on the wall. With a sweeping hand motion, she ushers me to the shower.

Mom turns her back and I quickly undress and hop in. She continues telling me about her formal as the shower sequence begins and I tilt my head back to let the warm water run over my face. The red digital numbers displayed on the shower door say I have exactly five minutes before it shuts off. Mom’s words soothe my tense muscles. I love hearing the stories of how she met my dad. How love can truly be.

“Your dad was so nervous he dropped my binding necklace right before the official.” She laughs as she slides the dangling emblem back and forth on its chain. On it is the letter G for Griffin, my dad’s name. He, of course, wears hers, the letter V for Verity. It’s a sign of eternal love, as they were both born on the same day.

And destined to die on the same day.

I can’t help but think about that as I step out of the shower and raise my arms high into the air for the drying sequence. As part of The Protectorate’s restructuring solution for the overpopulation in the Manic Age, they implemented the numbered law. Although I know the law and understand how they created it, it isn’t something I usually like to dwell on.

Mom steps just outside the bathroom door as the stainless steel cylindrical rod ejects from the ceiling with a whirr. It glides inches in front of me, up and down my body. Its warm air blows against me, drying me in seconds.

I snatch a towel from the rack and quickly wrap it around me, then eye my reflection in the mirror. I wonder how I’ll look at the formal. My parents saved money all of my life for the pre-binding and binding formals. They wanted to make sure we could go to the ceremonies dressed in the nicest clothes. Because they’re both laborers and work at a factory, it wasn’t so easy.

Mom scurries back in, and I admire the lavender silk dress draped over her slim frame. “You look beautiful, Mom.”

“You know I’ll look younger than your father today, right?” She smirks. It’s a running joke in our family about who looks younger.

“Of course,” I answer, laughing.

She and Dad, like all citizens of Tower, have been bound together with another born on the same day, same year. And the number representing the day of the week you’re born on becomes your middle name. My mind immediately drifts to Darian One Sterling. He was born on Sunday, the first day of the week.

Nobody wants to be born a One. One’s have the shortest lifespan. They must turn themselves in to The Protectorate for termination at age twenty-five. If I were ever going to feel sympathy for Darian, it would be because of that. Knowing he’d die the youngest of all the citizens is probably what made Darian go mad.

I run my fingers over the inside of my right wrist, tracing the tattooed black swirl of the number six that sits above my sensor. Each consecutive day of the week a child is born, they are permitted to live an extra five years. Because I’m a Six I’ll live to be fifty—if no tragedy hits me before that, of course. The luckiest child is born on a Saturday. Seven’s live until the ripe old age of fifty-five.

An old saying from the past still rings true in our time.

Lucky number seven.

I plop down on the chair facing the vanity. “Lights,” I command. Instantly, the bulbs that surround the mirror cast a glow around my face. Mom slips up behind me and brushes my hair. After she blows it dry, she curls it in loose waves so that it looks like a cascading river of autumn leaves.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat and try to find the courage to ask the question burning a hole in my brain.

“Asher is the correct choice, right, Mom? I mean, they don’t make mistakes, do they?” I bite my lip and wait for her answer. I know The Protectorate is incapable of a mistake, but I just have to say the words.

A look of horror crosses Mom’s face, and I know in an instant it was a mistake to ask. Even though the mirror, which doubles as a port screen, is turned off, The Protectorate could technically listen in through the device. But, there’d only be cause for that if they suspected us of Noncompliance. Still, just knowing that they could be listening is cause enough for Mom’s concern. The other is that my question suggests The Protectorate is fallible. I know they aren’t and I realize my question only comes from shaky nerves on such an important day, but Mom won’t accept anything less than complete solidarity.

She spins me around in my chair in one sharp movement. “Don’t you ever say that again, Desiree!” She cups my shoulders, squeezes and shakes them. She leans down, her face an inch in front of mine, and whispers, “Do you hear me?”

I nod, wide-eyed. I know better.

“The Protectorate chooses for us so that we don’t have to worry about making mistakes.” Mom releases my shoulders and spins me back around. She begins idly playing with my hair, tousling the curls in the back.

“I shouldn’t have to remind you that when your grandparents and great-grandparents were growing up during the Manic Age, countless people not only made poor mate choices, but many also were miserable with their career choices. Some were too confused to even choose one at all.” Mom frowns and shakes her head. “Instead, many lined the streets begging for money or food.” She places a hand on my shoulder. “But not anymore.”

I nod, wishing I could take back my question—and my insecurities. I know that when my parents were almost two years old, The Protectorate inserted the sensors beneath every citizen’s wrist, implemented new laws and guidelines, then slowly restored order in Tower.

Mom’s voice grows tight. “I think we should play your official pre-binding welcome from The Protectorate. I was going to wait until you were all ready to go out the door, but you’re just about done now anyway.” She clears her throat. “Screen please,” she says, loudly. “Play the pre-binding welcome file.” Instantly, the mirror blurs to black and our image disappears. A woman sitting at a table appears in the mirror. Her dark hair is pulled back neatly in a bun. She smiles and pats the owl logo stitched above her heart on her gray turtleneck.

“Good day, Tower citizen, and congratulations on this, your pre-binding day,” she says.

Mom squeezes my shoulders behind me and I can practically feel her smiling through the back of my head.

The woman continues. “In the Manic Age, citizens struggled as a result of choosing poorly-fitted mates. Three out of four people got divorced. But with the testing The Protectorate performs on newborns, they not only know what career each and every citizen is best suited for, but who your ideal binding mate is.” She smiles and clasps her hands together. “As such, you no longer need to worry about making wrong choices.”

“Mmhm,” Mom mumbles, and I hang my head in silence, feeling ashamed. “Just look at your father and me,” she adds.

I know she’s right. I know they were meant to be. They could be the poster faces of the perfection The Protectorate achieves. And now, there’s no divorce in Tower. Not only is it illegal, but it’s rarely spoken about, and only as a dirty word from the past.

I lift my head and watch the woman smile. “We allow you to dream of your binding mate for a full year as a way to build excitement for this special occasion. There’s no one better suited for the unique you. Some have debated that we shouldn’t bother to allow this Dreamscape romance since there’s no other choice but this binding. They’d argue that we should leave the reveal as a surprise. However, we feel that by allowing this to be a daily part of your dream, it makes the happy transition from childhood to adulthood even easier. As always, The Protectorate cares for your happiness and well-being.” She gives a slow nod. “Have faith that we have made the correct choice for you and that we will continue to do so because you are a valuable part of society. This is a day we hope you will cherish forever,” she says in a sugary voice, her face breaking out into a toothy smile. “And know that we are here to keep you safe.”

Mom commands the screen to shut off and our images are instantly reflected again. I meet her gaze in the mirror. Mom’s eyes glisten.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my throat burning. And I am. I don’t want to worry her. I wish we could go back to her reminiscing about good times.

“Thank you, honey. You know your father and I will be gone soon.” She pauses a moment, twisting one of my loose curls around her finger. “I love you, Desiree. I know Asher might not have been your first choice, but he will make a fine husband and take care of you when we’re gone.”

She doesn’t need to say any more. I know my parents will be forty in three months. I know that, because they’re Fours, it means they have to go in for termination. I know she only wants me to be safe. I cast my eyes to my lap. Mom’s right. Asher wouldn’t be my first choice…or my last, but what do I know really? Maybe I just needed Mom to confirm it would be okay.

She smiles at me in the mirror, her green eyes crinkling up at the edges. I manage a tight smile before casting my eyes to my lap again. “It isn’t something to mourn,” she says, mistaking my body language.

It’s true I’ll miss them, but I know how romantic it is to pass on through the Dreamscape with your beloved. I often thought about it growing up. How it would feel to be bound together with your life-mate. To finally connect with the one person meant for you from birth. How happy we’d be together. Often, I even daydream about the one perfect child we would share.

Everyone has to die at some point, so the thought of passing on together while holding hands with my one true love has always sounded like an amazing fairy tale. It reminds me of the old Shakespearean play Romeo and Juliet, and of the powerful love they shared.

I just hadn’t expected all of that to be with Asher.

“Your father and I will pass on through together and stay in the Dreamscape for eternity.” Mom’s eyes light up again, as if she’s already forgotten my mistake. She puckers her lips and grins. “You’ll see. You have your whole life ahead of you, number Six.”

“You’re right, Mom.” I stand and twist around to hug her. “And I love you, too.”

I’ll go to the pre-binding ceremony today and make the best of it. Things will get better with time.

She pats my back. “Now you go ahead and get ready, sweetheart. And make sure to doll up that beautiful alabaster skin of yours with some pretty makeup. A little color will stand out beautifully next to your ivory dress.” She winks. “But try not to cover your fairy dust.”

I laugh at her reference to the sprinkle of freckles across my nose. Burrowing deep into one of my makeup bags, I search for the perfect shade of forest green eye shadow, the one I know best accentuates the pistachio green of my eyes. Today my face is my canvas. After applying makeup, shimmying into my dress, and taking in the appraising ooh’s and aah’s, I thank my mom. She excuses herself from my bedroom, and I gaze out my window into the front yard.

Sitting on the gray brick wall that separates our flat from our neighbors’ is little Shia Four Monroe. I remember the day her parents brought her home from the hospital six years ago. They were so proud that she had received such high accolades from The Protectorate’s assessors. “When she’s five, she’ll get her official letter announcing she’ll be a high-standing Protectorate lawyer,” they said, beaming from ear to ear as they walked up the drive with baby Shia bundled all in pink.

She’s always been a happy kid, bouncing instead of walking, and chatting a mile a minute. I’ve enjoyed babysitting her over the last six years, reading Shakespeare to her, and playing dolls.

But today she’s quiet.

I open the window, watching. A fine wisp of fog slithers in, stealthy as a snake. Somewhere in the distance over the tops of row after row of steel flats, the faint hoot of an owl sounds out. Far off, the silhouettes of the tall government buildings and factories loom up into the clouds in the metro part of Tower. If I strain really hard, I can just make out the red tracks for the hover trams, floating through the sky like streaks of blood twirling through the clouds.

I draw my attention back to Shia as she spins something between her fingers. As I watch her head hang low, it’s her hair I notice. Usually her blond curls are neatly brushed and placed into a simple ponytail with a pink ribbon. But today it hangs down, straggly and matted.

It hits me. I was supposed to visit her today. Her parents were convicted, having been found Noncompliant. And tonight would be the first night of seven they must endure the Terrorscape.

Televised for all of Tower to witness.

With Darian’s escape from Olympus jail and my own pre-binding ceremony today, I’d forgotten. Cursing myself, I hold up the hem of my dress and tear through the front door.

When Shia sees me, she gasps. “You look beautiful, Desiree,” she says, then immediately lowers her face to the object in her hand.

I follow her gaze. It isn’t one object, but two. She holds her parents’ binding necklaces in her hands. The Protectorate has forced their removal from them for their week of punishment. It’s an added reminder of what can be taken away. If they’re convicted of being Noncompliant ever again, they’ll lose the privilege of passing on together. I can’t think about that…the heartbreak it would cause, and the shame it would bring.

I press my hand over hers. “It’ll be okay, Shia.” I don’t tell her I’m not really sure it’ll be okay or that I’m disappointed in her parents. She’s too young to hear those things. Taking the necklaces from her hands, I place them around her neck, one at a time. “You’ll keep them safe until your parents come back.”

Shia swallows hard and her lip quivers. I can tell she’s trying not to cry. She bites her lip and nods instead. “Thank you.”

“Hey,” I say with a shoulder bump, feeling amazed at her maturity. It confirms The Protectorate was right about her all along. She’s definitely special. “C’mon and let me fix your hair before I go to my pre-binding formal.” I waggle my eyebrows. I’d do just about anything to distract her. Even feign excitement over Asher.

Shia gives a weak smile. “It’s okay. My aunt will be here soon.”

I reach over and tickle her until she giggles. “If your aunt’s coming, you don’t want her to see you like this do you?” I wink and lift a strand of her tangled hair and let it drop. “Let’s go, Shia Four. I’ll race you to my door,” I say in a sing-song voice.

“That rhymes!” she says, and giggles again, then hops up and dashes inside my house.

After I fix Shia’s hair, we sit down for the breakfast Dad made. His right eye twitches slightly, and Mom gives us a nervous smile. I know they don’t want to be grouped together with the Noncompliant, but Shia couldn’t have known her parents were stealing. I’m not going to abandon her now.

“Ready for today?” Dad asks me around a mouthful of eggs, as Mom fixes the back of his shirt collar. She idly lifts a lock of his black hair and neatly smoothes it back into place.

I nod, although I’m not sure how I can ever really be ready. I’ve never had what people used to call a boyfriend before. It isn’t allowed. Since our mates are chosen for us at birth, it would be a violation to have eyes for anyone else. And we aren’t aware of our mates until the age of sixteen.

It’s not often a person even recognizes who their mate is once they see him or her at the pre-binding ceremony. Usually they’re from some other district within the big province of Tower. On a yearly visit to The Empire, our dream sequences are updated. And on our sixteenth birthday, our binding mate’s image is added to our data profile. But I refuse to wallow in the misery that I’m stuck with Asher. I’m sure I must have read him wrong all these years. He did throw me in the garbage dumpster, but that was in the third grade, I reason. And the time he forced me to drink sewer water that caused me to get sick for a week with a fever? Well, maybe he’s sorry for that. If The Protectorate thinks he’s my life-mate, I have to believe it.

The room grows quiet as Shia toys with the necklaces around her neck, and I chew my bottom lip. My dad places a hand on top of Mom’s, stopping her from fiddling with his shirt. He pats her hand and squeezes it. Although she would never admit it, I know she’s nervous too.

Dad scoots his chair across the floor, the screech of steel meeting steel breaking the silence. He stands in front of Mom a moment, and since they are both 5’6, his gaze meets hers, eye to eye. I’m really not sure how I ended up 5’9, all arms and legs. I’ve always felt gangly, but Mom assures me I haven’t grown into myself yet.

He holds her gently by the shoulders. “You may be starting to look younger than me after all, Verity,” he teases and pecks her lips. She grins before walking to the front door, waving her key fob as she goes. My stomach does a nose dive. I know I have to get through this day without shaming my parents.

Mom twists around with a smile and holds out the golden bracelet I’m supposed to give Asher at the ceremony. In turn, he’s supposed to give one to me. They’re presents from our parents in good faith. The bracelet is a temporary piece of jewelry to be worn until we’re bound. At that time, we’ll exchange the permanent binding necklaces made by The Protectorate.

I clench and unclench my hands, then stand and walk to Mom. I gaze down, my eyes locking on the letter D boldly placed on the bracelet’s emblem. It feels like a million spiders are crawling on my arm. A burning itch ignites against my wrist, where I will soon sport a bracelet bearing the letter A.

Chapter Three

When Shia’s aunt pulls into the Monroes’ driveway, my parents take Shia home and then we begin the short drive to the nearest Sky Tram Port. I look out the window and notice the sun beginning to poke its golden head from the clouds. Driving is only allowed in Tower to and from the trams in order to cut down on unnecessary pollution. My grandmother told my mom that pollution was so bad when she was little they had to wear masks outside. Accompanying overpopulation was the scary, crazy times of the Manic Age. The pollution, food and water shortages, wild spread of disease, and increasing crime rates led to The Protectorate’s brilliant restructuring plan. It comforts me that our government knows how to fix things. That they know what’s right for us.

I clench the golden pre-binding bracelet in my damp hand.

As we pass the rows of steel flats that loom up from the earth like knocked-over tin cans shimmering in the sunlight, Mom rambles on.

“Remember to smile, Desiree.” Her words are all mumbled as she fixes her lipstick in the mirror. “And don’t forget to thank the official for The Protectorate’s wise choosing and blessing.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes as I stare out the window. As much as I accept my fate, it’ll be hard to thank them for choosing to bind me with Asher.

“I’ll be fine, Mom. I know what to do,” I reassure her as Dad parks in the huge Sky Tram lot. A guy about my age zooms by our car on his skateboard, the rumble of his wheels startling me. His gaze meets mine. He nods, then flips the board up with his foot and catches it. He makes a mad dash through the crowd.

It’s just the beginning of the knowing looks I’m sure to receive. When I get out of the car people will point, smile, and whisper. With the way I’m dressed, everyone will know I’m either going to the pre-binding or binding formal. It’s supposed to be an exciting day, a day that changes everything for the better. If it were my best friend, Laken Seven Skye, she’d be oozing with excitement from every pore. Her pre-binding is scheduled for tomorrow.

We aren’t supposed to share what our binding mate looks like with anyone except our parents, but Laken and I are more what I imagine sisters would be than friends. When her mate began appearing in her dreams, she couldn’t help but tell me. She bounced on my bed like a big kid telling me how handsome and amazing he looked. When I told her Asher appeared in my dreams, she hugged me and assured me everything would turn out okay. I wish her smile had reached her eyes.

I open the door and step outside, the crisp fall air rushing against my face. It feels good against my hot skin. I’m already sticky with sweat, and I don’t want to ruin the makeup I took so long to apply. Straight ahead is the Sky Tram Port. Above it, a grid of tracks, looping and weaving like an intricate spider web. To my left at the end of the lot is a guard rail that overlooks a sharp drop to the ravine.

“Honey…” Dad loops his arm through mine, and starts walking toward the Sky Tram Port’s entrance. “Remember, dream big or go home.” He laughs and pats my hand. It’s my dad’s catch phrase that’s melted into my mind like a brain tattoo. He’s said it to me on every notable occasion. The first day of school when I was nervous to go to class, the day I wrote my final exams, and the first day of nursing studies. I even remember him saying it when he taught me how to ride a bike. I know he means to be brave and to live life to the fullest. And in today’s case, this is supposedly a big dream coming to realization. I take a deep breath. It’s the same nervousness you felt before. You got over it then, you’ll get over it now.

I almost believe it.

I paste on a smile as Mom hooks her arm through my other arm and squeezes. It’s their moment to shine almost as much as mine.

On cue, the spectacle begins—the pointing, the whispers, and the knowing smiles. I know my parents are proud. I have to give them this moment. A little girl reaches out and skims the hem of my dress as I pass. “You’re sooo lucky!” she squeals.

“I am,” I tell her. “And your day will come too, before you know it.” And hopefully it will be with someone you actually like. I smile as big as I can manage. I know how she feels. I longed for this day to come all my life, too. I don’t want to ruin her magical thoughts.

When we reach The Protectorate’s binding dynasties, I stop for a moment to catch my breath. The only other building more majestic than the ones before me is The Protectorate’s main office, known as The Empire.

The two buildings tower above me, each a mirror image of the other. The grand, white-stuccoed building on the left, where I’m going today, is used for the pre-binding formal. It soars high into the sky. A giant statue of an owl sits at the top, its golden wings fanning wide.

Midway up the building, a glass cylindrical walkway joins to the other structure. This dynasty is used for the binding formals. The glass that links the two dynasties represents the binding of two like souls. I’ve seen the dynasties many times growing up. It’s impossible to miss the whiteness of the buildings that rises like a giant crest of a wave amid a dark gray sea.

They always had an ethereal feeling to me then—an enchanted fairy tale, a fantasy.

But of course, until today, participating in the formal was only a dream.

My mom slips the pre-binding bracelet onto my wrist, and soon—too soon—my parents are whisked away after a quick peck on my cheeks. I’m ushered away by a tall gray-haired woman in a sparkly silver dress.

“Name?” she asks with barely a glance in my direction.

“Desiree Six Haven.”

“Desiree Six Haven,” she repeats in a crackly voice. She slides a pen out from the top of the bun coiled on top of her head like a bird’s nest. Sweeping through the list of names on her clipboard, she taps the pen across my name and scratches it out.

“You look lovely,” she says without looking at me. I roll my eyes as she turns and walks ahead down the hallway, her shoes clacking against the gleaming floor.

We pass by what feels like a million doors before she stops and opens one. Inside the small room are about fifteen other girls standing around and waiting. One girl is hopping around from one foot to the next so much that I don’t know if she’s excited, or if she has to go to the bathroom. I stifle a giggle. Another girl is gnawing on her thumbnail, and for some reason it makes me feel somewhat better. Maybe she isn’t too happy with her binding mate either. A few of the other girls are huddled together, giggling and whispering. At that moment I wish Laken was with me. I know she would help me relax.

“Let’s go, ladies,” the woman says before I can step inside the room. “Destiny waits.”

Destiny. It’s what we’ve always been brought up to believe in.

The girls stand, all in different styles of ivory-colored dresses. One girl’s dress is so short, I can’t help but blush when I notice it.

“I’m so excited,” a short blond girl says to me, as she scoots by with a smile. After we’re all herded into the lift, the girl with the short dress fidgets uncomfortably and flattens her palms against her dark brown hair while looking in the mirrors that cover every surface of the lift.

Other than her dress being scandalously short, the girl is beautiful and has nothing to worry about. Her thick dark hair hangs to her waist, and her violet, almond-shaped eyes are made up to perfection. I wonder if she’s a makeup artist or if her parents hired someone to have it professionally done. The way she’s fiddling in the mirror I can only imagine she’s excited to see her binding mate and wants to look perfect for him.

Not only is she beautiful, but she’s most likely perfectly matched, too—maybe with one of the hottest guys in all of Tower. She’s probably already in love. A twinge of jealousy rushes through me and immediately I feel guilty. I’m not ugly; in fact I’ve been told that I’m pretty. But there’s pretty and there’s gorgeous. I sigh. I’d settle for pretty and dreamily matched.

Another girl I vaguely recognize from the Grange market, where I sell my artwork on weekends, sidles up next to the dark-haired girl, taps her shoulder, and whispers in her ear. Immediately, the dark-haired girl lowers her hands from her hair.

And turns to look at me.

I suck my lower lip between my teeth, look down, and slide my hand over my dress subconsciously. I don’t know if they’re talking about me because they think something looks odd about me, or if I’d been staring. I glance at my reflection in the mirror. My skin looks a little pale, and I wish I brought some blush. I fluff the back of my hair and ignore them. Whatever.

The lift finally comes to a stop and chimes, indicating the door is about to open. Keeping my gaze ahead, I follow the other girls out without looking back.

The staccato of our heels against the steel floor is out of sync, and I try to drown my thoughts in the clickety-clack sounds they create. I rush forward and blend in among a few other girls, leaving the dark-haired girl and her friend behind.

A knot twists inside me when we finally reach the enormous hall. I wonder where Asher is and if he’ll wear a look of disgust when he sees me. He already knows I’m his binding mate since I’ve been appearing in his dreams too, but I’m not sure if he’ll be able to contain his loathing for me.

Maybe he’s accepted our fate as well, I tell myself and hope it’s true. As much as I’m unhappy with the pairing, I hate that I must be just as much of a disappointment to him.

As we pass through the arched doorway at the back of the room, my feet sink into something soft. Green grass spreads out beneath me. Although it looks completely real, I know it’s fake. I tilt my weight to my tippy-toes so that my heels don’t sink through. Above, the ceiling soars several stories into the air. Beams of sunlight pour in from the domed glass roof. I don’t remember it being quite this sunny today and wonder if the illusion of such bright sunlight is created by The Protectorate, or if the sun shining suddenly is a sign that Asher and I are meant to be.

Family members wearing giant grins fill row after row of chairs covered in golden fabric that looks like woven silk. They surround a stone path like bookends. Hundreds of butterflies float through the air in various colors, and something like the scent of vanilla mixed with cinnamon tickles my nose.

The only things that look mechanical are several huge flat screens on the walls that will show the ceremony for anyone who doesn’t have a good enough view.

The woman ushers us to the path. “This is where I leave you. Move on ahead to the front row on the left and take a seat, ladies.” She points her pen in the direction she wants us to go.

As we walk in single file, the stares of all the family members, along with the sun pouring in from above, makes me hot. Sweat prickles on my palms and the back of my neck. All I can think is how horrible I’ll look when Asher finally sees me. My head swirls. I cast my gaze to my feet and try to keep up with the short blonde in front of me.

She suddenly stops, and I stumble into her, knocking her forward.

“Hey, watch it,” she says, turning to face me with a furrowed brow. But when she catches my gaze, she quickly takes my arm and steadies me, a look of pity washing over her face.

I wonder if I’m turning paler or if my eye shadow is smeared. The thought of that alone makes my head swoon more. “Thank you,” I tell her as we take a seat next to one another. “I’m Desiree.”

She leans to whisper in my ear. “No prob. My name’s Harper.” She giggles and elbows me lightly and lifts her chin across the aisle, her blue eyes widening. “It’s normal to be nervous when we have that waiting for us.”

I instantly know what she means, and I turn my head toward the row of our binding mates.

Murmurs swirl among the girls. I look back at her as her eyes roam over the row of boys.

“Do you see him?” I ask her. I can imagine she’s dying to find the one boy in the row that matches the one she’s been dreaming about.

“No…” Harper grips my forearm as she leans forward. She bites her lip and after a moment squeals. “Yes!” Her fingernails press deeper into my arm and I wince. Pulling her hand back she whispers, “Sorry!” Then, “Hey, aren’t you gonna try to find yours?”

I shake my head. I’m too scared to see the look of disappointment in his eyes.

“C’mon, what’s he look like?” she presses, scanning her eyes over the row of boys again.

I haven’t seen Asher since last year when I left high school. I heard he went to study to become a head official.

I think about my dreams and Asher’s image comes to mind. His dark blond, tousled waves and golden eyes flash in my mind.

“He—”

“Hey, check it out,” Harper interrupts. “Little Miss Sexy seems to have found her binding mate.” She jerks her chin toward the dark-haired girl wearing the too-short dress. The dark-haired girl’s cheeks are flushed the slightest shade of pink. She’s smiling now, her perfect white teeth sparkling like sugar cubes.

I follow her gaze, curious if her binding mate will look as flawless as she does. Soon I find the boy smiling back at her.

His golden eyes turn up at the edges into a genuine smile. A lump forms in my throat that I can’t swallow back.

It’s Asher.

Chapter Four

Everything is a blur after that. Names are called and people rise and go to the front. It’s a spinning distortion of ivory dresses and black jackets.

My mind swirls. Was there a mistake? Did they pair Asher with two girls? I’ve never heard of The Protectorate making that kind of error. For a moment a twist of hope rushes through me. If they did make a mistake, he would definitely choose her over me. Then The Protectorate would be forced to bind me with somebody else. But I quickly realize how embarrassing it would feel to be rejected in front of all these people. My parents would be shamed, too.

Do they know each other? I’ve never seen her before, but then again, I’ve not seen Asher for a long time either. I wonder if it was just an innocent smile, a nervous hello from one to another. Remembering the blush of the girl’s cheeks and the smile in Asher’s eyes—one I’d never witnessed directed at me—tells me that that’s not true.

“Desiree Six Haven,” an official standing at the front calls, breaking me from my thoughts. Somehow, I manage to stand. Harper squeezes my hand beside me. “Good luck!”

Nodding quickly, I mumble, “Thanks, you too.” I shift through the row of girls where only a few remain. The dark-haired girl uncrosses her tanned legs and shimmies back on her chair, allowing me to pass. At the front, pairs of boys and girls stand to one side, admiring their bracelets. And each other. They do it in silence, knowing they aren’t allowed to talk until all the pre-binding has been completed.

I take a deep breath and step out into the aisle, back onto the stone path that leads me to the official.

“And Asher Six Knight,” the official says loudly into his microphone.

My knees shake a little, and I don’t know if I’m relieved I won’t be made a fool of or sad that it’s really Asher after all.

I step toward the official without glancing at the row of boys. The official holds a heap of papers in his hands. He straightens them on the pedestal with a click, click, click as I stand in front of him.

“I’m Desiree,” I say to confirm, and hold out my arm so he can scan the black tattoo of the number six. Underneath the tattoo, the sensor implanted at birth not only syncs the Dreamscape together with our nervous system, but it also verifies who every citizen is. He looks up at me from beneath a pair of black-rimmed glasses, scans my wrist, and smiles. “And thank you for the wise choosing and blessing,” I whisper, and make a mental note to tell Mom I remembered to tell him.

A rustling of air and movement beside me prickles my skin into instant goose bumps. I know it’s Asher. Anxiety grips me like a fist squeezing my insides. I clamp my back teeth together and turn to look at him. He’s about the same height as I am, the same as in my dreams, but even that’s a change from when I saw him in person last. He shot up a lot in the last year or so.

I wonder if his height is the only change—if he’s still the same Asher I’d known.

“Hi, Desiree,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. His dark blond hair is styled neatly into place. The official begins a short speech about destiny and the binding of two like souls. While he speaks, I study Asher’s features, looking for some expression that will give away what he’s thinking. I wonder if I’ll see disgust in his eyes, or if he’ll see disappointment in mine.

His golden eyes are wide, glancing from the official, back at me, then over my shoulder to the row of girls. I’m too aware he’s eyeing the dark-haired girl, but I follow his stare to be sure. Her gaze meets his, and she drops her violet eyes behind long lashes and bites her lip.

My stomach drops and I feel empty, like a glass of water tipped over until there’s nothing left inside. It should be her standing here with him, not me. I know he wants her. And she wants him. I look to the grassy floor and wonder if anyone else noticed his wandering eyes. It takes everything in me not to let the tears that are welling up spill down my cheeks…and I fight against the urge to smack him square in the jaw.

It’s not so much that Asher doesn’t want me, because I don’t want him either. It’s just another slur that Asher has added to the list of insults he’s slung at me. But mostly, it’s the epic disappointment in the ending of a fairy tale I’ve dreamed about for so long.

Asher gingerly picks up my hand, and it takes everything in me not to pull it away. When I look back up at him, he smiles. It isn’t like the smile he gave the other girl, but it isn’t the smirk I’ve grown to know, either.

The official has stopped speaking. I realize I must have missed the part about us exchanging the pre-binding bracelets because Asher gently releases my hand and begins removing his from his wrist.

I straighten my shoulders and try not to look as panicked as I feel. I sense the eyes of everybody staring, and I’m aware my parents are somewhere in the sea of faces, watching proudly. This is right. It has to be. I remove the bracelet, the one with the letter D for Desiree and hold it between my fingers, spinning it round and round.

Asher nods and picks up my other hand, my left, where the bracelets are all worn. The symbolism of wearing them on the same side as the heart isn’t lost on me.

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay,” he whispers as he leans toward me. He places his golden bracelet—now mine—around my wrist.

He’s right of course. It will be okay. It always is. I’m relieved to hear him say it, but I wonder if he really believes it, or if he’s trying to convince himself.

After I place the bracelet I brought around his wrist, our turn is over. We’re officially promised to each other.

In that moment, I’m glad we don’t have to kiss. At least not until the binding ceremony on our eighteenth birthday. Before that, there’ll be a series of group dates and, closer to the binding, we’ll be permitted to go on dates alone. Except, of course, for the accompanying official.

“Harper Six Purefoy,” the official calls out the next name on his list with a smile.

Harper practically floats from her seat toward the path leading to the front. She stops and meets her binding mate as he exits his aisle. They’re all grins and smiles as they clasp hands like they’ve known each other for years.

They have known each other—in their dreams—dreams so real that every touch, every scent, every flavor is alive, electric in the magic of the Dreamscape.

The sound of static suddenly fills the room, and I notice the puzzled expression on the official’s face. I follow his stare to the giant screen on the far wall. Blurs of black and white fuzz the screen, but are soon replaced by the highest official of Tower. Prime Minister Miles Seven Vega.

Gasps fill the air.

The official standing near me taps the microphone. “Quiet, please!”

A hush falls as heads jerk up to look at the jumbo screens around the room.

Prime Minister Vega runs his hand back through his gray hair and leans toward the screen from behind a steel desk. Other than the Prime Minister being a Seven and living longer than most, I know he must be under enormous tension fixing mistakes from our ancestors in the Manic Age. And with his grandson suffering from some new unidentifiable illness, his stress levels must have reached new heights. Despite his high regard, I can’t help but pity him as I watch him.

“Citizens of Tower,” he begins. “There’s been a report of a home invasion that occurred last night in the outer region of Tower.” His face is serious, his brown eyes intense. “But please remain calm. Other than being deprived of sleep, nobody was harmed. For that we’re thankful. Neither was there evidence of any theft. Of course, your safety and happiness are our utmost priorities. As such, extra forces will be on patrol starting tonight until the apprehension of the criminal.” He pauses a moment, then continues. “However, we need you to be vigilant. Lock your doors and windows, and report any suspicious activity to your local officials.” He sighs, and turns his palms up. “You will no doubt ask yourself that if nobody was harmed and no items were stolen, what was the purpose of the home invasion?” Vega’s eyes narrow. “It’s the same question we’ve asked ourselves here at The Empire. And we believe there’s been an unauthorized use of the homeowner’s Dreamscape.”

A wave of murmurs rolls through the room, and again our official scowls and barks, “Silence!”

Prime Minister Vega lifts something off the desk in front of him, holding up the jail photo of Darian that was displayed on the port screen last night. “We have reason to believe the criminal is none other than Darian One Sterling.”

Gasps fill the room as my anxiety spins out of control.

Chapter Five

That evening, we sit around waiting for the broadcast of our next-door neighbors’ punishment in the Terrorscape. I wish I knew what Coral and Owen had stolen. I can’t imagine anything they’d need, or why they wouldn’t have asked us to help.

I picture little Shia next door with her aunt watching her parents suffer through the nightmares. My throat grows dry and scratchy, like I swallowed a mouthful of sand. In this moment, I’m thankful for the Dreamscape, knowing at least when Shia goes to sleep tonight, her dreams will be pleasant. And tomorrow I’ll ask her to come to the Grange with me to help take her mind off things. Maybe I can buy her candy from one of the vendors and she can help me sell a painting.

The occasional sounds of police cars patrolling the area, and the echo of their sirens, haunt the room.

Tension in the streets is high. Saying a murderer has not only escaped and is wandering free, but is now breaking into houses isn’t a good way to keep people from panicking. But at least the Prime Minister was honest, and The Protectorate clearly is doing everything in their power to catch Darian.

“You ready?” Mom’s eyes are unfocused, lost somewhere in a trance.

I plop onto the sofa next to her, hook my arm through hers, and curl my legs beneath me. “Of course,” I say, as though it isn’t a big deal, forcing my voice to keep steady. As much as I want to pretend that watching our neighbor’s punishment won’t be any different than viewing the convicted child killer’s Terrorscape jaunt last year, I know I can’t. That guy’s punishment was well-deserved. Anybody who would hurt children deserves to stay in the Terrorscape for eternity.

Mom rests her head against my shoulder as Dad triple-checks the lock on the front door. It’s hard to believe we’re barricading ourselves against the one boy who used to protect me.

“It’s just tha—” Mom starts then stops, looking up at the port screen facing us from across the room. The steady red light glares from the top of it like a beacon, reminding us of its presence. Every house has several port screens installed which double as cameras, ensuring compliance.

“It’s okay,” I say so she doesn’t have to finish her sentence. I lean into her and whisper, “Only five minutes.” I know the five minutes of mandatory viewing will seem much longer and that it’ll be horrible to watch. Witnessing a close friend suffer is never easy.

My mind drifts over times we’ve spent together with the Monroes. Our families went to the yearly Rockin’ River Festival together this past summer. Shia’s mother, Coral, and I were the only ones to brave the Tower of Death roller coaster ride. I can still see the horror on my mom’s face as she watched Coral and me come down a deep decline. Even though it boasts the biggest drop of any coaster, we both raised our arms high into the air as it plummeted, sharp and swift as an arrow. I screamed, but Coral smiled, a euphoric expression warming her face. Nothing can beat that feeling of exhilaration.

Hardly a day would pass without Coral visiting my mother at my house or my mother having tea at hers. They were always too deep in conversation to notice when I came home from school. It’s so hard to think of the Monroes as Noncompliant. I would’ve never imagined they’d end up in the Terrorscape.

Mom was devastated after hearing the news that Coral and Owen were caught stealing from the distribution center where they work. Last week, the two were immediately whisked away to the Olympus Jail and into the Terrorscape where they’ve been held for questioning. Mom hasn’t seen Coral since and I wonder if she’ll forgive Coral.

Dad peeks through the window blinds and the swirl of police car lights cast eerie, dancing shadows through the room. “Damn criminals causing chaos.” He shakes his head.

“C’mon, Griffin,” Mom says, patting the sofa beside her. Their eyes meet a moment and she lifts her eyebrows slightly toward the port screen. “It’ll be over soon.” Dad’s hands clench by his sides as he walks over and drops with a sigh beside Mom.

It’s not like we’re totally prepared for what we’re about to witness. It’s not often that someone disobeys The Protectorate, and it’s never fun watching their suffering on the port screen—not even when I know the Noncompliant deserve to be punished. But tonight, watching the neighbors whom I’ve grown up with, it will be far worse.

Mom unmutes the port screen as the regular station is interrupted. A picture of The Empire spreads across the screen. The terracotta-colored building looms into the sky, growing narrower as it rises, like layers on a cake. On the outer tips of each corner perches a stone snowy owl, wide-eyed and looking alert. Rolling granite waves the color of a Caribbean ocean burst out at the crown of the structure. I eye the giant clock at the center, its pearl face shimmering. It reads eight o’clock.

The picture of The Empire fades and is replaced with images of Coral and Owen as the camera zooms in. They’re strapped side-by-side on their backs to a stretcher. Owen’s face is pale, eyes pinched tight, flickering. He grips the sides of the stretcher as though readying himself for the inevitable. And the unknown.

But it’s Coral I’m drawn to. She stares straight into the camera, eyes narrowed. She wears an expression I’ve not seen from her before. Disgust? Defiance? She looks nothing like the woman I’ve known my entire life.

Mom releases a small, startled gasp. I grip her arm tighter, partly to alert her and partly to steady my trembling hands. She clamps her mouth closed and bites her lip. I know we need to appear stoic, showing we fully accept and agree with The Protectorate’s punishment. From the corner of my eye, I notice Dad lace his fingers through hers.

The hum of the Terrorscape sounds. Although I don’t see a Syncro-Drifter like the one hovering over my bed that links us to its system, the sound coming from the Terrorscape is the same. It sends a familiar soothing ripple of calmness through me, making it difficult to envision anything scary coming from it.

Soon, Coral’s eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, Owen appears relaxed.

Sharp screams rip through the silence, and my momentary calm disintegrates. The fine hairs on my arms stand on end and I want to look away.

But I can’t. I’m not allowed.

My muscles tense. They’re thieves, I remind myself in a vain attempt to steady my breath.

Owen’s face contorts into odd angles and his eyes burst open as though he’s awake and witnessing his own gruesome death. A muted cry seeps from his lips.

Coral thrashes in her sleep, pulling at the straps that tie her down for safety. “No!” she cries out.

And suddenly, I don’t want to stay there one more minute. On other occasions, when I watched people suffer in the Terrorscape, I rationalized they were horrible people deserving to be punished. I envisioned them committing the worst crimes imaginable.

But Coral and Owen aren’t horrible.

I can’t make it right in my head. I can’t connect the criminals on the screen with the kind, loving, and fun neighbors I know. It’s like trying to connect two pieces of different puzzles.

A burning, twisting feeling runs through my body as though a snake were biting its venom into my bloodstream. I want to jump up, scream, rip the pre-binding bracelet from my arm, and run.

“Four, three, two, one,” the same pleasant voice from the Dreamscape calls out the remaining seconds of the mandatory five-minute viewing.

Mom shuts off the port screen and folds over herself, and I know she’s trying to hold back tears. Dad quickly guides her to a corner of the room where no port screen could potentially witness her reaction that could be construed as Noncompliance. I run down the hall to my room. Closing the door, I turn my back to it and gasp for air.

Tossing aside my seascape with a growl, I quickly place a new, blank canvas on the easel. I pull out my hand-held palette and squeeze on multi-colored globs of paint. My heart is pounding, and Coral’s screams echo in my mind.

I furiously work the brush into the paint and onto the canvas. With each stroke, my emotions fold themselves onto the piece until they and the canvas are one.

When I’m done, my eyes widen at what I’ve created.

Gone is my typical seascape, forest scenes, or soaring mountains amid a swirling sky in various shades of blue.

In its place sits an image of The Empire cloaked in a haze of gray. Orange flames flicker at the top where rolling waves once stood. Within the flames, instead of the clock, rises a black colony of bats shooting upward into the crimson night sky.

Chapter Six

An hour later, Mom pokes her head into my room. Before she notices, I quickly stash my new artwork near the back of my stack of paintings against the wall.

“You okay?” she asks. Her eyes are red, her face still etched in pain. She slides her hand back through her light brown hair and smiles. “I know it’s awful having to watch our friends—like that.” She swallows hard enough for me to notice.

“I’ll be all right,” I say, pushing down the knot in my throat.

Mom rests her hand on the doorknob. “Laken’s on the video-com, honey. I just wanted to say good night. Your dad and I are going to bed early. Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

“Sure.”

“And, Desiree?”

“Yeah?” I head toward the video-com that’s on the wall next to my bed, but steal glances at Mom as I go.

She widens her eyes and wipes the back of her hand across the bridge of her nose. She smiles slightly. “You missed a spot.” She winks and closes the door.

I’m sure I’m covered in paint splatter, but I don’t bother checking. I tap on the video-com. “Laken?”

“Um, yeah?” she says as her image lights up the screen. Her arms are folded over her chest and she rolls her eyes. “What took you so long?”

“Sorry, Mom patrol. What’s up?”

“What’s up? You’re kidding me.” She looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “You did go to your pre-binding formal today, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, shrugging.

“Smackers, Rae, do I have to come over and shake you or what?” She laughs. “Details. I want them and I want them now. He’s totally cool now, isn’t he? Please tell me he wasn’t rude to you.”

I sigh and remind myself Laken cares about me. She’s excited about her own pre-binding formal tomorrow and wants to know everything.

I try to think of the positive aspects of the day to keep her spirits up. Who am I to blow the whole fairy tale? “Well, the pre-binding dynasty is really beautiful,” I say. “It looks like a meadow with a kaleidoscope of butterflies. It’s filled with jade-colored grass, and the sun shimmers in like there’s never been one day of pollution, and—”

She rolls her eyes again. “That sounds really cute, Rae, but cut the artistic crap and give me the real scoop. You know—about Asher.”

I chew my thumbnail. Laken believes in the system with all of her being. Not that I don’t, but telling her the truth could dampen her excitement. Usually, I’d confess everything, but if I tell her Asher had eyes for some other girl, she might stress about the same thing happening with her binding mate. The pre-binding formal is nerve-racking enough without adding that kind of stress to the situation.

She leans in and knocks the video-com screen. The loud sound brings me back. “Earth to Desiree.”

“It was, um, good.” I force a smile. “Asher seemed okay. He’s taller?”

She tosses her dark hair behind her shoulder. “Aha, bonus! See, I told you it would turn out okay, didn’t I? The Protectorate knows, Rae. They just do. So, what else? What did he say? Did he tell you how gorgeous you are—how perfect your porcelain skin is?” She practically pants, her eyes blinking, and her excitement oozing through the screen.

I feel my cheeks burn. No. He was too busy checking out someone else. “Nope, nothing like that. Besides, with the broadcast about Darian’s escape—”

Her eyes widen. “I meant to ask about that, too, sorry. Are you totally freaked?”

I fumble with the hem of my shirt and struggle to keep a steady voice. “Yeah, I guess. I mean I thought he was locked away for good.”

“You still think about the sixth grade?” She giggles. “You know, when you two had a little flirt going on?”

“We didn’t have a flirt going on,” I hiss. “He just used to stand up for me.” I realize it sounds like I’m defending a murderer, and quickly add, “Must have been his way to get his pent-up anger out at the time.” I hug my elbows. “Then he moved to bigger goals when he killed his parents…so please, don’t say we had a flirt going on. It kind of makes me sick.”

“Sheesh, okay, relax. Such a waste though, huh? Did you see his mug shot? He’s totally hot, in an I-killed-my-parents sort of way.” She laughs.

“River…” I say with a sigh. Whenever I call her River instead of Laken, it’s her signal that I’m really getting annoyed.

“All right. I’m not worried about it, though. They’ll catch him. It’s just a matter of time before he’s back in Olympus Jail and sleeping with the Terrorscape—” She inhales a sharp breath and slaps a hand over her mouth, then squeals, “Shoot! The Monroes! Are you okay? You want me to come over?”

“It’s almost eleven, Laken. I’m going to bed, but thanks.”

“You sure?” She arches a brow. “I know you love that family. But hopefully they learned their lesson for what they did and will never do anything like that again. Whatever it is they stole is so not worth it. But things will die down in a few weeks and people will start to forget.”

I don’t know how likely that is. People don’t tend to forget those who were convicted of being Noncompliant. “Yeah, I know,” I say.

“Listen, I know I’m rambling on. I’m just excited about our pre-binding formals and stuff. You know I love you, right?”

I give her a smile and nod. Of course I know she loves me. She’s my best friend in the world. One time in the third grade when I’d gotten in trouble for eating another kid’s apple, she took the blame. Laken told the teacher she gave it to me and said it was hers and that I could have it. She’d do anything to keep me out of trouble, help make me happy.

“Hey,” she says. “You want me to come over tomorrow morning?” she asks. “I can bring your favorite cookie dough…”

She knows my weakness. Every time we bake cookies together, my half never makes it to the oven. The ooey-gooey, chocolate chip cookie dough is like my own personal tongue heaven.

“You won’t have time for that. Your pre-binding’s tomorrow,” I say as though I need to remind her. “You need to get all dolled up for…what’s his name?” I tap my pointer finger against my cheek, pretending I forget.

“Rowen,” she pretty much coos, a huge smile spreading across her face.

“Yeah, that’s it,” I say with a chuckle. “Maybe Sunday though? Anyway, don’t worry about tomorrow. I’m going to see if Shia can come with me to the Grange.”

“Got more artwork to sell?”

“Always.” I jerk my head over my shoulder toward my pile of paintings.

“I can see you’ve been busy painting anyway. You kind of look like a rainbow right now.” She chuckles. “You’re so talented—hey, what are you going to do with all that money you’re saving up anyway?”

“Lulu, get to bed, chipmunk,” Laken’s mom calls out in the background using two of the zillion pet names she calls her.

I snort. “Yeah, chipmunk, go grab a nut and get some sleep,” I whisper.

Laken laughs. “Sure thing, Rae. Love ya.”

“Love you, too, and good luck tomorrow.” I shut off the video-com and wince at my forced enthusiasm for the whole pre-binding formal. I hope Laken’s experience is better than mine. For her sake.

I amble to my bathroom and splash water on my face and try scrubbing off the paint. From the corner of my eye, I notice the shower. I’d give anything to jump in right now, but since the mass water shortages of the Manic Age, The Protectorate has implemented a strict five minute shower once daily. Other than that, we get five extra minutes of cold water a day to brush our teeth or wash our hands. The last drops of water trickle from the tap, and I wipe my hand across my face. Orange paint smudges run across my nose and drag across my cheek.

With a groan, I snatch a towel from the rack, shove my face into it, and hold it there while inhaling deeply and staggering back to my bed, anxious for sleep. I want to forget the whole day and dream something good. Besides the Asher part, everything else will be perfect. I hope tonight’s dream will be something about hiking in the mountains and a picnic by Shanty Springs. I always love that one.

But, before I make it to my bed, I smack into something hard.

Firm hands grip my arms.

I drop the towel.

My mouth gapes open.

I’ve never forgotten the face that towers above me. His black hair is buzzed short, and his indigo-blue eyes stare down into mine.

Darian grins at me and winks.

Chapter Seven

I’m about to scream but before I can, Darian spins me around and holds his hand over my mouth.

“Please, Desiree,” he whispers into my ear. “Don’t.” His warm breath fans my cheek, and I shudder.

Just hearing him say my name makes me cringe. I nod in agreement, only wanting him to let me go.

“You promise you’ll be quiet?”

I nod again, more enthusiastically this time. My mind is racing. I’m stuck alone in my room with a murderer. This day just went from bad, to worse, to pure hell.

Darian slowly releases his hand and I scoot away, backing against the wall. I blink up at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not going to hurt you. Relax, Rae.” He rubs the back of his fingers against his olive-toned cheek and smirks. “Still into the artist scene I take it?”

I wipe my face furiously. “Never mind that. What are you doing here?”

He steps over a black backpack at his feet, walks over to my pile of paintings against the wall, and browses through them casually. His white shirt is clearly two sizes too small, and the sleeves are pushed up as if he’s trying to hide the fact they’re too short. I wonder where he got it in the first place, since it isn’t exactly the standard-issue Olympus Jail dull green. Darian continues to shift through my work, and the lean muscles on his arms flex as he moves through them.

“Hey, stop it,” I say and start to walk toward him, but decide against it at the last minute and stand still instead. “That’s private, Darian.”

I fold my arms across my chest. What I really want to do is wrench my beloved paintings from his criminal hands. But he’s about 6’3 and, as tough as I’d like to think I am, I know I’m no match for him. His own parents certainly weren’t.

He twists around and a crooked smile raises the edges of his lips. “So, you remember my name, huh?”

I avert my eyes from his, take a step back, and say nothing. It was about two years ago that he was arrested. Of course I remember him.

“You still believe all The Protectorate hype, Rae?”

That’s the second time he’s used my nickname. I snap my gaze back to his, meeting Darian’s stare. “Don’t call me that!” I slap my hand over my mouth and suck in a sharp breath. I should know better than to get mouthy with a murderer. But he looks so much like the Darian I used to know. I mean, he’s taller and has a frantic, edgy buzz about him—the kind of look I imagine two years of nights spent in the Terrorscape would cause. There’s a wildness in his tired eyes, and a thin white scar runs down the side of his neck. But other than that, he’s the same.

While I watch him, a smirk twists his lips. He’s taunting me. He knows I have questions. I fidget with my hands behind my back, but finally can’t contain myself any longer. “Why did you do it?” I blurt.

The smirk slides off his face. “You do believe the hype, sunshine. I hoped you knew me well enough to know better.” He stalks toward me, and I hold my hands up defensively, backing into the wall, ignoring that he just called me sunshine, the other nickname he and his parents used to call me, which he derived from Rae of sunshine.

“Well…the evidence shows—”

Darian’s face contorts into a scowl, and I inwardly curse myself—and my big mouth. He plants both of his hands on either side of me, trapping me against the wall. “Evidence?” he says with a growl. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

I swallow hard and part my lips to scream—but then Darian leans back.

He shakes his head and clenches his teeth. “Shit, Desiree, I didn’t kill my parents, okay?”

As if he’d admit to it if he had.

Darian frowns, looking wounded, and grumbles as he shoves off from the wall. “I always knew you were a follower, Rae, but I didn’t think for a second you’d believe I’d kill my own parents, damn it. We were friends.” He sighs. “I thought we still were.”

He looks toward the window of my bedroom. The one I assume he jimmied to get in. “I came here because I hoped you’d help me.” His blue eyes are intense and his face holds a pensive expression.

I jerk my head back. “Help you how, Darian? Cause I’m fresh out of time machines to change the past right now.” Here I go running my mouth again.

He looks at me, and I think I see a sliver of amusement in his eyes. “Right. That’s just what I meant.”

I want to laugh. How does he possibly think I can help him…or that I would even want to?

Darian yawns and glances at the clock on my nightstand. “Desiree, I swear I didn’t kill my parents. I couldn’t kill anyone—at least not unless—”

“There’s an actual clause to that statement?” I interrupt, wide-eyed.

Darian sighs dramatically and throws his hands up in the air. “Well, yeah. C’mon. You’re telling me you wouldn’t kill to protect your family, or someone you love?” He squints at me as if I’m a lab rat he’s studying.

Honestly, I’ve never thought about whether I’d kill someone or not. It’s not an idea I’ve ever had to worry about. The Protectorate ensures our safety at all times.

I cringe the moment I think it, realizing how unsafe I am stuck in a room with an escaped murderer. But yeah, now that I think about it, I probably would kill anyone who tried to hurt my parents.

“I guess so,” I mutter. I want to add including you, but decide against it.

Darian crosses his arms and shifts back on his heels. “The Protectorate isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know.”

My whole body tenses at his blatant use of words that make him Noncompliant. “Don’t say that.”

He chuckles, but then quickly composes himself. “I didn’t kill my parents. All right? The Protectorate framed me.” He clamps his mouth shut and I watch his jaw work as he watches me for a reaction.

I shift a step in the direction of my door while attempting to distract him. “But why? Why would The Protectorate frame you?”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face and the corners of his eyes crinkle. His moods shift from playful sarcasm to rage so fast it unnerves me. I wonder if the Terrorscape has permanently affected him somehow.

He cocks his head to one side. “The Protectorate isn’t what it seems. I’m telling you the truth. Did you forget about Sophia?”

Sophia…the name runs through my mind like a whisper from across the room. The kind that makes you stretch your neck out to pick up the sound better. It sounds familiar, but I can’t seem to place it. “Sophia?” I ask, curious. “Who is she?”

“Who was she, you mean.” Darian raises his eyebrows. “You really do forget, don’t you?” He looks toward my Syncro-Drifter attached to the Dreamscape, stifles another yawn, and looks back at me. “Look, I just need sleep. That’s why I came.”

But I don’t answer. My mind is still racing over his latest bomb.

Sophia, Sophia, Sophia. The name rushes through my head like the ringing of wind chimes in the breeze. Images of twisting shades of gold and copper, mixed with bouncing ribbons of hair so black it almost looks blue, flash behind my eyes, but there is no face.

“Desiree?” Darian is beside me now, shaking my arm and gently breaking me out of my trance. His face is softer, weary. “I didn’t kill my parents. I wish you’d believe me. I won’t sit here and beg, but I promise if you just let me sleep this one night, you’ll never see me again. I’ll head into the metro in the morning and disappear from your life forever.”

An actual twinge of pity rushes over me. I imagine him experiencing what I witnessed Coral and Owen going through earlier. Except with Darian it had been two years of the Terrorscape hell.

But then I remember the home invasion last night. I tug my arm away, disgusted with myself for my lapse of judgment. “It was you, wasn’t it? You’re the one who broke into that house last night. To use the Dreamscape.”

Darian shrugs. “I’m not gonna lie. Yeah, it was me. I’m exhausted, okay? You know I can’t sleep without that contraption.” He tips his head back, closes his eyes a moment, and drags in a long breath.

I want to slide past him, get far away—but I’m drawn to the silver-gray scar shimmering down the side of his neck.

When I look back to his liquid-blue eyes, I find them watching me again. A sudden memory of the days we spent at Lake Briar as kids flashes in my mind. The lake is one of the few places left untouched by The Protectorate, in the vast expanse that surrounds Tower called the wastelands, and where the water is still clear enough to swim.

The lake sits on several acres of land Darian’s grandfather passed down. The times we snuck off there were sacred. I remember feeling guilty for not telling Laken about it, but Darian made me promise not to tell anybody. He said that if I did, all of Tower would overrun it before we could even blink. I remember the tire swing he made for me, and how he’d push me on it until it felt like I reached the sky, the sun wrapping around me, tickling my skin. Then he’d call me chicken until I’d jump. After, he’d show off and climb to the top of the tire as it soared into the air, laughing as he did a backflip into the lake.

Present-day Darian shifts, rubbing his neck where the scar is, and I know he’s caught me staring.

I tug my lip between my teeth, feeling my cheeks flush. I look away, ashamed that I dug up those memories and angry with him, as though he purposely hypnotized me with those eyes of his.

“Well?” he says, and I can tell from his forced smile that he’s trying his best not to look too pushy.

“They’ll know something’s up.” I scrunch my eyebrows. “You know The Protectorate will read the brainwaves and detect a problem.”

Darian reaches into his backpack and pulls out a chrome-colored cylindrical device. He holds it up and casts a devilish grin. “Not with this.”

I bite my lower lip and raise my eyebrows. “Is that—”

“A mixer, yes.” He taps it lightly against his head and continues, “It distorts the brainwaves so The Protectorate won’t be able to pick up that it isn’t you all snug in your bed.” A satisfied grin hitches his lips. “They may notice something is a little off, but if anything they’ll probably think you’re stressed out and amp up the pleasurable dreams over the next few days.” He chuckles under his breath. “I mean, come on, there is a murderer on the loose. Any pretty young girl like you would be nervous about that, wouldn’t they?”

Wait. Did he just call me pretty? I can’t even think about that right now, or why it made my heart flutter when he said it. It takes a moment for the idea of him having a mixer to sink in. I shift my hair back away from my face and think. I’ve heard about those mixers, but I wasn’t even sure they really existed. I can only imagine that it’s contraband from Olympus Jail, but I don’t bother asking.

A wave of nausea rolls in my stomach, but I finally sigh and nod in agreement. If I’m caught, I’ll be convicted of being Noncompliant, but that damn childhood memory from Lake Briar weakened me. I wrap my arms around my waist.

“Thank you, Rae.” Then, as if he can read my mind, he says, “I’ll make it look like I tied you up…you know, just in case.”

“One night,” I tell him, anxious about being caught and strangely worried over what will happen to Darian after tonight. I shake it off and meet his gaze. “Then don’t ever come back.”

As I sit in a chair, mock tied up beside my bed and watching Darian sleep, I begin praying in my head. Please don’t let my parents walk in. Please don’t let us get caught. I twine my wrists around the rope a couple more times for appearances, knowing I can tug them out at any time.

The hum of the Dreamscape taunts me, making my eyes feel heavy. I wish I could sleep, but the moment I close my eyes and begin to drift off, my skin suddenly prickles painfully, like I’m being poked with a series of needles. I jolt upright with a muted yelp. As much as it hurts, I’m thankful for the prevention incorporated into our bodies that prevents us from falling asleep on our own. If things were like they were in the Manic Age, I’m sure I’d have a horrible nightmare after everything that’s happened.

I blink my scratchy eyes. In the morning, I plan to tell my parents I’m sick so I can catch a couple of hours myself in the Dreamscape. The thought of lying to them makes my stomach flip.

The Dreamscape’s Syncro-Drifter hovers above Darian’s head, and it’s as if someone has erased a world of worries from his mind. A soft glow seems to emanate from his face, and he actually smiles in his sleep. The mixer is magnetized, and clings to the side of the Syncro-Drifter like dead weight.

The severity of the situation weighs heavily on me, and I will the mixer to work, and pray that we’re not caught. I’m not a troublemaker and this situation skyrockets off the troublemaker charts. A pang of guilt grips my stomach.

With Darian’s eyes closed, I can’t help but stare at him. I notice the outline of his dark buzzed hair around his perfectly symmetrical face, and the bit of stubble above his full lips. I notice the leanness of his body as his too-small shirt rises above the low rise of his jeans, revealing a trace of fine hair that extends below his navel in a straight line. His faded jeans are also a size too small, but somehow they still manage to look good on him. They’re unbuttoned, and the gentle rise and fall of his exposed, toned stomach is mesmerizing.

I sit in my chair until the sun begins to sneak traces of light into the room and I decide I can’t take it anymore. I untwine my hands, rub my eyes, and slowly stand beside the bed. Pressing the off switch on the Syncro-Drifter, I close it down and cautiously nudge Darian awake.

He bolts upright as though hit with a hot poker and snatches both of my wrists. He pulls me on top of him in one forceful tug. His face is hardened, his eyes blurred over as if he’s somewhere else. Somewhere that frightens me.

A small squeal escapes from my lips as pain shoots up my arms, and suddenly Darian sees me—really sees me. His face is awash with recognition and he’s back. He lets me go and I push myself off him and stumble back to my feet.

Darian jumps out of bed. “I’m sorry, Desiree. I…I didn’t mean to.”

I rub my wrists and back away, hoping his grip won’t leave bruises I’ll have to explain. He reaches toward me hesitantly, a pained expression on his face.

Unconsciously, I shuffle backward a couple more steps. “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “It’s okay.”

Darian chews the corner of his lip. “No, it’s not. I just…you know…never know what to expect when I wake up, and when you touched me I thought…” He stops speaking. His jaw tightens as he bends over and snatches up the rope. He twists around and pockets the mixer.

He’s angry again and I don’t know if it’s at me, at himself, or at the whole world in general. Darian stuffs his feet back into his white sneakers, grabs his backpack, and heads toward the window. Halfway there he stops and spins around to face me.

“Asher? Seriously, Desiree?” A sardonic grin twists on his lips. “If that doesn’t tell you how messed up The Protectorate is, then I don’t know what else will.”

I realize he saw Asher in my dreams and my stomach roils. I hadn’t thought about that. If anyone knows how much I hate Asher, it’s Darian. Knowing he saw the most private parts of my dreams is completely humiliating. I don’t know what burns more, my wrists, my face, or my ego.

“You’re seriously gonna be bound to that dickhead after everything he did to you?”

I can’t react. Doing so would only let him think he’s gotten to me, or that I care what he thinks at all. Instead, I stand my ground and simply nod.

His eyes skim down to my wrist, where the bracelet Asher gave me feels as though it’s burning a hole straight through me. I already feel bad enough about my chosen binding mate. I don’t need Darian to make me feel worse. I cross my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes.

He cracks a slight smile and raises his hands, palms up. “Hey, who am I to question true love?” He bats his eyelashes. “’Cause that’s what it is, isn’t it? The Protectorate, in their omniscient wisdom, wouldn’t dare make a mistake, right?”

“Just. Leave,” I say, biting each word out sharply. “It’s not like you’ll ever know anything about it.”

He chuckles softly and shakes his head. “Wouldn’t want to, not if it’s like that. I was lucky enough to miss the whole revelation of who they planned to stick me with…you know, since I was arrested shortly before I turned sixteen.” He lifts an indifferent shoulder.

The minute he says it, I wonder if The Protectorate has re-bound Darian’s chosen mate with someone else. But the only way that could have happened is if another young guy had died before the pre-binding or had been jailed permanently. Otherwise, Darian’s intended mate would have to remain single her entire life. In that moment, I feel bad for that girl; sometimes fate can deal a sad blow.

More light enters the room and my heart races with worry that Mom or Dad could come in at any moment. “Please go, Darian, okay? Like you said you would.” I force a smile. I can’t be caught with an escaped murderer in my room.

Darian cracks open my window. “You know, you really should lock your window. A lot of nasty people are running around Tower.” His full lips twist into a crooked smirk, then slip into a genuine smile. “And thank you. I mean it.” Then he nods to the city in the distance. “I’m heading into the metro part of Tower. Take care of yourself, Rae.” He holds his gaze on me a couple of seconds and winks.

I furrow my brows and watch him slip away into the crisp air, stealthily as a shadow.

After I secure my window and chastise myself for letting Darian get to me, I scribble a note to Mom and Dad, crawl into bed, and activate the Syncro-Drifter, setting it to shut down at nine a.m.

I don’t think about what he said anymore, not as the Dreamscape lulls me to sleep with its soothing voice and pulsing rhythm like a warm embrace on a summer’s evening. And in this one moment I push aside the bad thoughts about Asher, about Coral and Owen, and about Darian’s indigo blue eyes that are as deep as the ocean.

Chapter Eight

“Here to keep you safe…” A soft, misty voice drifts off, mingling into the hum of the Dreamscape before silence envelopes me for one solitary moment.

I’m sitting on a red blanket, stuffing my face with my favorite fruit—strawberries—while taking in the scenery around me. Green grass spreads out as far as my eye can see. It’s only broken up by the trickling blue spring a few feet in front of me. Coming to Shanty Springs has always been my safe place. I lick the remaining strawberry juice dribbling down my fingers, pluck a daisy from the grass beside me, press it to my nose, and inhale its fresh, earthy scent.

Mom pulls wrapped sandwiches and scores of assorted pickles out of the wicker picnic basket placed in the center of the blanket. I scoop up a sandwich and watch Dad set up his archery target. He tugs his crossbow out from its case and walks several yards away before twisting back to face the target. After setting his stance, he aims to perfection, hits the bull’s-eye, and lets out a roar of victory.

I’m not sure how many times he repeats this before I rush to the spring that pours out from the side of the mountain. I dip my head into the cool water that sprays down, and water splashes over my clothes. I fill my mouth, enjoying its clean taste.

A squeal pierces the quiet, and I glance toward the sound. Shia is screaming and laughing as Dad twirls her through the air. The Monroes have shown up as they always do on days we go to the spring.

Behind Dad and Shia, Mom hugs Coral while Owen digs through the picnic basket, searching for the salami sandwich with horseradish that Mom has made especially for him.

Something flickers inside me as I catch Coral’s gaze. She smiles and waves at me like she always does when she arrives, her red dress fluttering in the warm breeze.

But there is something different—

I have the sensation of a bug worming its way through my insides, twisting and gyrating. I grip my stomach and the feeling leaves as quickly as it came, as if I’d imagined it.

But I know I didn’t.

Asher calls out from behind me and extends a yellow rose—yellow apparently indicates the promise of a new beginning. Then, a familiar smirk crosses his lips and he extends his other arm. My binding necklace dangles from his palm.

I wake up.

The dreamscape shuts down, but I don’t budge. I keep my eyes closed for several minutes.

The video-com buzzes and I startle, but don’t move to answer it. My bedroom door creaks and I peek through heavy lashes to see Mom rushing in. I let my head sink deeper into the pillow. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now, especially Mom.

I don’t know what that feeling was in my dream, but it gripped me so hard it was tangible. The dream was as beautiful as ever, down to every scent and taste, so why did it cause my stomach to churn? Could it be that watching Coral and Owen’s punishment disturbed me so badly it affected me in my sleep? Or was it seeing Darian in the flesh after all this time, and what he said about that girl, Sophia, that I can’t seem to place?

It has to be because of my lack of sleep. That or the darn mixer Darian used messed up my Dreamscape machine. Either way, I’m afraid Mom will be able to read the worry on my face. I just need a few moments to pull myself together.

The video-com beeps as Mom hits the on button. “Hello?” She shifts something on my nightstand and I know she must be reading the note I left for her. “Yes, this is Verity Four Haven.” A pause. “Yes, all is okay. May I ask why you’re calling?” Her voice comes out shaky, and I wonder who it is. Then she croaks out, “Slight variation?”

It’s like a fire alarm blares in my head. It’s an official. They know.

Mom reaches over and places the back of her hand against my forehead. “Well, I’m reading a note here that she left, saying she’s not feeling well.” Another pause. My heart jerks radically as I wait for her next words. Maybe there’s a new way of detecting mixers and they’re onto me. Maybe they are informing her that I’m under arrest or something. She draws a sharp intake of air. “Oh no, no. I can assure you we agree with their punishment. It’s just that, you know, we’ve never had to witness friends—neighbors—in the Terrorscape before,” Mom explains.

I heave an inward sigh of relief that they don’t suspect Darian was here—but the way Mom corrected the word “friends” to “neighbors” bothers me. I know she’s saying what the official wants to hear, and I know that Coral and Owen are now considered social pariahs, but by The Protectorate’s law they get a chance to redeem themselves.

“Okay, thanks for your concern,” Mom says. “I’ll keep an eye on her.” The video-com beeps as Mom shuts it down.

The mattress shifts beside me, and Mom rests her cool hand on my arm. Reluctantly, I open my eyes. “You okay?” she asks, worry etching her face.

“I’m fine, Mom,” I tell her. “Just a headache, that’s all.”

“The official said your brain waves had a slight variation.”

I think about confessing my dream and the snaky feeling that crept though me when I saw Coral at Shanty Springs, but decide against it at the last moment. I don’t want to make her worry any more than she already is. I sit up and stretch my arms wide. “Must have been the headache,” I lie, and swallow back the guilt. “I had a bad migraine last night, but I’m okay now.”

I shove back the covers, peck her cheek, and scoot around her.

“You sure?” Mom twists around to see me, her face tight with concern.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” I turn away, afraid she’ll see the lie all over my face and point to my bathroom. “I’m gonna shower and head over to the Grange,” I say over one shoulder.

She sighs like she’s reluctant to change the topic. “Well, okay. Your dad and I are heading out, so we’ll see you at dinner then?”

I keep my eyes fixed on my bathroom door as I push it open. “Mmhmm. See you later.” I shrug as though a heavy weight isn’t bearing down on my shoulders.

After scrubbing myself clean and using extra concealer to hide the puffiness under my eyes, I slip into a pair of jeans, a black tank, and zip up my aqua blue jacket. After quickly snatching up my paintings, I head outside. It’s already ten a.m. and I’m usually at the Grange by nine. I want to catch the people spending money before the other merchants scoop up all the cash.

Outside, the sun hides under clusters of bloated, gray clouds that look as if they’re holding out for this one moment. I pray they hang on a bit longer, at least until I can sell one painting. I need to make money to help my parents. With the expenses of the formals and all the upcoming planned dates with Asher that The Protectorate is sure to have mapped out for me, they’ll need the extra money. We are each expected to pay our own way until our binding formal, and even though my parents have been saving, with their low-paying jobs, I know things are tight. And because the event is for me, I feel extra responsible to contribute.

I hurry across the paved driveway to Shia’s house, remembering my promise to take her with me.

Her aunt answers the door, still dressed in a yellow bathrobe, eyes rimmed with red, and her blond hair pulled back into a tight, short ponytail. I want to reach out and hug her, to tell her I’m sad about Coral and Owen, too. But at the last minute I lose my nerve.

“Oh, hi. I don’t know if you remember me,” I say, holding out my hand. She opens the door wider and wraps her hand around mine. “I’m Desiree—I met you once before and my parents dropped off Shia yesterday…?”

Behind her, the room is dark and gloomy, like misery has settled in and made its home. It looks nothing like how Coral and Owen’s house normally looks like.

“Of course I remember you, Desiree. You’re the neighbor.” She smiles and lets her hand slip away. “Shia’s resting, dear. She said you asked her to go to the Grange with you today, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She palms a hand down the side of her robe. “Maybe another day?”

I nod, somewhat disappointed and worried about how Shia’s feeling. “Okay, tell her I said hello?”

She gives a weak smile. “Of course, honey.”

After she closes the door, I rush away and grab my blue bike from the garage. After ensuring the trailer is secured to the back of it, I place my treasured paintings inside and cover them with a tarp just in case the clouds decide to break loose.

I cruise in the direction of the Grange, thankful that most of the way is flat road. A few people mill about the streets and the closer I get, the more crowded it becomes. A cool breeze zips across my face, fluttering my jacket as I round the corner onto Nash Boulevard where the Grange is located…and almost run into a woman.

My brakes come to a screeching halt and my trailer hitch shimmies wildly to a stop behind me.

The woman twists around with a loud squeal and nails me with a scornful look. “Watch where you’re going. You nearly killed me!” Her fingers splay across her chest.

Okay, then. Drama queen it is. The bike didn’t even touch her.

“Sorry.” I hop off and snake my bike through the boisterous sea of people while searching for an empty spot where I can set out my paintings. On each side of the Grange sits a long row of multi-colored awnings that all look occupied. Merchants sell trinkets, candy, toys, and food of every variety imaginable. Wafts of sweets and all kinds of spices are carried on the cool breeze. Muttering under my breath, I curse Darian for keeping me up and making me late. Then I find myself wondering where he’ll sleep tonight, or if tonight is the night he’ll be caught. It’s really only a matter of time. And strangely, I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I shake the thought away and squeeze into one of the only two spots left for vendors. The yellow awning in the empty spot next to me is ripped and, with the rain already misting the air and threatening worse, I settle under the only canopy remaining—next to Loud Mouth. Lucky me.

“Fresh fish!” he yells in a sonic boom sort of voice. Only, the smell is so bad, I know it isn’t true. “Get yours now!” he hollers.

I meet the gaze of Mrs. Fitz under the canopy on Loud Mouth’s other side. She makes the most beautiful handmade jewelry and hair accessories I’ve ever seen. There’s one aquamarine-colored hair comb I’ve had my eye on for several months. Within the blue color of the comb, there are swirls of iridescent pearl white. It mesmerizes me and, for some reason I can’t place, I always feel drawn to it. But with my dating schedule and the cost of the binding formal looming, I can’t afford it.

Mrs. Fitz ticks her head toward Loud Mouth, pinches her nose, and chuckles. I laugh and wave before placing two of my paintings side-by-side in my cramped space, then stack the others beside it.

A couple of officials are wandering the streets like they always do in their telltale charcoal-gray uniforms. They ensure no merchants sell any form of contraband like cigarettes, alcohol, mixers like Darian had, or any sort of baby supplies. With the one child per household policy, they strictly monitor the use of things like diapers, formula, and baby clothes. For the first three years of the child’s life, a local official delivers supplies directly to your house to ensure the children are healthy and thriving. I can only imagine how devastating it would be to lose the one child you’re allowed to have, and I’m thankful The Protectorate cares.

As the rain begins to spit down harder, spattering against my awning and trickling over the edge, I worry I won’t get a chance to make a sale. Worse, that my images will get wet and the paint will be ruined. With a grumble, I shift them as far from the dripping canopy as I can.

Someone taps my shoulder behind me just as Loud Mouth shrieks, “Fresh fish!” Startled, I twist around. It’s Mr. Slater, one of the officials. He’s bought a couple of my paintings in the past.

My heart leaps with excitement. “Good morning, Mr. Slater.”

He nods silently and steps in under the awning, out from the rain. He removes his glasses and wipes them against the lapel of his jacket, next to the embroidered owl logo. “What do you have this week, Miss Desiree?” His voice is even, without a glimmer of kindness, but his eyes seem to smile. He replaces his glasses and takes an appraising look at the two paintings featured in front. “These are nice, but what else do you have?” He raises a ginger eyebrow and points toward the pile stacked to the side.

I take a step, then freeze. I didn’t remove the painting from last night, the one depicting an angry Protectorate spewing a colony of bats.

My heart does an instant crescendo.

He can’t see that painting. If he does, he will arrest me on the spot, and I will be no better off than Coral and Owen, convicted of being Noncompliant.

I curse myself for being so careless—and Darian for making me that way.

Blocking the paintings with my body, my stomach tightens as though struck by a fist, and I force myself to meet his gaze with a smile. “M-more of the same, you know?” I attempt a chuckle even as my heart rises to my throat.

He bats me away and looks at the first painting in the stack. It’s a forest scene.

“Lovely,” he says and flips to the next. My heart beats frantically. The stench of old fish mixed with fear churns in my stomach, making me nauseous.

He moves to the next painting, and the next. And I know at any moment a sea of bats will explode off the canvas.

And I’ll be done.

Noncompliant.

My chest constricts and I gulp in a labored breath. Just as he’s about to flip to another, I place a shaky hand beside his, teetering at the edge of the painting, and stop him.

“What about this one?” I ask about the portrait our hands are on, depicting a night sky over a pristine lake. “You like it?” My eyes catch a glimpse of the canvas directly behind it. There is no mistaking the orange flames. I let the night sky painting fall back to cover it, hoping against hope he will stop.

But he begins to pull it forward again. “It’s very pleasant, but—”

A loud popping sound erupts over the chatter. I’m not sure if it’s a gun or an explosion, but it’s soon followed by someone screaming, “Help!”

I’m surprised it’s not my own voice.

Mr. Slater twists around, hand on the gun holster on his hip, and scans the marketplace. A man dashes out from beneath his canopy, jumping up and down, and waving his arms.

Mr. Slater rushes toward the vendor as people scatter and merchants duck behind their wares. Loud Mouth curses and begins packing up his fish. While I’m thankful for the diversion from my close call, I worry a thief is stalking around.

With one last glance across the market at Mr. Slater talking to the dark-haired vendor whose arms are flailing about, I begin gathering up my paintings. Between the rain, the chaos, and my near brush with the Terrorscape, I decide to call it a day.

I start packing up my paintings when I hear a voice whisper, “Any interesting paintings here?”

To my left, a tall figure shrouded in a black hoodie slouches against a post, arms crossed over his chest. With his profile to me and his hood up, his face is covered. Only the brim of a blue baseball cap pokes out from beneath the top of his hood. “Well?” he asks, turning to look at me.

I gasp and stumble back a step. It’s Darian.

I dart my eyes around, but notice the official is conferring with the old man under his awning. I look back at Darian and hiss, “Are you crazy? What are you doing here?” Out of habit I look again, then take two long strides toward him. “You’ll be caught,” I whisper.

He lifts a shoulder and grins. “You know, Rae, you’re not that good a salesman. I’m trying to support our local artists. One would think you didn’t want to sell your paintings.”

“Well, not today and definitely not to you.” I shake my head and go back to packing up my paintings. If Darian wants to stick around, it’s his own death wish. “You’re impossible,” I mutter absently. “Besides there’s nothing here you’d like. Who are you trying to kid? You were never into art.”

“Kinda like bats though.”

My head snaps up and I check to make sure nobody heard him. “You looked through my paintings last night. You weren’t supposed to see that—or any of them actually. They’re private, you know.”

He flashes a half grin at me, pops a piece of gum from a package he pulls from his pocket, and tosses it into his mouth. “Sorry. I’d like to buy it though.”

“Buy it? It’s not for sale.”

“Suit yourself.” He jerks his chin across the Grange. “Maybe the official will want to buy it instead.”

I twist around to witness Mr. Slater walking back toward me. I heave a sigh. “All right fine. You can buy it.”

His lips twist into a smirk. “I’m not sure I want it anymore now.”

Mr. Slater’s so close I can almost hear his footsteps. “You’re maddening, you know that? Just take it, all right? It’s free!” I bite my tongue to keep from screaming again.

Darian dips his hand into his jeans pocket. Pulling out a one hundred dollar bill, he stuffs it into my hand, and clasps his warm fingers around mine. I don’t know where he got the money, and I don’t ask. His answer might scare me.

“Take the money. I only have one condition,” he says. He leans in close, his toes nearly touching mine. The scent of peppermint mixed with his earthy scent surrounds me. “Meet me at Lake Briar in one hour,” he whispers into my ear.

I pull my head back. “No way,” I say. “Are you out of your mind?” What am I saying? Of course he is. He killed his parents.

Another quick glance reveals Mr. Slater has stopped to scan a patron’s wrist a few feet away. The hum of his ID scanner seems to magnify in my ears like a warning. He catches my gaze and holds up a finger as if to say, “one minute.”

Darian leans forward, his eyes peering into my own, and I swallow back the lump forming in my throat. He keeps his one hand coiled around mine and, with his other, pulls a tan, folded linen bag from his back pocket. “The official is on his way back now, Rae,” he says, sounding calmer than any escaped convict should—considering an official is just feet away.

I toss my hair over my shoulder and notice that Darian is telling the truth. The official is on his way back, having finished checking out the guy. My hands begin to tremble and my heart pounds. “Why are you doing this?”

His lips twitch. “It’s a deal then? You’ll meet me at Lake Briar?”

“This isn’t funny, you know,” I snap.

“I don’t joke,” he says very seriously. “Is it a deal?”

“Fine,” I say, glaring at him. “Deal.”

He releases my hand and quickly rifles through the paintings before slipping the artwork into his bag. He slings it over his shoulder, winks, then tugs his baseball cap low over his eyes. “See you in one hour.”

“Miss Desiree…” Mr. Slater’s voice trails off as he places a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry about the diversion. It seems some hooligan set off a firecracker. Nothing serious. Where were we?”

I glance back to where Darian just stood, suspecting he is the hooligan in question.

But Darian has vanished into the mist like a ghost at dawn.

Chapter Nine

After pedaling home so fast my legs ache, I unhook my bike trailer and notice with great relief that my parents’ car isn’t in the driveway. I rush across the hallway and return my unsold paintings to my room before Mom and Dad show up and drag me into some long conversation about how I’m feeling.

Hopping back on my bike, I head toward the Sky Tram Port, my heartbeat pulsating in my ears. It mixes with the whistling of the cool October wind skating past my face.

Darian said to meet him in an hour, not giving me much time to get home with my things, get to the tram, and make it to Lake Briar. What can he do if I’m late anyway? Turn me in for the painting? He couldn’t hand it in without incriminating himself. But, he could always mail the painting to The Protectorate with my name on it.

I swallow hard and pedal faster.

He wouldn’t, though. Would he?

Just the thought sends a shiver skittering down my spine, and I press my feet harder against the pedals. Push, push, push.

The rain stopped, but a wind has picked up. With each gust, orange leaves flutter along the street, swirl up into the air, and whoosh past my bike. I don’t know why Darian wants to meet with me, but I have to tell him to leave me alone. Along with everything else—becoming betrothed to Asher, my neighbors in the Terrorscape, and Darian’s escape from Olympus Jail—I’m starting to feel like a homemade sweater with a snag—unraveling a bit at a time. It’s unnerving.

The closer I get, the more cars, bikes, and people fill the street heading toward the Sky Tram Port. When I reach it, I pull my bike up abruptly, shove it into the bike rack, and lock it into place. I check my watch. I have twenty minutes to meet Darian’s one-hour deadline, but even with luck, it’ll take me twenty minutes just to get off the tram. Then I still have to get to the lake and, even if I run, that may take me another fifteen minutes.

I replay in my head all the times I’ve been there and all the shortcuts I could take through the forest. I don’t have time to dwell on the fact that I’ve completely lost my mind agreeing to meet a murderer in the woods—I just keep going, thinking about the swarming bats on a canvas etched with my signature and what Darian will do if I don’t meet my end of the bargain.

I scan my tram pass and hurry up the escalator two steps at a time to the eastbound tram. The sleek, red train lingers on the track, steam shooting from the engine like a mythical dragon ready to charge.

An alarm sounds out, notifying the crowd that the doors are about to close.

My heart rate ratchets. I can’t be late. I won’t be late.

I lunge forward at breakneck speed and hurl myself through the doors, skidding through just before it slides shut. I land on my knees and pain shoots up my legs. I’m going to have bruises in the morning, but I’m relieved I made it. I look up and my relief is quickly replaced with embarrassment when I notice people gawking.

A man helps me to my feet and whispers in my ear, “There’s an official back there. I wouldn’t be train jumping again if I were you.”

Train jumping. I inwardly laugh. I can barely believe I did that myself. I dust myself off and smile tightly. Shifting in-between other passengers, I get bumped side to side against arms, elbows, and backs, until I squeeze through and grasp the steel pole in the center of the aisle as the tram lunges forward. I take in a deep breath and hold it a moment, trying to steady my heartbeat, and cast a silent prayer skyward that the official didn’t see me—that I won’t be fined.

The familiar smell of the tram assaults my nose. A distinct scent of body odor mixed with cleaning solvents lingers in the air. No matter how many times I ride the tram, I can’t get used to it.

I gaze out the window as we float above the treetops, the scenery a zipping blur as we race forward at amazing speed.

On this windy day, I’m reminded that fall is in full force. The copper, orange, and gold shades of the leaves dancing on the trees distort into a medley of color, swirling through the air and spinning on their branches as if holding on for dear life. I’m drawn to them, dazed, as the steady thrumming of the tram’s engine hypnotizes me. The sound whirs in my head until, within the pulsating rhythm, I hear a name rushing through my mind.

Thrum, thrum, thrum, Sophia, Sophia, Sophia.

It echoes in my head along with the high-pitched giggling of a little girl.

Gold and copper leaves, Sophia, giggling…

Something tugs my hand, and I blink my eyes, alert. Glancing down, I see a little girl with brown pigtails pulling at my hand. She giggles. “This is the last stop, miss,” she says and giggles again, revealing a set of teeth with the front two missing. Then she reaches for her mom’s hand and they rush out the door.

I notice that I’m the last one on the tram and, inhaling a deep breath, I follow behind them. Shaking my head to clear it, I make a mental note to ask Darian who Sophia is, and why he mentioned her to me as though I should know her. Then I dash down the escalator and head back outside.

I race the whole way to Lake Briar, remembering my way without too much trouble. It looks pretty in the fall under the canopy of colorful leaves, but I remember the days Darian and I spent here as kids. It was mostly in July or August and I miss the warmth of summer.

I tear through the forest, jumping fallen logs, skirting trees, and ducking branches, gasping for air. I curse myself for not destroying the painting the moment I finished it. I wouldn’t be about to meet up with an escaped convict and be at his mercy if I had.

When I finally skid down the sloping hill of grass to a halting stop, the lake spreads out before my feet. In the distance, looming mountains soar up and around it like a shelter. It’s beautiful.

And eerily quiet.

A crisp breeze rushes across the lake, whipping my hair away from my face. I tug my hood up with a shiver.

I twist around, searching for Darian, worrying he didn’t show—that it was just a game. I check my watch. I’m fifteen minutes late. Maybe he came, but I’m so late that he already left, his hot-head having gotten the best of him.

When I turn back around to face the water, Darian is there, a smirk plastered across his face. I startle and stumble backward, and he catches my elbow. “Smackers, you scared me, Darian!”

“You’re late,” he says, steadying me.

I tug my arm away. “And you’re a pain in the ass,” I blurt. I bend over, shocked at my own stupid mouth, and pant, holding my side to ease the cramp that’s worked its way there. It’s annoying that he thinks he’s controlling the situation—that he is controlling the situation.

“Running does the body good.” Darian chuckles and I roll my eyes. “And you’re cold,” he adds.

I don’t know if he means my demeanor or my temperature, but he points away from the lake. I follow his gaze to the denser part of the woods, past the treeline, then look back at him, eyebrows pinched together.

“Look, Darian. Just tell me what you want so I can get back home, okay?”

He ignores me and walks in the direction he pointed. “C’mon.” He jerks his chin upward. “You remember the Dungeon, don’t you?”

The Dungeon. His old tree house we hung out in as kids. I remember it, though I haven’t thought about it for a long time.

“The tree house?” I say. “Yeah, I remember.” It’s impossible to see from where we’re standing, but I know it used to be hidden in one of the trees farther into the forest. “What about it?”

“You look cold. We can talk in there.” He waves me forward and tramps through the fallen leaves and thick brush.

I’m not cold after all the running, but Mom always says if you cool down too quickly, you can get sick. I hop over a moss-covered rock and march behind him, somewhat annoyed, but admittedly a bit curious, too.

Darian walks on for at least five minutes, the forest growing increasingly dense as we go. Finally, he stops and taps on a thick oak. “Here it is.”

I notice the ladder first. It leans against the far side of the tree and appears to have held up well. I gaze up at the tree house above, nestled within thick branches. The trees surrounding it are so dense their leaves practically cover it like a canopy.

Darian moves to the other side of the tree, ducking under a low-hanging branch. “Ladies first.” He places a hand on the ladder and gives it a pat.

As I step in front of him, my shoulder brushes against his chest. “Am I the guinea pig, to make sure the wood isn’t rotted?” I place a foot on the lowest rung and press.

“Relax. I’ve already been up there a bunch of times. The ladder’s fine. My dad made sur—” He breaks off. I twist around to face him and notice genuine sadness creep over his face. I guess talking about his dad is a sore subject. He meets my gaze, then looks away. “Just go on up, okay? You’ll be fine, I promise.”

I remember his dad helping us lug the wood for the tree house all the way through the woods from the back of his pickup. He painstakingly laid every plank while we passed him nails, and Darian’s mother brought us drinks.

His dad’s cheery voice rings in my ears, part of a memory from the past. It’s like this, son, he said while holding Darian’s hand. Darian gripped a nail between his thumb and pointer finger on top of a piece of lumber, hammer in the other hand, tongue lolling to the side.

I shake my head to clear the memory away, and crawl up the ladder to the landing. My breath catches as my gaze settles on the door. A small piece of wood etched with the words, The Dungeon, is still nailed in place. Beneath it, two letter D’s are carved into the wood, both capital, cursive, and looping through each other. I run my fingers along the sign’s rough edges a moment, remembering the day Darian and I borrowed his dad’s carving knife and engraved our initials in place.

My stomach does a tumble. Even though the memories are good ones, they’re painful to relive, like opening an old wound.

Darian’s parents are dead—and Darian killed them. That’s what The Protectorate determined and it must be true. I can’t ignore the facts and I can’t risk being sucked in by fond memories.

I push through the door. Inside, the tree house is definitely smaller than I remember. It’s funny how that is. I take a seat on the navy blue futon against the wall, noting the chill from the gushing wind outside.

This must be where Darian plans to hide out. Although, he won’t be able to sleep without the Dreamscape, so he can’t stay here for long. Not to mention that the leaves will soon all drop from the trees, leaving his hideout less covered. Plus, with winter coming, it’ll be way too cold to stay here overnight anyway.

It’s obvious he’s been here lately. The floor is swept clean of debris, the broom and dustpan placed neatly in the corner, the futon is straightened. And, the most painfully obvious evidence: my painting is nailed in place on the wall above where I now sit.

I eye it, and cast him a disapproving look. “Seriously?”

“What?” he says, all innocent-like and shrugs. “I like it. Besides, I paid good money for that artwork.” A smirk plays on his full lips.

I notice a current newspaper beside me with the headline Jail Break written in bold letters beneath Darian’s mug shot. Just seeing it sends a shiver tip-toeing down my spine.

He seems to notice my unease and tosses it to the floor before sitting beside me. On the small futon, he’s awkwardly close. His knee presses against mine, and his peppermint and earthy scent envelops me.

“So?” I say after a long moment of uncomfortable silence. “You dragged me all the way out here for something. What do you want?” My words come out sounding harsher than I meant, and I’m so mixed up with what tone I should use or not use—how I should feel or act. “I-it’s just that I need to get home, you know?”

I don’t know why I care about hurting his feelings. Why I’m such a mess around him, my stomach free-falling and weaving like I’m on an endless roller coaster, why he makes me so edgy.

“Well…” he starts. He looks more serious than I’ve ever seen him. “I want you to know the truth.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, unsure of what could possibly come out of his mouth—what his truth is. Gathering my nerve, I say, “The truth about what? Your parents? You’ve already told me you didn’t kill them.” I cast my eyes away and glance out the window.

“But do you believe me?”

I take in a deep breath and slowly meet his waiting gaze. “No—yes—I don’t know.”

He raises a dark eyebrow and groans. “That was clear.” The wind blows, causing leaves and twigs to scatter over the rooftop and the two front windows to rattle. His words tumble on. “You remember when my dad used to bring us here?”

I nod.

He slowly nods back. “I could never kill him, you know. Either of them. They were everything to me.” He shifts on the futon to face me. “And I remember every little thing they did for me, all the good times, the fishing here at the lake, Christmases, holidays, and you know…just everyday life. They were the best. You know it, I know you do. And I want you to realize that not a day goes by that I don’t think about them…that I don’t want to avenge their deaths.”

I cough nervously. “Avenge their deaths? What are you trying to say?” I pause, wet my lips, and ask in a quieter voice, “Who do you think killed them?”

“I don’t think. I know who killed them,” he says, his voice growing harsh. “It was The Protectorate.”

I jump up, shocked, and face him. “Don’t say that!”

He denied killing his parents, and had claimed The Protectorate framed him, but I never thought he’d accuse them of actually doing it.

His words ring in my ears—words that go against everything I’ve been brought up to believe in, everything I know to be true—stinging like I’ve been struck with a whip.

Darian stays at the edge of the seat, his jaw working, one hand gripping the arm of the futon, and I can tell he’s trying to remain calm. “They did kill them, Rae.”

I inhale a deep breath and meet his level gaze. I look around frantically—so used to watching eyes and listening ears everywhere I go—expecting that someone, anyone, could and would turn us in for such Noncompliance. But only the whistling of the wind rattling the windows fills the silence. I remind myself that we’re in the wastelands, the miles of wilderness surrounding all of Tower. Nobody can live out here because there are no Dreamscape machines to allow sleep. And, other than the daily helicopter patrols, the wastelands are left to the solitude of the stars and the animals.

Nobody is here, except us, just like when we were kids and we’d spill our secrets to each other. Me mostly about hating Asher, and him about…feeling different. I’d forgotten about that—that he’s always felt this way.

I worry my lip between my teeth and look into his eyes. “But why? Why would The Protectorate kill your parents?”

Darian closes his eyes, opens them again, and sighs. “My dad, as you know, was a scientist at the Dreamscape lab. He found secret files on the computer there. He downloaded them onto a flash drive and brought it home to me. Rae, at first he thought the systems had a bug, a virus of some kind, but when I—well after seeing some suspicious crap on the flash drive…I hacked into TowerNet. It wasn’t easy, but I did it.”

“You what?” I blink in disbelief. I always knew Darian was extremely tech savvy, but a hacker? Breaking into The Protectorate’s grid is another story completely.

He shrugs and smirks, looking proud of himself. “I hacked in. I did it, okay? And I found out exactly what the Dreamscape machine does. My dad and I were going to go public with it all. Expose them for the manipulators they really are.” He pauses, grits his teeth, and watches me closely, as if looking for my reaction. I stay calm, observing, listening, and clenching my trembling hands behind my back. He snaps his jaw and, in a voice full of steel, says, “When they found out our plans, my dad took the blame, claiming he was the one who hacked in, and that I knew nothing about it. Still, they killed my parents and framed me for it.”

I jerk my head back. “Okay, so other than saying The Protectorate are murderers, are you implying the Dreamscape does something other than protect us? Other than keep what our ancestors described as ‘nightmares’ away? ’Cause you really can’t be saying that. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Actually, I am saying that. And do you really find it so much easier to believe that I’m a murderer than The Protectorate?” He shoves his hands in his pockets and tromps to the window. “And it makes total sense about the brainwashing Dreamscape if you’re Prime Minister Vega.” His voice is full of scorn. “It’s a tool, that’s all. Don’t you see how crazy it is to need machines in order to fall asleep?” He twists around to face me. “That they’ve altered our bodies from birth with damn sensors so that our basic need of sleep is at their mercy?”

I sit down again, my stomach rolling and twisting, and cast my eyes to the floor. “To protect us from nightmares,” I retort, dazed.

“To keep us in line,” he growls back.

I snap my gaze up to him. “Humph. If that’s true, then what happened to you?” I fold my arms over my chest.

“Think, Desiree. What does The Protectorate say about its success rate?”

I pause a moment, thinking. “It says they guarantee within a 99 percent accuracy rate that every citizen will feel like they are a valuable part of society,” I say, repeating the facts I’ve heard too many times to count.

“That’s right, and the one percent aren’t criminals, by the way. We’re just not brainwashed by the Dreamscape. Nobody knows why it doesn’t work on certain people. It’s like those viruses I guess. You know, the ones that kill so many people, yet some are immune?” He shrugs. “I guess I’m immune. I still need it to sleep, though. They make sure of that when we’re born.” He curls his lip in disdain. “But those words recited every night repeatedly in our dreams about The Protectorate being here to keep us safe and knowing what’s best for us—like they’re God or something—is complete bullshit. Add to that the subliminal messages about obedience and the flashing images of their logo followed by the words ‘peace’ and ‘compliance’—and, well, they have society in the palm of those hands that spread out at the beginning of every damn dream.”

I stare into his hard face, suddenly knowing that he believes every word of what he just said. And if any of it is true—though it can’t be, can it?—then it explains why he always felt so different. My stomach tightens involuntarily. I clear my throat and spin my pre-binding bracelet around my wrist. “I remember wondering if I was in that one percent not too long ago.” Darian’s gaze sharpens and he takes a step forward. I quickly shake my head. “Not about the brainwashing, just that maybe I was in the one percent not happy. Like there was something wrong with me,” I think out loud, remembering how I felt when I found out I’d be bound with Asher.

Darian perks up. He sits beside me again, and takes my hand in his. Something tingles inside me at his soft touch, but I pull back, place my hands on my lap. He may be a childhood friend, but he isn’t the Darian of my childhood. Too much has changed since then. Crazy things like corruption and murder. “Think about it,” he says. “You can’t be bound with that asshole. He doesn’t deserve you. If The Protectorate has everything so right, they would have never set you up with him.” He runs a finger along my bracelet. “Rip it off, Desiree. It’s wrong.”

I tug my arm away and hang my head in my hands. “Just like that, right? Tear it off, and then what?” I look back at him. “Go where? Do what?” I widen my eyes in amazement. “Leave my parents and everything I’ve ever known?”

“There’s got to be more people—like me…” His eyes take on a faraway look. “In the one percent I mean. If I could find them, show them why, then maybe…”

“And do you think I’m in the one percent?” I ask him, still trying to piece together his theory.

He shakes his head. “Definitely not. No offense, but you’re one of the followers. Sheep, I call them.”

I bolt to my feet, anger buzzing though my veins. “Sheep?” I yell. “I’m not a sheep. Maybe I don’t want to have a nightmare. Is that so wrong? I’ve heard about how bad they are. And maybe I believe in The Protectorate. They’ve reduced crime and the spread of most diseases, and they have a whole system that figures out what career we’re best suited for. They make society flow better.”

“Riiight. Like I said, sheep. Listen to yourself. You sound like a talking pamphlet for The Protectorate. Look, I don’t mean any offense. It’s not your fault, so don’t take it personally. I know you’re programed that way. The whole damn society is.” He points a heavily muscled arm toward the painting. “Did The Protectorate choose for you to be an artist?”

“Nope,” I bite out, still annoyed over his sheep comment.

He raises a shoulder. “’Cause I think whoever created this painting, first of all has talent, and should’ve been chosen to be an artist, not whatever—”

“A nurse. I’m going to be a nurse,” I interrupt scornfully.

Darian grins, then laughs, a deep rumbling sound. “Noble and all, but you can’t even stand the sight of blood. Who are they kidding? You should be an artist. Anyway, where was I?” He pauses, and I watch as he rubs a thumb over his full bottom lip. Everything about him screams sexy, and I hate him for it. It’s true I don’t like the sight of blood, but I love helping people. The Protectorate got that part right. I’ll just have to keep trying to get over the blood thing and concentrate on the helping.

Darian snaps his fingers. “Oh yeah. Second, considering the topic of this specific piece, whoever painted it obviously has their doubts about The Protectorate on some conscious or subconscious level.”

I want to flip him off, but I ball my hands into fists instead. I don’t like being psychoanalyzed. Especially by him—a convicted murderer. And I don’t know if I have doubts, or if I’ve just been upset with what’s happened lately, first at the pre-binding formal, then with Coral and Owen. Either way, his words make me uneasy and I don’t know what to say.

When I don’t answer, he says, “Doubts on some level…whether they want to admit it or not.”

“All right, Darian,” I snap. “Let’s go with your theory then. The Protectorate uses the Dreamscape to brainwash us with subliminal messages and everything, right?”

Without hesitation he nods. “Right.”

“And your dad found proof of this hidden code stuff at the Dreamscape laboratory and showed it to you?”

He nods again, rocking back on his heels with satisfaction.

I strum my fingers against my thigh. “Okay, so show me the proof then.”

His face suddenly pales and for once he doesn’t look so confident. “I’m working on it…” Without the cocky, confident, in-control persona, he reminds me of the young Darian I once knew, the one that didn’t have all the answers. He runs his hand over the top of his black, cropped hair and sighs.

I sigh, too. I don’t know what I believe. A part of me wonders if what Darian says is true, but something else tickles at the back of my brain, telling me that he’s desperate to blame someone else for his parents’ deaths and live in denial. All I know is that my once-calm life has been turned upside down, spinning like a merry-go-round, and I just want it to stop.

I check my watch. If I don’t leave soon, I’ll miss the last tram home and my parents will be furious. And they’ll have too many questions that I won’t have the answers for.

I drag my hair behind my ears. “Working on it how? Where’s the proof?”

He eyes me as if wondering whether or not he should tell me. Either that, or he’s conjuring up a lie.

“On a flash drive buried in my back yard,” he says finally.

“Seriously?” I ask, balking.

“Yeah, that’s why I don’t have it.” He pauses. “Yet. Since my…release, the officials have been keeping a close watch on my house. They’re everywhere, like damn roaches.”

“Doesn’t somebody else live there now?”

“No, nobody’s bought it yet. People don’t want to live in a so-called murderer’s house.”

“Why would you hide it at your house?” I pull a face. “Seems to me that hiding it here at the Dungeon would have been a smarter move.”

He huffs a laugh. “If only it had been that easy. But The Protectorate moved in on us too quickly. They showed up at our house to arrest us that day, and I barely had time to hide the thing at all.”

I don’t know if I believe him. It all seems pretty convenient. Government kills parents, frames him, proof is inaccessible. “Sounds sort of like that ‘a-dog-ate-my-homework’ excuse.” I make air quotes.

He looks wounded. “You don’t believe me?”

I open my mouth and close it again.

“What? Say it,” he says.

“Say what?”

“What you’re thinking. You were gonna say something, but you stopped. Say it.”

“Well…you’re…a One,” I say slowly, measuring his response.

He holds his hands palms up and lifts his eyebrows. “And?”

“And maybe it’s made you flip out or something—I don’t mean you killed your parents,” I’m quick to add before I’m thrown out of the tree house face first—“Just maybe your memories of things are messed up with the added stress of, you know, that.” My gaze falls to the swirling smoke of the number one inked on his wrist like a death sentence.

“I won’t be eighteen until January. Even though I’m supposed to turn myself in for termination at twenty-five, it’s still a ways away. And besides, I’ll never turn myself into them.”

Then suddenly I remember what I wanted to ask him. “Darian, who’s Sophia?” I blurt out.

He closes his eyes and heaves a sigh. “Forget about that.”

“Forget about it? That’s just the problem—I do forget. And ever since you mentioned her name, it keeps playing in my mind in a series of flashes and colors.”

“Interesting.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I fold my arms. “If you know something, tell me already.”

“I said forget about it. I shouldn’t have said anything. I just wasn’t sure…”

My blood pumps harder, my heart leaps against my ribs, and I narrow my eyes, studying his blank expression.

Darian throws his hands up. “I still haven’t figured it all out yet, okay? I don’t even know myself how you forgot…why you forgot her.”

“Forgot who? What are you talking about? I mean it, stop toying with me!” I march over and press my hands against his chest. “Who’s Sophia?”

I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t tell me, but I need to know.

“She…” He takes my hands from his chest and holds them in his. “Sophia was your sister.”

Chapter Ten

Two hours ago Darian claimed a girl named Sophia was my sister.

Was—as in, no longer. As in, now this Sophia girl is dead.

Darian’s revelation, if I even believe it, disturbs me for more than the obvious reason that a girl may have died. There are no siblings in our world. The concept is a faded memory from the past, along with famine and the rapid transmission of disease. Having more than one child is banned to help avoid those horrible things.

Everything that happened after I rushed out of the tree house is a blur, until right now as I lie back on my bed, eyes closed, stomach churning.

No, I don’t believe Darian. I can’t. I won’t.

Still, no matter how many times I tell myself it isn’t true—that Darian is a desperate liar—an empty sensation gnaws at my stomach and a persistent nagging works at the back of my brain.

It feels like I forgot something. Like a memory just out of reach that I can’t place, one that may be buried so deep that it will be lost forever.

I know I raced off without a word after Darian dropped the bomb, running so hard my legs still ache. Mom cooked dinner, which we ate in silence. I know I forced some down, but the food had no flavor, and I don’t even remember what it was.

My parents told me I looked pale and to lie down, which I happily did, explaining that my headache still bothered me. I wish it were only a migraine. That would be much simpler. There are only a couple of hours before we have to watch Coral and Owen go through the Terrorscape again—their own personal hell. I’m not sure I can hold up watching it the rest of the week without having a total breakdown—but I have to try. For Mom and Dad. And for me.

My mind reels. If what Darian said about me having a sister is true, then why did I forget? How could I forget a sister? And why did my parents forget? Or do they know something they aren’t telling me?

No, it can’t be true. If I had a sister, I’d definitely remember.

I stumble to the bathroom and allow myself a quick splash of cold water on my face. I only have a few seconds left of water usage for the day, but I figure I need it.

“Rae?” I hear Laken call out to me. I poke my head out of the bathroom to see her standing just inside my bedroom door, a goofy expression plastered over her face.

I take an appraising look at her and smile, hoping my agony isn’t written all over my face. “You look gorgeous,” I say, rushing over to meet her, and it’s true. Her knee-length ivory dress has long, flowing arms and an empire waist, and her dark-brown hair is curled into loose ringlets that hang perfectly at her shoulders, as always. The whole look is so Laken.

Not too much, not too little, the perfect spot is right in the middle. Laken’s little rhyme she always said when we were kids rings through my mind. She’s always been like that: no extremes, happy and peaceful, molding into society like a well-fitting glove.

“You really think so?” She spins around, her pre-binding dress twirling around her while her unique scent of Peach Blossom Orchard perfume fills my nose.

“Absolutely,” I say and pull her into a warm embrace, hoping her exuberance will rub off on me. I pull back and smile again. “So, how’d it go?”

She holds out her left arm and her sleeve shifts back, revealing her pre-binding bracelet. “R—for Rowen!” she squeals. “Rae, I’m telling you he’s just as amazing as I thought he’d be. He told me I’m beautiful and that he already thinks he loves me and that the best part of his whole day is when he gets to sleep and see me in his dreams.” She pauses to gasp in a breath of air before rambling on again. “Can you believe that? And he looks exactly like he does in my dreams and I swear I think I love him, too. He kissed my cheek, Rae. Kissed me. It’s like a dream come true!” She laughs, giddy. “Well, I guess he is a dream come true, isn’t he?”

I nod and laugh too, happy for Laken. What’s happening to her is everything we’d talked about growing up. How magical it would be to meet your perfect mate. I think of Asher and a pain shoots behind one of my eyes, making me squint.

Laken holds me at the elbow. “You okay?” She tilts her head and examines me, her eyes full of concern. “You don’t look so good. Come and sit down.” I don’t argue and follow her to my bed and lie down again. She grabs a hairbrush from my bathroom counter and then slips out of her shoes. Kneeling beside my bed, she balls the hem of her dress together and starts brushing my hair. “What’s going on? Is it because of the Monroes?” she asks in a soft voice. The feel of the brush as it slides through my hair and the gentle tone of her voice soothes me.

It’s not like I can tell her I just met a convicted murderer in the woods, even if it was Darian, and even if I did know him almost my whole life. And I definitely can’t confess he told me I had a sister who’s now dead and that somehow I’ve forgotten about her. I already know she’d freak out and I know just what she’d say, too. That’s what happens when you know someone your whole life like me and Laken. You can almost finish each other’s sentences. And right now, I don’t have the energy to listen to her rant. She’s right, of course. Darian is just messed up.

But then, stupidly, the words stumble out of my mouth anyway. “Hey, Laken, do you know anyone named Sophia?”

She crinkles her brow. “Nope. Why, was there someone named Sophia who was mean to you at your pre-binding ceremony, ’cause I swear if there was I—”

“No, no,” I interrupt before she goes on a tirade, making me wish even more that I hadn’t brought it up. Curiosity got the better of me, because surely if I’d a sister, Laken would’ve known. “It’s not that. I just thought I heard someone mention that name at the Grange and it sounded familiar, that’s all.”

I consider changing the topic and telling her how completely miserable I am about being bound with Asher. A part of me wants to talk about it with her, but I know she’s already aware of my feelings, and it would only upset her. Besides, she’d just tell me everything will be okay—that it will always be okay—but I’m totally confused about what I believe anymore. So instead I shrug my shoulders and smile.

“Is that what’s bothering you?” she asks, working at a knot in the end of my hair. “Trying to recall someone’s name?”

“No, you were right before. I’m just worried about the Monroes.” I don’t want to ruin Laken’s day when she’s on such a high. And telling her I’m upset about the Monroes isn’t a lie anyway.

After a while, she convinces me to go for a walk to get some fresh air. I lend her some casual clothes before we head to the park, then rush for the swings like we did when we were kids.

“Beat you,” she says, as she rocks higher until I swear her toes will touch the sky itself.

I pump my legs until we’re soaring together, the cool wind skating by my face, pushing through my hair. The colorful leaves flutter beneath us every time our swings whoosh by the ground, bringing with it the fresh scent of fall.

“I love ya, Rae,” she says, her voice light and airy.

“Love you, too.”

And then we’re laughing with the ease of two friends who have been there for each other since childhood. I relax in that moment. I soak it up and drink it down for as long as I can.

But as we walk home, arm in arm, reality sets in that I’m holding out on Laken. More importantly, that I’ve never held out on her until recently, except about going to Lake Briar with Darian as kids of course. And the fact I’m holding out now and about so much, disturbs me.

It’s another complication that sends my stomach into a nosedive, and I have the sudden, haunting feeling that my life has turned into a house of cards that has just begun to tumble.

Chapter Eleven

The next several nights my dreams are especially pleasant and vivid, and I wake feeling as if I’ve actually eaten all of the chocolate chip cookie dough I dreamed about. The scent of freshly cut grass lingers in my nose and a greater sense of calm returns each day.

It’s surprising considering I’ve been subjected to Coral and Owen’s nightly torture in the Terrorscape, and Mom’s subsequent crying spells.

Then I remember Darian telling me The Protectorate would probably amp up the pleasurable dreams for a while if they discovered my brainwaves were off somehow. That must be why and, whatever the reason, I’m grateful my anxiety has lessened a bit. Maybe now, with Coral and Owen returning home this afternoon, life can go back to normal, but deep down Darian’s words still bother me and the name Sophia continues to ring through my mind.

As I head out to breakfast, I push those thoughts aside and focus on getting to school on time. Today’s lesson is supposed to be on injectable substances. I bounce out to the kitchen, anxious to get going, and thankful the lesson won’t include bulging veins where I might encounter blood and faint.

As I round the corner, I get a clear view of the kitchen and of Dad leaning against the stainless steel counter, chugging back a glass of orange juice. Mom sits at the table, back straight, and her gaze catches mine. A grin grows on her face so big that I can’t help but stop and look around to see what’s so amusing. I haven’t seen her smile like this since before the Monroes were taken away. I glance at my reflection in the oval-shaped mirror hanging on the hallway wall and, when I confirm no paint or toothpaste is smeared across my face, I look back at her and scrunch my eyebrows. “Mom?”

She jumps up from her chair with a giggle, snatches the Telex Tablet from the table in front of her, and rushes toward me. She whips the white tablet out in front of her and points at the screen. “I’ve got good news, Desiree! Take a look at the message from Prime Minister Vega himself. He sent it this morning, just for you.” Her green eyes are bright, but beneath them, dark shadows dance, a mark of the strain Coral and Owen’s punishment has caused.

I glance down at the screen, then back up. First I look at Dad, who grins and nods toward the tablet Mom’s holding, then back at Mom who’s smiling so big I think her face will soon break. She holds the tablet out to me. I nod and take it.

I settle into a seat at the table, and my parents edge up behind me, each peering over one of my shoulders. When I press play on the tablet, my pulse jumps, half nervous at what to expect, thinking it must be something completely wonderful, like being awarded a week’s worth of extra hot water, with the way my parents are acting. Whatever it is, I’m glad it’s made my mom happy. Instantly, the screen lights up and a male voice I recognize as Prime Minister Vega’s rings out. His words scroll across the screen, accompanying his voice.

“Good day, Desiree Six Haven. I’m telexing you today to inform you that tonight will begin your series of group dates.” My stomach twirls and my tongue suddenly feels swollen, my throat closing over. I knew the dates were coming, but I hadn’t expected them quite so soon.

Prime Minister Vega’s exuberant voice buzzes on, keeping pace with the words shifting across the screen. I know my parents are watching me, so I grip the tablet tightly to steady my hands and force a neutral expression on my face. I don’t want to do anything to take away the smile on my mom’s face, or to disappoint Dad. “You’ll have one group date per week for a month, followed by two group dates per week for another month. After this time, you and your binding mate, Asher Six Knight, will be permitted to go on solo dates two nights per week with an accompanying official. This will continue until the sacred day of your binding.”

He stops speaking and I bite my lip, thinking. When Prime Minister Vega said Asher’s name, his voice sounded altered, robotic. Come to think of it, when he said my name, it sounded that way too. I realize it must be a pre-recorded message with individual names inserted. It’s a bit disappointing, but what can I expect with so many bindings to announce?

His voice sounds out again, interrupting my thoughts. “Blessings be upon you in this divine binding between two like souls. I bid you well in the name of The Protectorate. Here to keep you safe.” The letters fade away, followed by a white owl appearing across the screen. It blinks its round eyes—circles of yellow bursting like a sunrise—releases a hoot, and disappears.

Mom shakes my shoulders with a laugh. “What do you think, Desiree?”

I twist around in my seat to face them and force a smile on my face. Clearing my throat, I meet her expectant gaze. “That’s…nice,” I say. My gaze wanders to my feet, dazed, then back to Mom’s face. She tilts her head and pinches her eyebrows.

I follow Dad’s gaze down to the tablet still locked in my hands, my fingers gripped tightly around its edges, knuckles white. He pries it from my hands, kisses my cheek, and whispers in my ear, “You okay, sweet face?”

I quickly nod and jump to my feet, not wanting Mom to pick up the vibe I’m obviously sending out. “This is perfect,” I say, in the most excited-sounding voice I can muster. “I’m just…um…excited. And surprised.” I hug her tightly and add, “I better get to class and back home so I can make myself pretty for Asher. I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”

My dad pinches my cheek with a wink. “It’s not possible for you to disappoint, honey.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Mom eyes me carefully, then smiles. “Okay, go on to school and I’ll have some outfits laid out for you to choose from when you get home.” She beams. “I’ll even ask Coral and Shia to come over and help out if Coral’s feeling up to it. Would you like that?”

I smile at the sentiment. It would be good to see the Monroes again—to have my life return to some sort of normal. “That would be great.” I grab a protein bar and head out, flinching with guilt as I close the door behind me.

I trudge to my bike, my previous hopes for the day dashed. Dread for the group date, and watching Asher and Little Miss Sexy pretend they don’t want each other, follows me with every step.

The first year of nursing studies is spent solely at university. After that, students transfer to the hospital where we are broken up into groups of six. Combining more studies with on-the-job training, we rotate on different floors of the hospital. Written in my agenda today is a notice that we’re to begin a new field. Last month, we studied and worked on the surgery floor. This month, we’re to meet in the third-floor psychiatric ward, which is especially important to me, since it’s the field of nursing I’m to specialize in once I graduate. I even had to take self-defense and combat classes to prepare for this line of nursing because the patients can behave so unpredictably with their mental instability. The thought of violent behavior sends my stomach spiraling, so I push the thoughts aside, hoping it will never come to that.

I spend the entire tram ride to Mercy Hospital telling myself I’ll make the best of my situation and focus on the positive. The Monroes are home, my dreams have lost their strangeness, Mom is happy, and Asher wasn’t so bad at the pre-binding ceremony. Maybe I read things wrong with the dark-haired girl. Or, at the very least, I can hold on to the hope that whatever they share between them will fade away with time.

Things will be all right, I tell myself—but as for Darian? I can’t help but wonder if he’s okay and where he’s been sleeping. There have been no further broadcasts of home invasions. My insides knot and I take a deep breath. An image of his blue eyes and playful grin flashes through my mind, and I squeeze my eyes, willing it away. Sweat prickles at the base of my neck, and I force back the lump growing in my throat.

When I arrive in front of the towering, gray-brick hospital, I stop to pull my fingers through my hair, combing it up into a ponytail, then clip my ID tag onto my pale yellow uniform. As usual, the main entranceway is busy and filled with chatter. Not to mention cold. Hospitals are always kept cool to cut down on the spread of bacteria. Goose bumps prickle along my skin and I take a few minutes to look around and gather myself. People scoot by me, and a medley of scents like ammonia and other cleaning solvents fills my nose.

“Watch it!” someone shouts.

My head snaps around to see Mr. Williams, one of the hospital’s sanitation workers, scolding a bot that just slammed into him. The hospital bots have pore-like receptacles all along their metal surfaces. The receptacles detect even the smallest amount of microbes or bacteria, and notify the crew exactly how to remove it.

You’d think the bots could clean the mess, too, but The Protectorate insists there’s nothing like having the human component on the job to be successful, and that bots will never take over our society. In the past, when people complained about doing menial work, The Protectorate pulled footage from its archives of a horrible time in our history. The footage, which is labeled The Terminator, depicts a period where bot-types tried to take over the world, and almost succeeded. After that, nobody complained, their belief that The Protectorate knows best reaffirmed.

I’ve gotten to know Mr. Williams over the last several months as the smiling face that always greets me. He turns to face me and instantly his frown slides into a smile. His bushy black caterpillar eyebrows disappear underneath his white brimmed hat, and his dark, short curls are tucked neatly beneath the matching netting that hangs beneath the hat. “Hello, Desiree,” he says with a laugh. “Ol’ Diesel here’s a bit overzealous.” He points to his copper-colored bot, whose red light at the end of his pointer finger is now blinking rapidly and aimed at the floor near Mr. Williams’s feet.

“Fungi microorganism,” Diesel says in a manufactured voice.

I can’t help but giggle at the bot’s enthusiasm for germs.

“I’m on ’er,” Mr. Williams huffs at the bot, first squirting the floor with what I assume is some anti-fungal disinfectant, then stepping aside from Diesel and winking at me.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh,” I say.

Other sanitation crews scurry around us, followed by their respective bots.

“No problem, he’s kind of a funny li’l guy.” He laughs, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Oh!” Mr. Williams slips his hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a clear, small box that looks a bit scratched on the surface. Inside, it’s filled with multi-colored tubes of paint. A smile tugs at his lips. “For you.”

My hand instantly clasps my mouth, eyes growing wide. “Really?” I ask.

He nods. “Yes, ma’am.” He sighs and smiles again. “It was Henry’s.”

My excitement wilts, remembering the photograph of his son that he keeps in his pocket and has shown me often. I drop my hand to squeeze his, still clutching the box. “I can’t take that, Mr. Williams. You should keep it forever.”

Henry—a One like Darian—had reached the age of twenty-five last year and had to go in for termination. The Williamses are from the south and, after Henry died, Mr. and Mrs. Williams moved to Tower in an attempt to start fresh and to enjoy their remaining time.

Although Mr. Williams is a lucky number Seven, he doesn’t have much time left either, I figure. I’ve never been bold enough to ask exactly how old he is, but he looks like one of the eldest in our society. I figure he must be nearing fifty-five.

He places the box inside a large pocket on my uniform and pats my shoulder. “You’re special, just like Henry. You go on now and take it. He’d like nobody to have it more than you—a fellow artist.” He grins again, this time warm and without the trace of melancholy. “Now, you head on up to class before you’re late, ya hear?”

I check my watch. I’ve dawdled too long. If I don’t hustle, I’ll be late and my teacher, Mrs. Vickers, will send me home.

I pat my pocket where he placed the box of paints. “Thank you.” I smile and hurry past him. “I’ll make good use of it, I promise,” I say over my shoulder.

“Contamination,” Diesel drones.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it,” Mr. Williams replies.

I look at the floor where some dirt has fallen, probably from someone’s shoe. I chuckle as I dash off to the elevator. I’m grateful that the bots are able to catch the microorganisms in their tiniest forms, whether they’re harmful or not.

When I exit the elevator, I head to room 3136, as my agenda instructs. Mrs. Vickers stands at the head of the room, leaning against her desk quietly, her navy uniform skimming her willowy figure.

I slide into one of the desks and pull my data-com from my bag, placing it on the desk in front of me. Four of the other students are here, but I quickly realize that Sage, my partner, hasn’t shown up yet. I bite my lip, wondering where he is, hoping he won’t leave me alone on my first day on a new unit.

Finally, after several moments, Sage appears. He flashes a grin from the door and I heave a sigh of relief. We aren’t just partners—we’re friends. Between being vomited on and giving our first bed bath to our patients together, we’ve bonded. Sage plops into a seat behind me, gasping for air. I turn, sticking my tongue out at him and quickly twist back around.

Mrs. Vickers peers up at the clock on the wall and back at Sage. “You continue to cut it ridiculously close, Mr. Sims. I suggest you get yourself more organized if you intend on becoming a good nurse.”

“Yes, ma’am. I just—”

“I just nothing, Mr. Sims,” she snaps. “There’s no time for excuses in this career. Do you understand? If you’re late with a medication, it could be detrimental to your patients. Excuses won’t matter then, now will they?”

“No, ma’am.” I hear him shift in his desk behind me. “Sorry.”

She clears her throat. “Well now, everyone pull out your data-com and let’s get started.” She lifts hers from the desk and taps it. It beeps and lights up, echoed by a series of return beeps as we all turn ours on. “Today you will be encountering patients with varying mental issues. I’m telexing each of you the profile of your assigned patients now.” She pauses, taps at her screen, and instantly a man’s picture pops up on my screen.

He looks about forty or so, and the picture is taken from his hospital room. His gown droops off one shoulder, his gaze lingering absently out the window.

Clinical Depression flashes beside his picture as notice of his diagnosis. It’s a very rare disease that I’ve not encountered before.

I hear a small gasp from Sage behind me, but before I can turn around to see what’s startled him, Mrs. Vickers continues. “You should each have your assignments now. Refresh yourself on your patient’s diagnosis, read through their files on your data-com, and get to work. Don’t forget you and your partner are a team. And if there’s anything you don’t understand, I expect you to call me.”

She pauses and looks around the class. “It’s the same drill as the other floors you’ve worked on, but these patients, of course, can be more unpredictable with their disease process.” She jabs her stylus wand into the air. “Be understanding, but firm. Their treatment is mandatory, even though they may not always understand. Once treatment has been completed, they will thank you, trust me.”

She heaves herself up to sit at the edge of her desk, facing us. “This month you’ll begin injectable substances. Your patients have been assigned specifically because they require such elements. You will be responsible for their basic care, and be able to see firsthand how different disease processes can affect the mind.” She taps her data-com screen and it powers down, then eyes each one of us carefully. “But don’t worry; no injections are to be given without my supervision. I’ll be there to assist each of you with your first go at it tomorrow.” She stands and claps her hands. “Off you go now.”

Once outside the classroom, Sage grips my wrist. He tugs me around the other students, rushes us down the hall, and stops outside a patient’s room.

“Hey,” I say, snatching my arm back. “Not so fast.” I rub my wrist and lean against a cart filled with gloves, gowns, and other precautions garb. “What’s up?” I search Sage’s startled brown eyes that are rimmed with black tattooed liner, his usual unique style.

He looks over his shoulder, peeking into the patient’s room directly behind us, and back at me. He runs a hand back through his blond faux-hawk, inhales deeply, then taps his data-com screen. “Girl, look at who I’ve got for a patient.”

“Relax, Sage. Why are you rushing around? It’s not like it’s some big secret. The patient was assigned to you after all.”

He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows in a “wait for it” look.

A young woman’s picture pops up, arms strapped to the railings of her bed, eyes wide. The memory of Coral strapped to the stretcher during her Terrorscape punishment rushes through my mind, causing a shiver along my spine. I squint at the screen, reading the diagnosis. The word precautions flashes in red. Underneath is the word psychosis, along with its definition:

Psychosis is a mental disorder characterized by symptoms such as delusions or hallucinations that indicate impaired contact with reality.

I slide my finger along the screen to scroll down and read further.

In other words, they are unable to distinguish fantasy from the reality of the external world. They believe that the hallucinations, and/or delusions they experience, are very real, and the patient may behave and communicate in an inappropriate and incoherent fashion.

“Okay…” I say leaning back against the wall. A staff nurse brushes by us with her medication cart, startling me with the rumble of its wheels. I press closer to Sage and whisper, “What’s the big deal? So your patient is delusional…” I roll my eyes. “We are on the psychiatric ward.”

“You’re so kidding me right now, aren’t you?” He huffs and waves a hand through the air. “Oh, please. Look closer at her picture.” He eyes the screen, then looks back at me like I’m the one who should be admitted to this floor. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Tell me you don’t recognize that mess of a tattooed mole on her face.” He presses his thumb and pointer fingers at the edges of the image, widening her photograph.

I lean in for a closer look. Her short, blond hair is messy, tangled, and her dark brown eyes are wild. Then I see what Sage is referring to. A tattooed mole sits above her lip that looks like the color has warped into something more tinged with purple than the intended brown or black it should be. A sick feeling has settled inside me as my mind reels with recognition. Mrs. Walsh is a famous newscaster. She works for The Protectorate and is highly educated and renowned, even at the young age of twenty-seven. She and her husband have one daughter. The last time I saw a photo of them, the little girl was about nine, so I figure she must have gotten pregnant shortly after she was bound. “Is that really—”

“Shh.” He jerks his thumb toward the room behind us that he just peeked into. “If we want to know what’s up in Ellery Walsh’s life—the Mrs. Walsh—we best be quiet. If the other students find out who I’ve been assigned to, they’ll be jealous and complain to Mrs. Vickers.” He places one hand on his now-jutted-out hip and winks. “We don’t want to share in the glory of healing her, now do we?” Sage cracks a small smile.

Mrs. Walsh is barely recognizable in the hospital photograph without her trademark bright red lips, crisp black eyeliner, and perky smile. There have only ever been a couple of photos showing her botched tattoo job. She obviously always pencils over it to cover the color distortion.

Leave it to Sage to notice, of course. His fashion sense would exceed even the finest designer’s. He’s never without the latest fashion magazine or a sketchpad of his own designs.

I run my finger along her image on the screen. “Poor woman. How did this happen?”

Sage pulls the data-com away from me, shuts it off, and places a hand on my arm. “Listen, Desiree. I feel bad, too. I don’t want to see anyone in that state. That’s why we’re lucky we get to help her, right?”

He’s right. Whether it’s Ellery Walsh or not, nobody deserves to have this happen to them. If I can help her get better, I fully intend to.

A piercing screech comes from Mrs. Walsh’s room.

“My baby! Bring back my baby!”

Chapter Twelve

I bolt toward her room, but Sage tugs me back by the elbow and points at the cart full of masks and gowns.

“She’s on precautions,” he says, brows pinched together. “She must be contagious.”

Cursing myself for being so stupid, we quickly don gowns, gloves, masks, and caps before rushing into her room. Mrs. Walsh is thrashing in her bed, eyes wild and bloodshot. I hurry around to her far side and shove the Syncro-Drifter back against the wall, away from where it hovers above her head. The time display on it has been set to shut off at nine a.m. That was about thirty minutes ago, so I assume she has been lying quietly until a moment ago.

The room is so cold, I’m about to ask Sage to get her a blanket until I notice her face is beaded with sweat. I squeeze her hand that is strapped down, now poking out from the side rail of her bed. “Mrs. Walsh, it’s okay,” I say softly. “Please calm down.”

She groans and shakes her head. Her face is ashen, eyes bloodshot.

Sage has taken his place on her other side, pushing a stray strand of hair away from her eyes. “You’re at Mercy Hospital, Mrs. Walsh. You’re not feeling well right now, but I promise we’re going to make you better.” He pours a glass of lemon water from a jug that sits on her nightstand into a plastic cup. Bringing it to her mouth, he says, “Here, have a drink.” He nods toward the glass encouragingly and smiles. I smile at him. Sage is one of the sweetest guys I know.

Mrs. Walsh grunts and jerks her head, knocking the glass away and sprinkling drops of water over her white sheets. “You don’t understand,” she whimpers. “They’ve taken my baby!”

I furrow my eyebrows toward Sage, then look back at her and squeeze her hand again. “Mrs. Walsh, do you mean your daughter?” I say gently. “She’s about nine, right?”

She heaves a sigh, looks up at me with watery brown eyes. “My daughter Tiki is eight. And no, I’m not talking about her. It’s my baby boy, Jax. He’s six months old. He’s—he’s… Help!” she screams, hysterical again.

“You don’t have a boy, Mrs. Walsh, you only have Tiki,” Sage breaks in and I know he just wants to calm her down, but I don’t think telling her she’s delusional is going to help her right now, so I shake my head firmly at him.

But it’s too late, the damage is done. She screams again, louder this time. I feel helpless standing here. Doing nothing. Whatever her antidote is, they need to give it now, to make her right again. Everyone knows she has a daughter, not a son.

Nobody has two children.

My parents didn’t have me and Sophia, and she didn’t have Tiki and Jax. Women are sterilized after giving birth to their first child. So, it’s not possible, right?

She’s sick. Delusional—just like her diagnosis states.

A staff nurse suddenly rushes into the room, sliding a medication cartridge into the depressor. She brushes Sage out of the way with a knock of her full hip. The moment Mrs. Walsh sees her, Mrs. Walsh bangs her head up and down against her pillow. “No, no, no, Nurse Brown!” she spits. “Don’t give me that!”

“Hold her still, will you?” Nurse Brown instructs Sage, peering up at him from over her mask. When he holds her shoulder flat to the bed, Mrs. Walsh gnashes her teeth toward his hand. “Don’t touch me,” she hisses.

“Ellery…” the nurse says in a buttery voice. “This will only sting for a second. Stay still now.” The nurse turns her gaze toward me and in a voice laced with steel instructs, “Hold her head down.”

My heart races. I’m torn between wanting to let Mrs. Walsh talk, to let her free, and fulfilling my duty as a nurse. She’s suffering, I tell myself.

I must be staring because the nurse leans across the bed and wiggles her gloved fingers in front of my face. “Now, Red.”

Her use of a nickname that refers to my hair color jolts me back to reality…and causes my blood to instantly ignite. It reminds me of Asher calling me Carrot Top when we were kids. My hair is auburn, not red. I secure the strand of hair sticking out from under my cap back under it, then ball one hand into a fist, digging my fingernails into my palm. Squinting at Nurse Brown, I ask, “What are you giving her?” It’s bold for me to even ask. She’s the staff nurse, and I’m only a student. Sometimes my mouth has no filter and right now, I don’t care. I want to know.

She scowls. “It’s just a sedative to calm her down. She receives her antidote tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I press. “Why wait until tomorrow if you can heal her now?”

Sage presses an index finger against his masked mouth.

Nurse Brown rolls her eyes. “We have no medication in this hospital for what ails her. It’s coming straight from the The Empire’s medical laboratory.”

I jerk my head back, confused. “What?”

“What she needs is a controlled substance. It’s made specifically for each individual, so I can’t just snap it up if that’s what you think,” she snaps. “We receive the medication via The Protectorate’s security. The dose will already be drawn up and ready to inject. After that, she’ll be put under the Dreamscape for a solid twenty-four hours to allow the medication to take full effect while she rests. Then…” She spreads her fingers wide on her free hand, swinging it up into the air. “Poof! Just like magic, she’ll be all better. Seen it only once before, but it worked like a charm.” She narrows her eyes, then adds, “Now shut up and hold her down.”

I take in a long, ragged breath and remind myself that Mrs. Walsh is no different than the other patients I’ve cared for. She needs treatment to get better. She just doesn’t know it.

I press my hand against Mrs. Walsh’s forehead as instructed. Surprisingly, she doesn’t struggle against it. Only her panicked eyes gaze up to meet mine. A wave of sadness washes over me. Whether it’s true or not, she believes her baby has been taken away. Instead of the angry, hysterical woman from moments before, I only see the sadness in her eyes and feel how her heart is breaking.

An emptiness grows in my chest. Out of nowhere I begin singing. It’s a song my mom used to sing to me when I was a little girl. “Sunrise in your window. It’s your morning song. Like dew on the grass, your binding’s first kiss, a star that twinkles just for you. Just for you. Just for you.”

I see Nurse Brown out of the corner of my eye as she places the depressor firmly against Mrs. Walsh’s arm and I don’t care if she thinks I’m silly or stupid, I just keep singing, focusing on Mrs. Walsh’s sad eyes. As the medication is expelled from the depressor, a soft sound fills the air that reminds me of someone squirting mists of water from a bottle. Mrs. Walsh jolts a little, but she holds her gaze on mine.

Nurse Brown hands Sage a cotton ball, which he presses against Mrs. Walsh’s arm.

“She’ll be calm now,” Nurse Brown says. “Then you can clean her up and try to get her to eat something. You can hook up the Dreamscape after that. Let her sleep for a while.” She ambles to the door and dumps the syringe into the sharps container attached to the wall, its stainless steel cover blending into its surroundings like a chameleon. “And don’t get sucked into her stories.”

After Sage brings back a washbasin, cloths, and towels, we begin cleaning Mrs. Walsh. Her eyes are glazed over now, body still, but she’s still awake, murmuring indiscernible words under her breath. I catch the odd word like, “baby” and “help.”

A chill crawls down my arms as I wipe the cloth against her forehead. “It’s okay. Relax now,” I say.

“Girl, who knew you could sing like that?” Sage’s eyes light up when he smiles. “You sound like a bird.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, grateful for my mask as my cheeks flush hot.

Sage wrings out his cloth and drags in a deep breath. “So, what do you think that was all about?”

“What?”

“The special medication.”

I shrug. “It seems kind of odd, right? I mean…The Protectorate sending over some top-secret medication?” I step back and peer around the drawn curtain that surrounds Mrs. Walsh’s bed toward the doorway, making sure nobody is listening. I turn back and face Sage. “Do you think they could possibly be hiding something?” I whisper.

He shrugs. We both know we’re walking a fine line discussing anything to do with The Protectorate being less than perfect. “Well, if it makes her better, then we should go with it, I guess,” he says, lifting her hand and cleaning it.

“They’ll kill him,” Mrs. Walsh suddenly blurts in a hushed voice. “To destroy the evidence…” her voice trails off as her eyelashes flicker and she stares off in a trance. “Do you hear him?” she asks, her voice breaking.

I don’t know what sort of evidence a baby could have, and I don’t want to ask and upset her even more. Instead, I squeeze her hand, but she doesn’t even react. Her eyes are fixed straight ahead and a lone tear spills down her cheek. It hits me that since she isn’t referring to her daughter, but a second child—a second illegal child—that she probably means the imagined baby is the evidence himself. My mouth turns to sandpaper. I tell myself it can’t be true and remind myself of her diagnosis.

Still, a pang of anxiety drums through me, lodging in my stomach. I imagine Mrs. Walsh is lost somewhere in a foggy world where a baby’s pleading whimpers cry out to her in the dark.

Chapter Thirteen

My house has been turned into a three-ring circus. Music plays, floating balloons tethered to chairs dance in the air, and the scent of shish kabobs lathered in my mom’s famous sauce lingers all around. You’d swear it was my birthday or my binding day, but first dates are also huge.

I’m greeted at the door by a squealing Shia, who promptly wraps herself around my leg, causing me to hobble as I walk along. Laken has one arm looped through mine and informs me she’s brought ice cream for dessert.

“You can go on into your room and shower, honey,” Mom says, looking over her shoulder from where she’s standing over the stove. Dad and Owen hover nearby like starved animals. I laugh as Mom raps Dad’s hand just before he’s about to stick his fingers into one of her bowls. “Coral and I have laid out a few outfits for you to choose from,” she says.

Laken pulls Shia off my leg and hoists her onto her hip. “We’ll wait for you in your room, okay?” She goes on ahead while I take off my shoes and stretch.

I’m just about to ask where Coral is when I round the corner and bump straight into her.

“Oh hi, Coral,” I say, more than happy to see her back home.

Coral jumps back with a small squeal, her eyes wide in what looks like fear.

“Sorry, Coral,” I say, resting a hand on her arm. “It’s just me. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Her shoulders relax a bit, but there’s still a wild look in her eye and a tremble in her hand. It’s unnerving to see how the Terrorscape has affected her.

“Congratulations on your binding mate,” she says, taking the focus off of her. “Your mom and I picked out some cute outfits for you to consider.” She presses out a close-lipped smile, pats my shoulder. I can tell she’s trying to act normal, as if she hasn’t been through the worst ordeal of her life. A lump forms in my throat when I realize how brave and fragile she is all at once.

I nod. “Yeah, Mom told me, thanks.” I pause, feeling unsure of what to do or say next. Coral glances to her feet, then slowly back up, meeting my gaze. With pressure building behind my eyes, I swing my arms around her waist and give her a hug. The enormous strain she’s been through hangs heavy around us like a shroud. I stay there, wrapped around her a moment longer, wishing I could take away every single bad thing she must have witnessed in the Terrorscape. I want to ask her what it was like and, even more, what it was she stole, but I can’t bring myself to say the words, or make her relive it.

She seems to sense how I’m feeling and pats my arm. “Now, now. I’m fine, baby. Just a little tired.” She releases me, slides her hand back over her blond hair that’s fastened into a tight braid, and then holds me by the shoulders. Her strained blue eyes grow even more serious. “Have fun every moment you can, you hear?” She takes my hand and twirls me around. “Now, Cinderella, go and get ready for your first romance.” She winks and I force a smile.

I’m really not in the mood to be festive with my mind still reeling over Mrs. Walsh, but I am happy Coral and Owen are home.

“And, Desiree?”

“Yeah?”

She pulls a lock of hair away from my eyes. “I brought you something—it’s a gift I think you’ll like. It belonged to someone very special to me.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to—”

She spins me around by the shoulders in the direction of my room. “Go on now. Go get yourself all dolled up.”

When I enter my bedroom, Shia is bouncing on my bed and Laken is rifling through the outfits Mom and Coral have picked out. I glance over at the array of multi-colored clothes hung on a hook from the wall. There’s a shade of every color of the rainbow. I fully intend on wearing jeans, but a colorful top will work. Beside the hanging clothes, a bowl of jewelry and accessories sits on my dresser. Something blue and shimmery catches my eye.

When I realize what it is, I gasp. It’s the hair comb Mrs. Fitz sells at the Grange that I have pined over for so long. The pearl-colored slivers running through the aquamarine shimmer at me. I pick it up and let out a shriek of happiness.

Laken rushes up behind me. “Aha! I wondered how long it would take you to find that,” she says with a laugh. “Coral just finished putting it in here for you. She said she thought you’d like it.” She giggles. “When I saw what it was, I almost had a heart attack. It’s the hair comb you’ve been drooling over for months now, right? That woman at the Grange makes them in a bunch of colors.”

I close my eyes and squeeze it between my hands, nodding. “Except Coral said this one belonged to someone special that she knew. But I’m sure whoever owned it bought it from Mrs. Fitz. It looks exactly the same as the ones she makes.”

Behind us, Shia squeals in delight. She lands in a heap on my bed. For her, it seems like nothing horrible has happened to her parents. They’re home now. That’s all she’s thinking about. It warms me to know that at least she is okay.

With the hair comb, the Monroes coming home, and witnessing Shia so happy, I can almost pretend everything is perfect.

But it isn’t.

“Asher likes somebody else,” I blurt to Laken. “He doesn’t really want me.”

She looks at me like I’ve grown another head. “What?”

I scrunch my shoulders up to my ears. “Asher. He likes somebody else. I was going to tell you before, but I didn’t want you to worry before your own pre-binding ceremony. I was afraid you’d stress about something odd happening with Rowen.” I pause, bite my lip. “But, we—we don’t really like each other.”

She looks over her shoulder at Shia, who’s happily resumed bouncing, then places a hand on my arm. “Smackers, Rae. Are you crazy? ’Cause Asher’s your guy. He doesn’t like anybody else. He’s your binding mate. ”

“Yeah, well, tell that to him. He made eyes back and forth at our pre-binding ceremony with some dark-haired girl.” I pause when she raises her brows. “Look, don’t worry, I’m gonna give it another shot. He wasn’t all bad at the pre-binding. He didn’t call me names and he actually assured me everything would be okay.”

She reaches up and places the back of her hand against my forehead and I pull away. “Would you stop it?” I growl. “I’m not sick.”

She folds her arms over her chest and pinches her brows. “You’ll give him another shot? Did you just say that? It doesn’t sound like the Desiree I know. You don’t get to only give him another shot. You know that.” The look of confusion on her face twists into an expression of pity. “Look, I know he’s not who you expected to be bound with, and he was a jerk to you when we were children, but that was a long time ago. You know how kids are. Maybe he did that because he actually liked you.”

I doubt that, but I give a slow nod instead, not wanting to argue.

She turns pleading eyes on me. “Listen to me for a second, okay? Who are we to question a system that’s been around for years? A system that works. Just be careful, Rae. You don’t want to be found…” She looks back over her shoulder at Shia, then back at me, and lowers her voice to a bare whisper, “Noncompliant.” She sighs. “You sure you’re okay? I’m worried about you.”

“Yeah, I’m fine, honestly. I’m not going to be found Noncompliant. And you’re starting to sound like Mom.” I wish I never brought it up. I just needed to vent, but of course Laken doesn’t get it. She couldn’t possibly. Her whole life has been calm, like a pristine lake at dawn, not a ripple in sight.

Mine was too, up until recently.

I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and notice the time remaining on my shower’s digital display has been increased by ten more minutes. Instantly, I realize my parents have given up their own showers for the day to allow me extra time.

I close my eyes and let the warm water run over my face, over my aching muscles in my neck and back. I hum the song I sang to Mrs. Walsh in the hospital, letting the melody soothe me like it did her.

And in that quiet place, without meaning to, Darian’s face flashes in my mind.

It’s funny—with all the people surrounding me—but I suddenly realize that I wish he was here. I want to tell him about Mrs. Walsh because I know he won’t judge me or think I’m crazy. It stings that the closeness I’ve felt with Laken my whole life now seems to have a gaping hole. Worse, that it’s my fault. She’s my best friend and she’s the same person she’s always been. It’s me that’s messed up—changed somehow. Maybe I am crazy. Somehow I need to fix it—her and me.

It dawns on me that if it weren’t for Darian, I wouldn’t be second-guessing my whole life, chasing some ghost named Sophia, and twisting the ramblings of a delusional woman into the possibility of a real missing baby.

I stay in the shower until the last drops of hot water trickle out. Steam envelopes me like a thick fog and I’m so flooded with emotions I find it hard to breathe. A sadness worms through me, churning gradually like a storm brewing on the horizon. My eyelids close and I press my hand against the glass shower wall, letting my emotions bleed into the steam.

Chapter Fourteen

After deciding on a simple pair of dark-wash denim pants and an aqua-blue top, slipping one side of my hair back with the matching hair comb from Coral, and playing leapfrog with the food on my plate, my parents dropped me off at the Sky Tram Port.

I decide that I’ll make the best of this night. Even with my wavering emotions I need this to go well—for something to turn out right—and be normal.

My hands shake as I approach the restaurant scheduled for the date, a food chain called Pluto’s Plate. I run my fingers aimlessly through my hair and draw the courage to go inside.

An official wearing a badge that reads Mr. Peterson greets me outside the door. He doesn’t look too much older than me. Maybe eighteen, I think. His short dark hair is gelled tightly back against his head, his face holding a neutral expression. The gray government-issued uniform hangs off his short, wiry frame like a blanket. If I wasn’t so nervous, I’d probably laugh.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m here for a first group date? My name’s Desiree Six Haven.”

“Hello, Miss Haven. Wrist please,” he says in an all-business voice. He fumbles with his scanner, drops it, picks it up, and clears his throat. With his age and the way he’s acting I figure he’s very new on the job.

I stretch out my wrist and twist my arm around palm up, revealing the inky swirl of the number six. He holds out his scanner and lets it hover above the tattoo. When it beeps, he draws the scanner back and looks at the display screen. “Desiree Six Haven it is. Your binding mate, Asher Six Knight, is waiting for you inside. Please go on in.”

My stomach does a tumble, but I mumble a quick thank you. I’m about to open the door when he twists around and grabs me by the elbow.

What did I do now? My breath halts in my chest. “Yes?”

What if something showed up on the monitor?

He drops my arm and hands me a white slip with a nod. “Don’t forget your coupon.”

Right. My coupon. I smile and take it. “Thanks.”

Luckily, the restaurant is noisy when I walk inside. I’m able to check things out without feeling like a complete spectacle. One long table is placed down the middle and is filled with a sea of unfamiliar faces. The booths on either side are empty. The burger joint has obviously been closed to the public for this casual first date.

Date.

The word sends a chill skittering over my skin.

“Desiree!” a girl squeals. A hush falls over the room and heat rises on my cheeks as all eyes at the table turn and lock on me. Harper, the blond girl I sat with at the pre-binding ceremony, waves from across the room.

Asher stands up, his chair scraping against the floor, and comes to meet me at the door. “Hey,” he says. “You all right?”

Thankfully, the others have resumed their chatter, more interested in their own dates than me. “Yeah, I’m okay.” I smile, grateful he rescued me.

“Here.” He slips his hand into mine, smooth as butter. It’s good to know it’s easy for him, at least. “Let’s go sit down,” he says.

I’m glad I decided on ballet flats. With heels I’d definitely tower over Asher. I have to admit, despite his lack of height, he looks good. With his black button-down shirt, dark jeans, and hair styled to perfection, I can tell he’s made an effort.

He slides a chair out for me next to another vacant one, and Harper beams at me from across the table. “Hey, remember me?” she asks.

“Sure I do, Harper.” I smile, slip off my jacket, and place it over the back of my chair. Asher takes a seat next to me. I lean over and whisper, “I’m just gonna run to the restroom real quick, okay?” With my nerves on edge the way they are, I figure a quick check of my smoky eye shadow can’t hurt. I quickly pick up the colorful menu, wanting to choose something before I leave, but instead stare blankly at the front cover, rereading the cheesy slogan: Pluto’s Plate, home of the out-of-this-world burger.

Asher finishes chugging his glass of Coke and sets down his empty glass. “Hey, you want me to order for you?” His face slides into an easy smile. I bite back my surprise. Maybe Asher has changed after all. I scoop out my coupon and hand it to him. “Thanks. A burger, fries, and a Cherry Coke would be perfect.” Since I hardly touched my food at home, my stomach is beginning to grumble.

“No problem, hurry back.”

Huh. Asher said to hurry back. I’m not sure what to make of his change in personality, but it definitely makes my butterflies settle down and, for that, I’m thankful.

In the restroom, I pull an Eco-Wipe from the basket on the counter, clean up my hands, then check my reflection in the mirror. I decide a quick touch up of my lip-gloss is all that’s necessary, and rifle through my purse.

A toilet flushes, followed by the squeaking of a stall door behind me as it opens. To my surprise, Little Miss Sexy sashays out in a hot pink dress that looks more like a napkin than clothing.

My stomach tumbles. She pauses, meets my reflection in the mirror with a look of…what? Surprise? Contempt? She bends over to fix her platform shoe, stalks to the counter beside me, and grabs an Eco-Wipe.

“Desiree, isn’t it?” she asks, throwing me off-guard. Obviously, she’s been talking about me since I’ve never even officially met her before.

I pump my wand into my lip gloss and keep my focus in the mirror. “Yes, hi. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

She wipes her hands, dunks the damp cloth in the trash, and smirks. “That’s because I didn’t give it.” She shrugs and eyes her reflection in the mirror. “Just kidding. I’m Mallory.”

I inwardly roll my eyes. I swipe my pink lip gloss over my bottom lip. “So, who’s your binding mate?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation light.

She suddenly turns her glare on me. “Trying to rub it in or something?” she asks harshly.

“Rub what in?” It takes a second, but then I realize she’s upset because I’m paired with Asher and she’s not. She thinks I’m trying to taunt her somehow. Recognition sits sourly in my stomach. Now I know it’s true. She wants Asher and is annoyed he’s bound to me.

She unzips her purse, tugs out her hairbrush, and slowly begins brushing her long dark locks of hair. “Look, just so you know, Asher loves me and I love him.” She shoves her hairbrush back in her purse, and leans in, inspecting her makeup in the mirror.

I can’t believe she’s saying this. If the official heard her, she’d be found Noncompliant in a nanosecond. She points her finger at me. “He got stuck with your plain ass, but that isn’t going to stop him from hooking up with me on the side.” She smiles sweetly at me in the mirror.

The air whooshes out of me as though she kicked me in the gut, but I keep a neutral expression on my face, refusing to show she’s gotten to me. Instead, I shake my head, dip my lip gloss back inside my purse, and head toward the door. Ignore, ignore.

“Awesome jeans, by the way,” she quips. “Where’d you get them—the dump out back?” The moment she says it, she bites her lip, her gaze dropping to her feet with what seems like regret. She looks back at me. “I’m—I’m—”

“Whatever,” I reply, my stomach hollowing out. I want to say her napkin of a dress looks nothing short of desperate, but I don’t bother. I don’t want to be obvious that she’s getting to me. I yank open the door, but then turn back to face her. One dig can’t hurt after her rude comment about my jeans. “Sorry I have to leave, but Asher’s waiting for me.”

She grunts. “Not in his heart, he’s not. In body only, Desiree,” she says, the mean side of Mallory back in full force. She winks and clicks her teeth. “Sloppy seconds suit you anyway.”

What I really want to do is go smack her hairbrush upside her head, but I don’t want to cause a scene on the first group date. So instead, I let the door close behind me. I stay there a moment, hands trembling, feeling sick. Sweat prickles at the base of my neck. I was right about the two of them. Worse, I argued with her about a boy I don’t want anyway.

Do I?

Whatever feeling is twisting inside me can’t be because I’m jealous. It’s just aggravation. If Asher loves a girl like Mallory, then he’s definitely the wrong guy for me. What was The Protectorate thinking to set me up with him in the first place?

Asher catches my gaze from across the room and arches a brow. He’s probably wondering why I’m standing at the restroom door like a complete weirdo. I take a deep breath and head across the room, taking a seat beside him.

A hamburger and fries are placed in front of me with what I assume is a Cherry Coke. I take a gulp of the cool drink, savoring its delicious flavor, and try to calm my nerves. Harper is giggling across the table while her binding mate is feeding her French fries. Everyone is talking so loud, my head spins.

“Can you believe Darian broke out of jail?” Asher asks me. “That guy was always kinda wingy.”

“Wingy?”

“Yeah, you know, he could fly off the handle pretty quick. Never trusted that guy.”

I want to tell Asher that maybe he didn’t trust him because Darian punched him in the face one too many times—for picking on me no less, but surprisingly, I choose to bite my tongue. There’s a first for everything. “Yeah,” I say simply instead.

I realize I haven’t heard about any more home invasions and I can’t help but wonder where Darian’s sleeping, how he’s sleeping, and if he’s okay.

An awkward silence surrounds us. Finally, I can’t stand it any longer and twist to face Asher. “So what do you really think of The Protectorate binding us together?”

I sit there staring at him, my mind a blur of mixed-up thoughts and emotions, waiting for an answer. There goes the biting my tongue thing. That didn’t last long.

He lays his hamburger down, swallows, and turns to face me, surprise evident on his face. “What?”

“I’m serious,” I say. “What do you really think?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, fidgets in his seat. “I—I, well, I’ll admit at first I was surprised, but—” His eyebrows shoot up and his gaze darts behind me and moves slowly in a line. My neck burns and I instinctively know he’s watching Mallory, but I turn to check anyway. And there she is, sauntering across the room, her hair pulled forward around one shoulder, flowing down the front of her body. Her hot pink dress skims her body and ends an inch below her butt. I get why she’s wearing such a short dress. Her legs are like a gazelle’s, except they’re tanned and toned. Heck, if I was a guy and didn’t know what a bitch she was, I’d probably want her too. That thought doesn’t make me feel any better about the fact that my guy is checking her out.

Mallory winks at him. Winks at him.

Anger boils through my veins, blinding me. I wave my hand in front of his face. “Earth. To. Asher,” I bite out.

“Sorry,” he says, and actually blushes.

I want to tell him sorry doesn’t cut it. It certainly doesn’t make me feel any less like the earthworm I already feel like.

“You want her, right?” I raise my eyebrows. “That girl Mallory?” I press.

He shifts, and looks surprised. “No—no,” he stammers, then stops. He eyes me quizzically. “Wait. You know her?” He opens his mouth and closes it again. Taking a deep breath, he places a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Desiree.”

I shift my shoulder, knocking his hand off, but notice from the corner of my eye that Harper’s confused face is suddenly directed toward me. If I don’t calm down, I’ll draw the attention of the official, too. I bite the inside of my cheek, smile at Harper, and snatch a fry off my plate and take a bite, forcing it down. She smiles back, then resumes flirting with her binding mate.

“No, I don’t know her,” I whisper to Asher. “But I did just have the pleasure of meeting her in the restroom. Is there something you want to tell me?”

Asher lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’m sorry, Desiree. Look, it was just a stupid crush, okay? I don’t know how it got to that. I swear I didn’t mean it to, but we go to school together. We’re both training to become head officials.”

My jaw drops. I heard Asher was training for that, but I can’t imagine Mallory drowning in such a bland, gray uniform.

“Do you love her?” I blurt. I’m on a roll, so why stop now? I need to know.

A flush crosses Asher’s cheeks again and he tugs at the collar of his shirt. I’m making him uncomfortable. Good. “No,” he says.

I realize that’s a total lie, but I’m a bit thankful he had the good sense not to admit he loves her, even if he does. I wonder if he said he doesn’t love her because he’s worried about my feelings, or if he’s only worried about me turning him in to the official.

He picks up my hand and I flinch, but I don’t pull it away. “Look,” he says. “It’s true we have feelings for each other, I won’t lie to you, but it’s wrong. I know you and I are meant to be together.” He smiles. “I’ll get over it and I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“How do you know we’re meant to be together?” I ask, curious what he’ll say.

He cocks his head to one side, narrows his eyes in what looks like confusion. “Because The Protectorate bound us together, of course. Who’s going to argue with that? They’re always right. You know that.”

I pull my hand back and grab my Cherry Coke again, more as an excuse to drop his hand than anything else. I’m uncomfortable with him touching me and am still annoyed over the whole Mallory thing.

I catch Mallory checking us out again, and sense that Asher does too, but he doesn’t look, just keeps his attention focused on me. I wonder if Mallory’s binding mate is blind, or if he just doesn’t care, too caught up in her long, toned gazelle legs to pay attention.

“You look great, by the way,” Asher says, and I can tell he’s trying everything he can to be nice, which is a lot more than I expected from him. But I never imagined that my binding mate would have to try to focus on me. Try to like me or have to make an effort to be nice. My eyes spring with tears, but I blink them back. I don’t know if I’m more mad, sad, or confused.

“Wait, don’t move.” Asher leans in close to me and for a second I’m worried he’s actually going to kiss my cheek or something. But he doesn’t. He squints, drags my hair over one of my shoulders, then examines my new aqua-colored hair comb. His warm breath tickles my cheek, and just when I think another compliment is coming my way, Asher reaches in and fiddles with the hair comb.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

After another moment, and just before I’m about to push him away, he exclaims, “Gotcha!” He holds up a single, long dark strand of hair between his fingers.

The piece of hair is so black, it almost looks blue. A sick feeling settles in my gut.

“You must have borrowed this from someone with black hair,” he says. “It was wound around the comb pretty tight, too. Sorry if it hurt a bit pulling it out, but it stuck out like a sore thumb mixed in with your re—I mean, auburn hair.”

I cast him a warning scowl, snatch the thread of hair from him, and squeeze it between my palms. My mind is racing, reeling with the memory of the recent flashes that have been spinning in my mind’s eye about a girl with black hair. Picking up a paper napkin from the table, I then place the hair inside it, and sink it deep into my jeans pocket to get a better look at it later.

A girl’s giggling suddenly fills my ears, growing louder by the second and drowning out Asher’s voice. The sounds in the room melt together until I don’t know where the giggling is coming from. Maybe it’s Harper in all her happiness. Or maybe it’s Mallory taunting me. Or maybe, somehow I’ve gone completely crazy, and no one is laughing at all, except in my mind.

A wave of heat engulfs me, the room spins in nauseating waves. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breath and calm down. An image of a field filled with autumn leaves in twisting, fluttering shades of gold and copper blowing through the air, bursts behind my lids. A flash of dark hair swings out from behind a haunting tree. Its branches cling to the last few crisp leaves like a dying fire hanging on to its last flickering embers. A little girl dashes out from behind it, running and giggling as she pushes through the layers of foliage.

My mom’s voice echoes from somewhere in the distance, Sophia, Sophia. I follow the giggling that leads me to the little girl’s bouncing ribbons of hair that’s so black it almost looks blue.

She twists around and faces me. Her ivory skin is tinged rosy in her cheeks, but it’s her hair that draws me in. One side is swept back off her face. Her hair is held in place by an aquamarine hair comb with swirls of pearly white like wisps of clouds in a blue sky.

I blink my eyes, suddenly alert. I’m back in Pluto’s Plate. Whipping out my hair comb, I stare at it in my palms. The hair on the back of my neck rises. It’s the same one the little girl wore in the images flashing in my mind. I glance up at Asher’s worried face, then back down at the comb. At first I see one hair comb, then two—more giggling swarms my head like an angry nest of wasps. My body is slick with sweat.

Could the images playing in my mind possibly be true? Could they be real memories somehow? Was Darian telling me the truth about Sophia? Panic constricts my chest. If it’s true, then maybe this was her hair comb, but how did Coral end up with it, and where’s Sophia now? And what about everything else Darian said…is that all true too? I need to find Darian. I need to get answers. I need to talk to Ellery Walsh, too. She might know something that could help.

“Desiree?” Asher calls, his voice echoing somewhere in the back of my brain.

I have to leave. I can’t breathe. Stand, stand, stand. Somehow I push myself up from the table, my legs wobbly beneath me. I stumble and catch myself on the table. More giggling that I’m pretty sure is coming from Mallory this time. I’m vaguely aware that Asher clasps my elbow. I look up and catch the blurry image of Mr. Peterson as he walks toward us, eyeing me suspiciously.

A wave of desperation and panic crash into me right before my legs collapse. I crumble into Asher’s arms and the room fades to black.

Chapter Fifteen

I open my eyes to a sea of faces standing over me. Worse, kneeling on the floor on either side of me are Asher and Mr. Peterson. A strand of Mr. Peterson’s gelled hair has come loose and hangs down over his forehead.

I sit up and, when the room tilts, I place a hand to my forehead. “I’m okay,” I say, feeling completely embarrassed.

Asher rests a warm hand on my arm. “You sure? What happened? When you saw that hai—”

“I said I’m fine,” I say and stand. The last thing I need is Asher bringing up the hair comb and raising questions.

Mr. Peterson eyes me through troubled eyes, sweat prickling his brow. I figure I’m screwing up his new job. “You sure you don’t need a medic—it’s Miss Haven, right?” He eyes my wrist and I know he’s supposed to scan me, to report this incident, but if he does, there’ll be questions I don’t want to answer.

I brush off my jeans and, although I still feel pretty bad, I smile. “A medic isn’t needed, honestly. I’m training to be a nurse and I know what’s wrong with me.” I flick my hand through the air like it’s no big deal. “I’m just hungry because I haven’t eaten much today. And with all the first date excitement, it just got to me,” I say in an excited, high-pitched voice, feigning exuberance, and inwardly groan at myself.

He pulls out his scanner from his jacket pocket and reaches for my arm. “Well…”

My throat tightens. I rest my hand on his forearm, lightly deflecting the scanner. “Seriously, Mr. Peterson. We don’t want a million forms to fill out, now, do we? You know how easy it could be to mess something up, right?” I say with a laugh, trying to play on his new job and don’t-want-to-screw-up mentality.

He pauses, lets his arm rest against his thigh, and taps the scanner against his leg. After a moment he says, “Well, okay, if you’re sure. But eat something and then head home and get some rest.”

After a couple of bites of my burger and a few fries that I magically manage to push down into my unsettled stomach, I head out with a quick good-bye to a very confused Asher, and one beaming Mallory.

Mr. Peterson hands me an umbrella at the door as I pass him, ticking his head toward the dark clouds looming overhead. “You don’t want to get wet, Miss Haven.” His gaze drifts to my wrist again and I’m worried he’s second-guessing his decision not to scan me, so I take the umbrella quickly and smile.

“Thanks, and I swear I’m totally fine.”

The sky tram is packed and I snake my way through the passengers so I can hold onto the railing, not wanting a repeat fainting episode. I shiver and rub my arms over my thin windbreaker, cool from the walk here, and wish I’d worn something warmer.

The tram starts moving. I slide the loop of my umbrella around my wrist and grip my fingers tightly around the metal bar. Questions swirl in my head that I know I need to find the answers to if I’m ever going to feel sane again. Mrs. Walsh’s face twirls in my head, and I know I need to talk to her to see what she knows.

The crowd shifts around me, then the side of someone’s hand presses against my fingers still wrapped around the bar. I shift my hand a little higher, making space, but a second later the person slides their hand up and presses against mine again. I guess they’ve never heard of a little thing called personal space.

With a groan, I move my hand and look up at the offender. The blue baseball cap peeking out from the top of the black hoodie is a dead giveaway.

Darian.

A wave of happiness rushes through me that I didn’t expect. I can’t help it—I wrap my pinky finger around his to anchor us and to let him know I’m happy to see him. I don’t care if he’s been following me. I just know that I desperately need to talk to him. He’s the one person I know who doesn’t think I’m really going crazy.

“Dar—” I start to say his name, then lower my voice to a whisper. Saying his name too loudly will definitely draw attention.

He turns his head, casting eyes on me that are like pools of blue ink. Black and white face paint covers portions of his face and I quirk an eyebrow up at him.

He winks. “Hey. You okay?”

“Not really,” I say honestly, and it feels so good just to say it. To not have to hide how I’m feeling.

He steps closer until the side of his body brushes against mine. The people around us are talking on their comuport phones or idly gazing out the window. I incline my head toward him and smile. “Are you okay?”

“I’m managing,” he says. “I wanted to make sure you were all right. You took off after I mentioned…” He leans in, his minty breath tickling my cheek when he whispers in my ear. “Sophia. Sorry if I freaked you out.”

“I believe you,” I blurt, my pulse jumping wildly. “About Sophia, I mean.” I bite my lip and gaze up into his widened eyes, hardly believing I said the words myself, but knowing it’s a very real possibility I can no longer deny.

“You do?” His lips lift into a grin. “Seriously?”

“Well, I’m not ruling it out anymore. But how do you know about her while I forgot? I don’t understand.” I shiver again, more from the shock of what I just admitted than the cold.

Before I know it, Darian has slipped out of his jacket and is wrapping it around me. His jacket, like his sweatshirt, has a hood and I quickly slide my arms into the sleeves and lift the hood over my head for more privacy. “Thanks,” I tell him. “But seriously, why do you remember her and I don’t?”

He shoves his free hand deep into his jeans pocket and sighs. “It was something you confided in me about, Rae. Your mom got pregnant and couldn’t bear to tell the officials. She knew they would’ve terminated the pregnancy right away so your family concealed the pregnancy, and hid Sophia once she was born.”

Darian discreetly scans the tram as if making sure nobody is paying attention, while I try to settle my pounding heart. I’m glad to find out what happened, but it’s still shocking to hear what we went through and imagine how stressful it would have been. I can’t even envision my parents doing that. They seem so, well…compliant.

Darian’s gaze lingers on the port screens that stretch across the length of the tram beneath the ceiling. On every second port screen, a map of Tower is illuminated by florescent green lights. Within the map, another glowing red light blinks, indicating the current location of our tram. The other screens are for news broadcasts. Darian keeps his head low, touches the black and white paint on his face, and then looks at his fingers as if ensuring the stuff is still there.

“What’s with the war paint?”

“They use facial recognition technology on the trams,” he says, “And I’m sure they’re looking especially closely right now.” He grins when he sees my confusion. “If you change the contrast in certain parts of your face—like using strategically-placed face paint—recognition technology can’t identify that your face is a human one.”

“I always knew you were an animal,” I say with a giggle.

Darian chuckles then, angling his head slightly toward a port screen, he watches as a newscaster recites a weather report calling for showers.

I poke his firm chest, drawing his attention back. He tugs his baseball cap low, tilts his head, and peers down at me, flashing a wicked grin. “You like that, huh?” He flexes a muscular pectoral.

“You know I really hate you sometimes,” I say, shaking my head. “And can you focus? This is important.”

He chuckles. “You know you don’t hate me. You just don’t want to admit you might actually like me.”

There he goes being all cocky again. I roll my eyes. “Focus. Back to Sophia. Tell me what you know about her.”

“All right, well, you said only your neighbors knew about her because they helped your parents take care of her and keep her a secret.” His eyes meet mine for a moment, then he looks away.

I tap my finger against his hand this time, carefully avoiding his muscular chest. “You mean I told you and not Laken?” The moment I say the words, I know it’s true without him having to confirm it. I could never have told Laken about Sophia if it was a big secret. She would’ve had a meltdown of epic proportions. I just can’t imagine how my family kept it from her. More amazingly, I have no memory of anything to do with it.

“Yep. You said you couldn’t tell Laken because you didn’t want to upset her and that your parents swore you to secrecy.” He nods, looking smug. “But you trusted me.”

I ignore him, but realize the fact that I told him and not Laken is a huge deal. “About Sophia?”

“Sophia disappeared in the fall, about two years ago now…right before I was arrested.”

Recognition stirs in my gut. Maybe that’s why I keep getting flashes of her in a fall setting. “Did you ever see her?” I ask, curious what she was really like and if the girl I keep seeing matches what he knew to be true.

“No, but you showed me a picture one time. She had really dark hair like your dad, and beautiful green eyes just like you.” A faint smile curves his lips.

That’s twice Darian has made a reference to me looking good since his jail break and, despite the fact that I shouldn’t like it, I grin back. On top of that, the fact that he verified what Sophia looks like makes me buzz with excitement.

“It’s her! The little girl I’ve been seeing in my memory flashes,” I whisper. Maybe I’m not crazy after all. A huge part of me beams with happiness that I’m not imagining things. But then something else creeps in, reminding me what this really means—that if she existed, she was also taken away—possibly killed. “How old is she?”

“She’d be about seven now, I think.”

“Do you think she’s…she’s…”

I can’t bring myself to say the word dead.

“Alive?” I ask, voice small.

His lips draw thin, and he lowers his gaze to the floor. When he looks up again, he scans the tram, then lowers his voice to the barest whisper. “I’m not sure what they do with the Unwanted.”

“The Unwanted?” The word stings like ice in my veins.

He shrugs. “Yeah, I’ve heard that’s what they call second-borns. Funny the things you find out when you’re in jail. Second-borns don’t occur very often, but The Protectorate’s means of sterilization aren’t foolproof. But I’ve also heard they’re changing plans. Apparently, very soon after a child is born, they’re going to remove the woman’s uterus completely.”

I wince, but Darian continues, tucking his body so close to mine that I feel the warmth radiating through his hoodie.

“Right now it’s just an injection that’s supposed to sterilize,” he whispers. “Quick, cheap, and easy—exactly the way The Protectorate likes it. But even though the failure rate of those injections is low, they don’t want to keep risking having second-borns. So I heard they’re gonna opt for more drastic measures. Hard to believe they’ll have to admit that the magic sterilization drug they came up with was a failure. Maybe they’ll make up some excuse for the drastic change—say it’s some way to, you know, keep us safe,” Darian says with venom.

“I can’t think about The Protectorate ripping uteruses out of women right now. I need to know what happened to Sophia.” I tug the hood lower over my head. “Listen.” I lean in and Darian edges his foot in the middle of the small space between my feet. With him so close, our legs now press together, causing a tingling across my skin. He smiles, and slouches, pressing the side of his face against my cheek. I remind myself that this is just Darian, my childhood friend. I whisper in his ear, “There’s a woman at the hospital who’s saying her baby was taken away. When I go to school tomorrow, I’m going to ask her some questions. See if she knows something…”

Darian grimaces. “That could be dangerous, Desiree. I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

I shrug. “I need to know. If there’s a chance Sophia is out there somewhere, I need to find her…and all of the other innocent kids.” I know the chance of them being alive is slim, and I’m not sure what I could do if I found them, but I have to try something. A part of me holds onto the hope that The Protectorate wouldn’t kill innocent children.

I cast Darian a confused look. “What I don’t understand is why I forget…why my parents forget, and you don’t.”

Darian shakes his head. “I’m not sure, but I’m thinking it has something to do with the Dreamscape. It has to. Sophia disappeared about two years ago and that’s when everything went crazy. After you told me she was gone, you kinda freaked out and went AWOL. I didn’t see you after that because I was arrested a couple of months later. But it has to have something to do with the Dreamscape because it’s the only explanation why I don’t forget her. The Dreamscape doesn’t work on me, like I told you the other day at Lake Briar. I wanted to tell you a long time ago—back during those last few months I saw you and I’d figured it out, but I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me and that you’d think I was nuts. But after I was in jail, I swore that I would tell you everything if I ever had a chance to see you again. You’re my closest friend.” His eyes latch onto mine. “I had to tell you the truth.”

A wave of guilt rushes through me for shunning Darian since he was in jail—in the Terrorscape no less—but I had firmly believed he was guilty. Now things are different and maybe everything isn’t as it seems.

Darian pushes a stray lock of my hair back under my hoodie. “But honestly, I don’t know why you forget either. I don’t claim to have all the answers. Even I didn’t think the Dreamscape could alter your memories. That shit is too crazy to even comprehend.” He sighs. “But I do know that if it doesn’t work on me, then it mustn’t work on some other people, either. I’m trying to find others like me and figure this out. But nobody wants to spark up that conversation—and be found…” He looks at me and mouths the word, “Noncompliant.”

He shrugs. “It’s hard to know who to trust. But, if I can just get that flash drive back and get access to TowerNet, maybe I can convince others not only like me, but also ones manipulated by the Dreamscape. And maybe we can shut it down somehow. Fix things.”

I rub the side of my head, feeling a headache coming on. “But we need the Dreamscape to sleep. You know that. We can’t just shut it down.” I shiver at the thought. “Our bodies have been altered to need it—”

“Well, we just have to figure out a way to un-alter them, then,” he says with a determination that makes my lips twitch into a little smile. It’s so far-fetched to imagine such a thing and, to be honest, the thought of sleeping without the Dreamscape terrifies me. Since I’ve never had a nightmare in my whole life, and have only heard horror stories about what a nightmare can really feel like, I don’t want to go there. Ever.

“Hey,” I say, suddenly remembering something. “You still need the Dreamscape to sleep, so where have you been sleeping anyway?”

Before he gets a chance to answer, two things happen. A horrible, high-pitched cracking sound deafens me and the tram comes to an abrupt halt, pitching me against Darian’s chest.

Darian slides an arm protectively around my shoulders. His eyes snap up and roam the tram. A muscle pops in his jaw and his free hand clenches around the bar. I look outside the window and realize we’re not at a Sky Tram Port. We’re still several feet in the air, just above the tree line. In the distance, a ball of orange light stretches across the darkening sky, lowering behind the mountaintop.

A hush falls over the tram and I wonder if it’s broken down. I search for the official, but don’t find one.

“They’ve found me,” Darian says, voice raspy.

My heart rate soars. “What?”

“Take a peek over your left shoulder. That woman dressed like a canary over there must have recognized me, and she’s told the official.” He grits his teeth and grumbles under his breath. “I should have been more careful not to put you in danger.” He removes his arm from my shoulder, and takes a step back. “You need to get away from me, Rae.”

When I don’t move, Darian takes another step back.

“But wait, where will I find you?” I ask him, eyes wide.

The man next to me shifts, then he meets Darian’s gaze. Smackers! I hope the guy doesn’t recognize him.

Darian nods at him, then returns his gaze to me. “I kinda like how the moonlight reflects against the smog, like shimmering mist.” Darian winks, then backs away into the crowd.

“What?” I ask, but Darian is gone. I have no idea what lingo he just spouted or what it was supposed to mean, but I figure it’s some weird code he thinks I should know.

But I don’t.

With a groan, I tighten the strings on the hood of the jacket I’m wearing--Darian’s jacket--and peek over my shoulder, panic flooding me. The passengers are a whir of murmurs now, mumbling, complaining, and shifting in their seats, nervously.

It takes a moment, but then I find the canary woman Darian was talking about. She’s at the end of the tram wearing a bright yellow coat lined with faux fur. She swipes her fingers along her cheekbones and then rubs her fingers together while talking to the official whose lips are moving at rapid speed into his comuport. She’s obviously letting the official know about Darian and the paint on his face.

I pull my head back, hiding my face behind a couple of passengers, but peek out. The official snaps his comuport closed and begins stalking in my direction.

Someone screams, and I snap my head back toward the sound. People are shuffling away from one of the exits.

Then I see why. It’s Darian. He’s at the set of doors, trying to pry them open. My pulse spikes. He can’t jump from here. We’re too high.

People are scrambling to move away from Darian, probably thinking he’s some crazy guy trying to tram jump and that he might drag one of them with him. Deafening screams and yells bounce off the walls of the cramped, chaotic space, and I twist my head back toward the official. He’s rushing our way, pushing people aside with loud grunts as he goes.

Icy fingers grip my insides. Darian is trapped. He’ll be forced back into the Terrorscape or, worse, killed. Panic floods me and my head jerks side to side, from Darian back to the official like I’m at a tennis match.

Darian manages to pry the door open an inch. His hood has slipped back off his head, allowing me to see the side of his face. His jaw is working, grinding. He mutters a curse and kicks the steel door a deafening blow with the bottom of his foot. He twists his neck, checking how much time he has before the official nails him.

The official’s close. Too close.

I have seconds to move. To do something—anything. The official yells, “Don’t move, Darian!”

Then the official is just inches away from me and the other frightened passengers. Darian is prying open the door, inch by inch. Almost there.

The person next to me stumbles as the official shoves him and a flash of a breeze blows my hair back. And, without thinking, I put the end of my umbrella out just as the official passes, my heart roaring in my ears like a raging river.

His foot catches on it. He stumbles forward and lands in a face-plant.

Darian finally grinds the doors open just enough to fit through and with one last wink over his shoulder at me, he squirms through and flings himself down to the tree just below the tram—except the sky is dark now and, with his black hoodie, I can’t tell if he’s made it or not. I gasp, cover my mouth, and back away.

The official jumps to his feet and I hide my umbrella behind my back. Move, move, move. I slither into an empty seat, adrenaline coursing through my veins. The official bangs on the steel door with his flat palm and grunts.

I search out the window for any sign that Darian made it, but it’s too dark. The trees have only a few leaves left, and their branches, like thick, knotted fingers, sway in the light wind and rain. I imagine that Darian has fallen to his death and panic drills through me. My mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton. I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe. I remember Darian jumping off the tire swing at Briar Lake, doing backflips, climbing and jumping from trees like a monkey. We both did. The memory brings me some reassurance.

A small smile works its way across my face, followed by a strange feeling rushing through my veins—a mixture of elation, guilt, and pride.

I helped Darian escape.

I scoot the umbrella under my seat, give it a hard push so that it slides several more seats down, then clench my shaky hands together on my lap.

A little shock pulses through me, a knowing zap of electricity. I’ve never done anything like this in my entire life. The realization has a weird effect on me, both exhilarating and sad. But I know one thing. No matter what happens after this, nobody can ever call me a sheep again.

Chapter Sixteen

The tram starts moving again and, just when I think it’s safe and my breathing begins to stabilize, the canary woman edges her way through the crowd toward the official. Leaning in, she whispers in his ear, and he snaps his head in my direction.

I turn away and try my best to appear nonchalant, but it’s too late. Within moments, the official has asked the person sitting next to me to move. He takes that seat and my pulse starts to race. I know I could be in big trouble and I need to keep myself together.

The official turns in his seat to face me, his brown eyes staring into mine. “It’s come to my attention that you were speaking with the criminal.” He clamps his mouth shut, but his top lip quivers slightly. I don’t know if he’s angrier with me, or the fact that Darian got away…or himself for not catching Darian. But from the look in his narrowed eyes, I’ll probably be the one paying for whoever he’s mad at.

“Criminal?” I croak.

“Yes, don’t play games with me,” he says with a snarl. “A fellow passenger informed me that you were consorting with Darian One Sterling, a known, wanted murderer.”

The way he says the word murderer sends shivers through me. I no longer believe Darian killed his parents, and it irritates me to hear him be unjustly accused.

I swallow. “There was just some guy asking me for spare change and directions, that’s all. I didn’t realize he was a criminal. I’m sorry,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even, even though my hands are starting to shake again.

“So you’re telling me that even though this guy’s mug shot has been plastered all over port screens everywhere since his escape, you didn’t recognize him?” His eyes flick to the tattoo of the number six swirling on my wrist, and I know he’s deciding whether or not to scan me. I slide my fingers back through my hair nonchalantly, and replace my hand on my lap, careful to keep it wrist down.

I shake my head, and try on an innocent face. “He had a hood over his head. Other than that I didn’t really pay any attention. It’s crowded in here. I’m sorry,” I say again for effect.

The official widens his eyes in what looks like disbelief for one second, then tilts his head back and peers at me through narrowed eyes. “Wrist, please,” he says. “I need to verify your identity.”

“What?” I say, my heart heaving painfully against my ribs. If he scans me and they do their homework, they’ll find out I was friends with Darian before he was convicted.

He lifts my right arm, twists it over to reveal my wrist. “A Six, huh? One of the luckier ones.”

I want to tell him I don’t feel so lucky right about now. He tugs out his scanner and his jacket sleeve slides up and I notice the tattoo of the number five on his wrist.

“Wait,” I say. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I plead, desperate now. He can’t scan my wrist…he can’t. “I-I didn’t realize who he was.” All I can hope is that he’ll take pity on me. But this guy is older than the official at Pluto’s Plate, more experienced, less tolerant.

Before I know it, he has run the scanner over my wrist, activating the chip beneath it to reveal my data across the scanner’s screen with a notifying beep.

“Desiree Six Haven. 18 Osteen Avenue,” he mumbles aloud.

The tram has come to a stop, and I vaguely notice people getting off. I blink my eyes and notice that it’s my stop, too.

I clear my throat. “This is me,” I say, desperate for air and needing to get out. “My stop.” I meet his gaze, feeling like the walls are closing in. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, we have what we need for now, Miss Haven.” He looks me up and down like I’m a statistic, one he’s not yet sure adds up or not. “If there’s anything else that requires our attention, or we need to ask any more questions, we know where to find you.” His lips narrow into a tight smirk and he nods once. “Have a good evening.”

I stand and walk away, feeling his eyes burning a hole in the back of my head.

As soon as I’m outside, I grab my bike and start racing home. The rain is hammering down, sideways sheets of cold water—torrents of rain— soak me, but I don’t care. I tilt my cheeks up and let it wash over me, as though it could wash away all of my worries. I push my legs harder, ribbons of wet hair sticking to my skin.

A million thoughts run through my head: Darian, Ellery Walsh, the official, and the trouble I could be in. I think about how I lied right to the face of not one, but two officials in one day—and got away with it. At least for now. I also think about Asher and Mallory and how I want no part of that situation anymore. I grip the handlebars of my bike and catch sight of my pre-binding bracelet. Despite the cool rain, the bracelet stings as though it’s burning a hole straight through my wrist. All of these thoughts melt together until they form one horrible realization that sends my stomach into a tumble.

I’m trapped.

Chapter Seventeen

Before turning into my neighborhood, I toss Darian’s borrowed jacket into the trash. I can’t wear it home without getting a million questions. Questions I could never answer. My parents meet me at the door with troubled eyes. Mom runs to grab several towels and dry clothes while my dad makes me hot cocoa. I don’t tell them about the official or about Darian on the tram. I’m too tired. Too exhausted to answer the million questions that would definitely follow. I don’t have the energy to try to calm them down. I’m not sure how I could even do that when I myself don’t feel calm. The last thing I need to do is worry my parents. After mumbling a few words about how great my first date was, amazed at how easily I now lie, I head to my room to do the one thing that allows me a release—I paint.

I think of Mr. Williams, the sanitation worker at Mercy Hospital that I’ve grown close to, about how hard he works, and how much he loved his son, Henry. Placing a small canvas on my easel, I then pull out the paints Mr. Williams gave me and begin to paint Henry’s image.

Henry comes alive on the canvas in swirls of color. His brown eyes, with flecks of gold, shine out from beneath his dark brows, and his full lips turn up at the edges into a toothy smile.

The time ticks by and I eye my bed. The Syncro-Drifter, which links to the Dreamscape, both beckons and taunts me. I’ve never needed and despised something so much at the same time. If the Dreamscape is what somehow made me forget my sister, and is what keeps the citizens of Tower in line—brainwashed—then I want no part of it.

The hours tick by, until finally my body caves, but jolts of needles pierce my skin, zapping me alert the moment I start to drift off.

Unable to fight it any longer, I collapse onto my bed and activate the Syncro-Drifter, surrendering to the soothing, pulsing rhythm of the Dreamscape.

Its lilting voice beckons me under…“…Here to keep you safe…”

It seems like only seconds have gone by before it’s time to wake up and get ready for school. The blinds automatically open to an unusually bright sky. My heart rate is slow, even, and the remnants of a beautiful dream of a day at the beach still linger in my mind.

For a minute, I forget the drama surrounding my life—then my gaze falls on the portrait I painted of Henry last night, and it all comes rushing back.

I quickly shower and place the small portrait carefully in my backpack as a gift for Mr. Williams.

During the tram ride to the hospital, the newscaster speaks of a Darian sighting last night, and of how The Protectorate is closing in on him. Right, I think. They wish. But another part of me worries that it might be true and that it can really only be a matter of time before they find him. The thought makes my stomach flip and I gaze out the window, imagining Darian hiding behind every tree we pass.

At Mercy Hospital, I quickly find Mr. Williams. He’s sitting on a bench outside, shining an apple against his shirt.

“Hey, Desiree,” he says with a broad smile as I approach. He reaches into his lunch pail and pulls out another apple. “Apple?”

“Sure.” I take a seat beside him and bite into the juicy fruit. Then I smile and say, “I brought you something.”

“For me?” he says around a mouthful of apple, his brown eyes gleaming.

Using my free hand, I tug out Henry’s picture and hold it up. “It’s Henry!” I say with a giant smile. “And I used the paints you gave me that were his. I thought he would’ve liked that.”

Mr. Williams swallows a bite of apple and places what’s left of it into his lunch pail. He turns shining eyes on me and pulls me into a hug. “Thanks, Desiree,” he says, patting my back. “You’re really a sweet girl.”

He takes the portrait of Henry and stares at it, dazed. “Rayleen will love this, you know,” he says, referring to his wife. “I’ll make sure to frame it.”

“You’re welcome,” I say in-between bites of the red fruit, so happy to have made him smile. “Hey, where’s Diesel?”

“Oh, he’s inside powering up. I’m about to get to work right now, and you should go on into class.” He stands up and smiles again. “Thanks again, Desiree. I knew you were talented. Henry woulda been proud to know you drew him so well—with his paints no less.”

“My pleasure, honestly. Thanks again for the paints.” I stand up and dunk the core of the apple into the trash. “And thanks for the apple, too. See you tomorrow,” I say, before heading up to the third floor.

When I get to class, I’m surprised to see Sage there early. Even stranger is that he’s outside the classroom speaking to our teacher alone.

He glances at me as I walk by, his face pale. I wonder if he’s in trouble for all the times he’s been late, or if something else is wrong. My insides do a little flip and I hope nothing has happened to his patient, Mrs. Walsh—not only for her, but because I need to talk to her. She’s one glimmer of hope for me to find Sophia, if Sophia is even still alive.

I hardly hear anything Mrs. Vickers says during her lecture, wishing I could communicate with Sage telepathically to find out what’s going on. I’m dying to get to Mrs. Walsh, to see if there’s something…anything…she can tell me about her baby Jax—like who she thinks took him, and where she thinks he could be.

Once we’re outside the classroom and into the hallway, it’s me that’s pulling Sage aside this time. I stop a few doors down from Mrs. Walsh’s room. “Is everything okay?” I ask him, breathless.

He scrunches his nose like he smelled something bad. “Mrs. Vickers called me at home last night and asked me to come in early this morning to talk to her.” He pauses, frowns. “I’m being assigned a new patient in an hour or so. So, once Mrs. Walsh is done with breakfast, I need to set her up under the Dreamscape and go with you.” He makes a face. “Looks like we just have your patient until then.”

“What?” I say, panic filling me. “Why?” If he’s assigned a new patient, that restricts my access to Mrs. Walsh too. I need to talk to her.

“Apparently, she should never have been assigned to a student in the first place.” He rolls his eyes. “Mrs. Vickers will probably get her knuckles rapped for this one,” he says, flicking his hand through the air. “Whatever.”

“It’s not whatever, Sage. Aren’t you curious what she kno—” I clamp my mouth shut, then try again. “I mean, you know, aren’t you curious what it would be like to heal her? This is the Mrs. Walsh after all.” I play to the drama I know he loves. “And aren’t you the slightest bit curious about the special drug that’s coming today straight from The Empire?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Yes, and yes.” He tilts his head and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Please, Desiree, you know I am, but what do you want me to say? And besides, Mrs. Vickers said that Mrs. Walsh received her treatment early yesterday evening, shortly after we left, and that she’s been under the Dreamscape ever since. Apparently, they only shut it down this morning so that she can have a quick breakfast because the woman refused to eat since she came in. But after that, it’s bedtime for the news lady. Believe me, I’m pissed.” He runs a hand through his faux-hawk, shakes his head and snorts. “They’re actually treating her husband and daughter, too, in case they caught it from her.”

“Her family? Here?” I ask, shocked. “Sage, c’mon. Doesn’t that sound strange to you? I mean you can’t catch psychosis. Think about it.”

“Well, apparently whatever caused her psychosis, you can catch.” He shrugs. “I don’t know, Desiree, but you worry too much.”

I need to think fast. I swallow hard and force a smile. “Mrs. Vickers said you have to put her under the Dreamscape, right? Do you mind if I do it and you start with my patient instead?”

He eyes me funny and I laugh. “I want to sing to her as she falls asleep, you know? She’s been through a lot. And, well, I think you’ve heard enough of my choked chicken for one lifetime. I promise I’ll come right back as soon as I’m done.”

He shrugs. “Okay, fine. Shoot me your patient’s data, and I’ll get started.”

“Thanks, Sage,” I say and send the information. “I owe you.”

I suit up in the precautions gear and when I enter Mrs. Walsh’s room, she’s propped up in bed. The restraints have been removed and she’s already eating breakfast. I don’t know what kind of miracle drug they produced, but I’m hopeful the change in her is because they returned her baby. Something tells me that’s very wishful thinking.

“Good morning, Mrs. Walsh,” I say as I approach her bed. I’m surprised to see her makeup has been neatly applied, her telltale botched tattoo neatly penciled in, and her hair combed. “You’re looking good. You have any good news to share?”

She smiles. “Do I know you?”

“Oh, sorry. My name’s Desiree. I met you yesterday.”

She reaches for a packet of sugar that is just out of her reach. I pick it up and pass it to her. “I’m a nursing student here.”

She tilts her head and eyes me carefully. “Oh, really? Yes, right. You do look familiar, but I can’t quite place you.”

I figure she was pretty upset yesterday and her memories are probably jumbled. I need to say something to help her remember. “I—um sang a little to you yesterday because you were upset about…” I lower my voice to a whisper, “Jax?”

“Jax?” she says, raising both eyebrows. “Who’s that?”

Her question knocks the wind out of me and I twine my trembling fingers together behind my back. “Mrs. Walsh, do you remember Tiki?”

She laughs. “Of course I do, honey, that’s my daughter. And call me Ellery. Are you okay?”

I nod, even as my stomach churns. “And why do you think you’re in here?”

“I just caught a bad bug.” She takes a bite of toast and swallows. “I received some medication last night by the most handsome doctor.” She laughs. “And now I just need to rest. But I have to tell you, I feel great and I’m anxious to get back to my family and start working again.”

I’m desperate now, and fire creeps up my neck. “You told me they took your son Jax away, Ellery. Don’t you remember?”

She pinches her brows. “What? When did I say that nonsense?”

“Yesterday. You were very upset.”

She pats my hand. “I must have had a high fever, honey. I bet I was hallucinating. I’m Ellery Walsh, the newscaster. You’ve probably heard of me? I have a daughter named Tiki, not a son.” She pauses. “You look so upset. Why don’t you check me out on the net if you’re worried?” She smiles. “You can see for yourself that I have a daughter. Now, I really do need to get some sleep…Desiree, is it?”

I nod, stunned. Where is the woman from yesterday—the woman crying and screaming, insisting that her baby had been stolen from her? She seemed so convinced. Now I’m wondering if it really was all in her mind—just a bad virus like she said. But why is her medication so secretive that Sage couldn’t give it to her, or even Nurse Brown?

My head spins. Medication! I spin around and peer at the sharps container attached to the wall next to the door where they dispose of used depressors. I wonder if they deposited the depressor inside. Even though it would be used, it should still have an empty vial inside that would have the name of the drug written on it.

I take one last stab. “You sure you don’t know a baby named Jax?” She opens her mouth to respond, and I squeeze her hand. “It’s okay, you can tell me.”

She closes her mouth, seems to think. “The name does sound familiar, but I think it’s just a name I might have mentioned that I liked one time—oh, wait!”

Hope ignites inside me. “Yes?”

“I think it was when my husband and I were choosing baby names.” She laughs and pushes her tray away. “He was sure we were having a boy, but then sweet little Tiki was born,” she says with a yawn.

I take a deep breath and release it slowly. So much for that. Either the drug she received messed with her memories, or I’m going crazy myself.

Memories…it hits me. Maybe that’s why I forget about Sophia—why my whole family forgot her.

Mrs. Walsh finishes her breakfast and I realize I won’t be getting anything more out of her today. I lift her hand and press it between my palms with a smile, then set her Dreamscape to twenty-four hours, as instructed. She quickly drifts off, her face lighting up into a gentle smile, as my hope of ever finding Sophia dims.

Sage will be looking for me soon or, worse, Mrs. Vickers, or Nurse Brown. I make my way across the room to the sharps container, knowing I’ll need to pry it open somehow and that if I’m caught, I’ll be in big trouble. But it’s a risk I have to take. I have a burning need to know what they gave Ellery to alter her memories. I wrap my arms around my elbows with a shiver, realizing it’s probably a drug that’s coursing through my veins, too.

After sticking my head outside the door to ensure nobody’s coming, I pull out the house key from my pocket and start prying it into the crease of the metal frame. Footsteps echo in the hallway outside the room, and my heart jumps. I take a deep breath and wait a moment until the footsteps fade away.

If I’m caught tampering with the sharps container, it would bring suspicion on me no matter who the patient was, but especially since it’s Mrs. Walsh.

Again I dig the end of my key into the crease and soon the container pops open. I’m careful not to spill the contents onto the floor, but panic fills me when I see at least ten depressors that I’ll need to open to get to the vial inside.

My heart thrums in my chest. I’m terrified I’ll be caught at any moment, but I twist the first depressor open. It releases a low hiss, and I’m careful not to touch the prickly edges at the bottom. I recognize the drug label as a simple sedative, and lay it aside with a groan. One after the other I pull them open and find nothing but sedatives.

Activity stirs outside in the hallway.

I check the remaining depressors. Two more to go. Just two more.

“Can I help you?”

I almost drop the depressor as my eyes dart up. Nobody is there, but I recognize the voice as Nurse Brown’s. She must be just outside the door.

“We’re here from the Empire to check on Mrs. Walsh’s progress,” a man’s stern voice replies as I forget how to breathe.

Somehow, I manage to move. I take the remaining two depressors and place them in my pocket.

I need to hide.

Sliding the sharps container closed with a low click that I’m sure will give me away, I bite my lip until I almost draw blood.

Voices still rumble outside and I release a breath. I know at any moment they’ll come in and find me. Me, the childhood friend of the escaped convict Darian. Me, the girl caught talking with said convict on the tram last night and, if I’m caught, me, the girl with a secret medication in my pocket.

It’s more attention than one person should ever bring on themselves and more than enough to send me straight to the Terrorscape. Maybe it’s only more sedatives in my pocket, but it’s proof that I’ve been snooping.

“She’s should be sleeping now,” I hear Nurse Brown say. “One of the nursing students was—”

“Nursing students?” the man growls. “There were to be no nursing students caring for Mrs. Walsh.”

Nurse Brown clears her throat. “I was going to say that one of the nursing students was mentioning to me how quiet she is today.”

Thank God for Nurse Brown’s self-preservation. But soon it won’t matter about her lies because the head officials are going to find me in Mrs. Walsh’s room.

My heart beats so hard it hurts. I search for a spot to hide, my eyes darting instantly to the bed. It’s too low for me to fit under. And the window isn’t an option. We’re on the psychiatric ward and bars line the windows for the patient’s protection.

Then I see it.

Above Mrs. Walsh’s bed is a grate. It looks wide enough for me to fit through. Not wasting another second, I jump up on her bed and carefully step onto her night stand. Stretching up, I ease the grill open. It takes all of my strength, but I manage to pull myself up into the dark, cramped space. A cool breeze flutters the thin fabric of the cap covering my hair.

When my knees meet the flexible metal, it heaves and moves under my weight with a crackling, thumping sound. Easing the grate closed, I then move away from the grate an inch and lie flat on my stomach as quickly and quietly as I can. The space is just big enough to accommodate my size. Now, all I can do is wait. Sweat beads on my lip as I clench and unclench my hands.

From my vantage point, I watch two men stalk into the room and flank Mrs. Walsh’s bed. Nurse Brown follows closely behind.

“I told you she’d be resting,” she says. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Can you excuse us, please.” It’s a statement, not a question, from the blond-haired guy. His short, spiky hair isn’t a natural color either. It’s ultra-blond in a neon yellow kind of way. Both men wear the uniform of The Protectorate. Five small gold stars stitched into their gray uniforms directly below the owl logo indicates they are high-standing officials. But all I can think of is why aren’t they wearing the precautions garb? Aren’t they afraid of catching whatever she has? I search Nurse Brown’s face for some kind of reaction, some indication that she’s thinking the same thing, but there’s nothing.

She nods and leaves the room in silence.

The blond official leans in, checking the time setting on the Syncro-Drifter. “It’s good,” he says.

The other official, tall and stocky with brown hair, jabs at his data port with the stylus wand. “Says here her husband and daughter have been treated as well. The little girl is at a hospital in James Town and the husband…” He taps the screen again. “He’s in Flannery.”

“And the neighbors? Friends?” asks the blond guy as he scans Mrs. Walsh’s wrist. His scanner beeps and he reads the scroll across the top. “Just making sure,” he says to the other guy. “No room for error on this one.”

“It’s good to see you’re thorough. Never get too comfortable on the job. You’re keen now because you’re new, but don’t ever lose that edge. And as for the friends and neighbors? They’ve all been questioned thoroughly. The Walshes thought they hid the baby well. Nobody seems to know anything. And now, neither does she,” he says with a laugh.

I cover my mouth as a gasp seeps from my lips. Jax does exist! And I know that means Sophia does too! The medication obviously erases memories somehow.

“And the medication will engage more, adapting to her cells the longer she sleeps under the Dreamscape,” he continues. “The Dreamscape’s sonic pulses are the active ingredient that disperses the medication.” A sly smirk crosses his face.

Anger spikes in my bloodstream. I want to jump out, rip the Syncro-Drifter from the wall, and wrap it around their necks. I need to find Darian—and tell him he’s right about everything.

“I wish it didn’t have to be like this. It seems kind of cruel.” The stocky guy scowls at the blond man in a warning, and the blond guy quickly changes the topic. “So, who was the informant?”

Stocky Guy taps at his data port again. “You won’t believe it. It was a co-worker of hers. Davis Tate. And once somebody in the public is aware, we need to move in immediately.”

I can’t believe it. I know of Davis Tate from the news. He’s Ellery Walsh’s co-anchor. This is crazy.

Blond Guy rubs his fingers up and down his chin. “And you’re sure she won’t forget her life other than everything to do with Jax? If we have to do this, it has to be done right. We don’t want her to suspect something is up with Mr. Tate, either. You’re positive we’re good?” He inclines his head toward Stocky Guy. “Because Prime Minister Vega personally warned our class that he won’t take well to any mistakes. He said it might call for a run in the Terrorscape.”

Of course Prime Minister Vega is in on it, but it still makes me ill to hear that the man I’ve always looked up to and respected is really just evil.

Stocky Guy sticks the data port back into his jacket pocket. “Relax, Max. I checked it myself. The highest scientists at The Empire’s labs have gotten it right down to every axon, neuron, and delivery path throughout the body. It’s worked in with each person’s specific DNA to make it an exact science.”

This guy sounds anything but stupid. I can’t help but think that if they’re in here without wearing the required precautions garb, that Mrs. Walsh is not contagious. It hits me that it’s just another way The Protectorate instills their fear into us. They would want us to believe that someone spouting things the way Mrs. Walsh was talking about stolen babies is clearly ill—and infectious.

I roll my eyes as Stocky Guy lifts a shoulder. “The only thing that will be wiped from her memory will be everything and anything to do with the child.”

Just hearing them talking about Jax, as if he’s an inanimate object instead of a child, makes bile rise in my throat.

But where’s Jax? I will them to talk about it, wanting to rescue the boy and, with any luck, find Sophia, too.

Stocky Guy lowers his voice until it’s a whisper I can’t quite make out. I lean in closer to the grate and the metal buckles underneath me, accompanied by an odd thumping sound that echoes.

Their heads simultaneously snap up in my direction. I grit my teeth.

“Hello?” Stocky Guy says. He nods toward Max. “Check it out.”

“What the hell?” Max hops onto the nightstand so quickly, I have no time to gasp.

I twist around, teeth chattering. Now there’s no mistaking the loud bending and heaving of the metal beneath my knees as I race through the cramped space. I wish I could stand and run, but there’s no room. Darkness surrounds me. All I know is that I need to move.

I vaguely hear the grate open behind me, but I don’t look back.

“Get back here!” Max yells. His grunting tells me he’s having trouble fitting through, but I don’t look back.

After several feet, the space divides into a fork. Left or right. I try to think of where it could lead, but the heaving of the metal alerts me that Max has wedged in.

Quickly, I turn right. Panting for breath, hot air soon fills my mask, suffocating me. I tug up the end of my gown, freeing up my legs to move faster.

Hands, knees, hands, knees, moving swiftly, pounding into the darkness.

Max’s heavy breathing looms behind me. “Relax,” he says, “I just want to talk.” But I know that being caught in these circumstances will get me much more than a conversation.

I reach a dead end and peer through the grate that locks me in like a prison. The room below looks empty except for a bunch of bots plugged into receptacles on the wall. They’re stacked on shelves three stories high. Surveillance cameras are secured around the room, peering eyes at every corner. My heart leaps, but then I notice a trash can below the grate. It looks like it’s filled with parts for the bots and won’t make for a soft landing, but I have no choice.

I bash the grate with the palm of my hand, but it doesn’t move. Shit, shit, shit. It takes a moment and I curse my long limbs, but somehow I twist around, using up valuable time, and kick out the grate with a gratifying thud.

More heavy breathing comes huffing behind me. Closer, so dangerously close, but his breaths are raspy like he has asthma, which I pray will slow him down.

There’s no room for me to sit up and jump. I’ll have to go feet first. I look at the hole. If I don’t go now, I’ll lose my chance. My stomach lurches, but I shove off from my hands, propelling myself forward. Down, down, down. Every muscle in my body tenses for impact.

Whatever I hit is hard, knocking the wind out of me. I’m trying to suck in air, in deep, hollow, raspy breaths. Surrounding me are bot limbs, old and used. They engulf me on all sides until I feel like I’m drowning. Still gasping for air, I drag myself to the top and push myself over the side of the large receptacle, keeping my head low, thankful, so thankful for the mask and cap concealing my identity.

I burst through the doorway, stumbling out, and realize I’m in the front entranceway of the hospital. I press my back against the wall beside the door, doubling over, panting. I need to keep moving, but I can’t breathe.

A firm hand grips my shoulder and I bolt upright, a small squeal escaping my lips before I clasp my hand over my mouth.

It takes a second, but then I realize it’s Mr. Williams. “What’s wrong, Desiree?” he asks, worry etching his face.

“Someone’s…someone’s,” I gasp, and point to the door I just ran through, unable to finish my sentence.

Mr. Walsh eyes a surveillance camera, then resumes mopping. He whispers without looking at me, “Is someone following you?”

I nod once, lower the mask just beneath my nose, and inhale cool, blessed air. I know I can’t just leave the hospital and run home. If I do, they’ll for sure know it was me. I need to get back up onto the floor and find Sage before he reports me missing. “I need to get back upstairs,” I breathe out. “And fast.”

Behind the door I just bolted from comes a loud crash. I imagine Max has found his way into the container of bot parts. He’s coming for me.

Mr. Williams spins around, spits on the floor just outside the door. Within seconds, Diesel spins into action. “Carcinoma,” Diesel drones out and wedges his strong, metal foot up against the door.

Carcinoma? I know that word from my studies. My stomach does a flip as I register that Mr. Williams has cancer, but before I have a chance to say anything, he grips my arm and gives me a gentle shove. He mops the floor where I just stood as though it was the reason he moved me and I know he’s trying to protect me from prying eyes. Coughing into his elbow, he then says in a barely distinguishable voice, “At the end of this hallway there’s an industrial elevator. Get on it and you go on and get back up to class, you hear?”

“But—”

“Now, go on,” he says. “Don’t you be worrying about an old man now,” he says in a soft, kind voice.

I race toward the elevator, Max’s voice booming from around the corner. “Out of my way.”

“Don’t move,” Mr. Williams says in a stern voice, “or you’ll need a trip to the CDC for a hose down.”

I find my way to the elevator, filled with a mixture of relief over my getaway and sadness, knowing Mr. Williams is sick. Mostly, I’m hysterical, trembling all over, still in shock over what I just did, adrenaline rushing through me.

I pull the two decompressors from my pocket, desperate for it to be something other than a sedative.

The first one I open reads: Falnesia.

I can’t help but pump my fist into the air as tears wet my lashes. Just to be sure, I check the second vial, and, as suspected, it’s nothing but a sedative. I slip the empty Falnesia vial back inside its depressor casing and tuck it into the side of my bra.

Of all the drugs I studied in pharmacology, Falnesia is definitely not one of them. This must be the empty vial of the mystery drug brought by the Empire. My one small victory lights me up, sending a buzz rocketing through my veins.

I may never find Sophia or the other Unwanted, but what I do have is proof. Proof that everything is not what it seems. And if The Protectorate is altering people’s memories and stealing children, I can’t help but wonder what other corruption is going on all around us—while we remain oblivious under the powerful effects of the Dreamscape.

Chapter Eighteen

After tossing my gown and other precautions garb in the trash, I quickly get back to my patient and find Sage. He tells me that Mrs. Walsh’s room has now been put under guard. The officials are asking the staff questions, patrolling the floor, and otherwise looking completely annoyed. I’m grateful the tunnel was dark and for the gear that helped conceal me, making it impossible to identify me, but I still stay out of their way the rest of the day. I’m even more thankful that Sage is a good friend and, even though he suspects I had everything to do with the commotion going on, he doesn’t say a thing. Still, I think it takes an hour for my heart rate to go back to a normal rhythm.

On the way home I decide that somehow I need to find Darian. I have no idea where to start, but I remember he mentioned something about heading into the metro part of Tower when he broke into my house that one time. I wonder if that’s where he hides out.

His last poetic words are mixed up in my mind, but I remember it was something about shimmering mist. I don’t know if he meant to look for him on a foggy night, or what his mystery lingo means, but as hopeless as trying to find Darian in the metro streets seems, I have to try. And if I can’t find him in the metro, I’ll check the tree house, otherwise known as the Dungeon.

First, though, I plan to talk to Coral. She’s the one who gave me the hair comb, and I’m convinced she has to know something.

My parents left a note on the kitchen counter reminding me they’re working the night shift for the next two weeks, and that leftovers are in the fridge. Because they work alternating twelve-hour shifts—two weeks of days and two weeks of nights—for now, I gratefully can avoid them. Keeping up a happy façade around my parents is growing more difficult as the days pass.

I grab the hair comb from my dresser, slip it into my hair, carefully tuck the paper napkin holding the hair strand into my pocket, and head next door.

When Owen lets me in, I notice Coral chopping vegetables on a cutting board in the kitchen. The scent of something tangy tickles my nose and my stomach grumbles. I realize that, with all the craziness at the hospital today, I skipped lunch.

“Oh, hey, Desiree,” Coral says, glancing over her shoulder. “What a great surprise.” She pulls out a seat at the kitchen table and gestures for me to sit down. “Shia’s having a nap and I’m cooking up a stir-fry. Why don’t you stay for dinner?” She smiles, pops a piece of celery in her mouth, and mumbles, “I know your parents are working the night shift.”

“Thanks. That would be great.” I stroll past the chair and slide up beside her. Anything is better than leftovers. “Need some help?”

“You can help me set the table if you’d like,” she says as she grabs a red pepper from the fridge.

Owen heads down the hall, calling over his shoulder, “I’m starving, so let me know when dinner’s ready.”

I laugh. Owen is always starving. The first thing I do is grab the horseradish from the fridge and place it on the table. Owen eats the burn-your-face-off stuff on absolutely everything. I’m surprised the lining of his stomach hasn’t dissolved.

I’m not sure how to bring up the topic of the hair comb, so I just blurt it out in my usual style. “So…” I say. “Where did you get this hair comb, Coral?”

Her back stiffens for a second, then she turns to me and smiles. “At the Grange, honey. Why, you like it?” She twirls back around and starts chopping the pepper, dumping the pieces into the pan. Puffs of smoke billow up as the ingredients sizzle. Coral lowers the setting on the stovetop, then resumes chopping.

“But you told me it belonged to somebody special that you knew,” I shoot back.

She places the knife on the cutting board. Twisting around, she presses her back against the counter and grips her fingers around its edge. “Right. Well, it originally came from the Grange. It belonged to someone special…a friend.” She shifts to the kitchen cabinet and begins pulling plates from the cupboard. “Why are you asking, hon?” she asks, her voice quavering a bit.

I open the cutlery drawer and begin pulling out forks and knives. I hear Coral behind me, laying the plates out on the table. I decide there’s no easy way to ask, so I just go for it. “Because I want to know who Sophia is.”

There’s a loud crash, and I twist around to find splintered shards of glass everywhere. Coral grips the edge of the table, steadying herself.

Maybe I should’ve eased into the conversation better, but her reaction tells me I’ve hit a nerve—and that I’m on to something.

“Don’t move,” I say, and run to get the broom.

“Everything okay out there?” Owen yells from the other room.

“Yes, just dropped a dish!” I call back, brushing the broken glass into a pile, and anxiously watching a stunned, speechless Coral.

After a moment, she drops into a seat at the table, propping her head on her fists. “Sit down, Desiree,” she finally says, jerking her head toward the chair beside her.

I take a seat, facing her. Silence again stretches out as Coral seems to gather her thoughts. I don’t know if I want to scream or cry, but I just want her to say something…anything.

Finally she speaks up. “Who’s Sophia, honey?” she asks, smooth as butter.

My insides sink. Great. She’s going to pretend she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Who is she trying to kid? With the way she just reacted, she can’t just revert back to, who’s Sophia?

“When I mentioned Sophia’s name, you looked like I told you the Earth was going to implode, and now you ask who she is like it’s any other day?” I sigh. “Look. It’s okay. You can talk to me about it. I need you to talk to me about it.”

She pinches her brows and when she doesn’t look like she’s going to cough up information anytime soon, I blurt, “Sophia is my sister. Or was my sister.” I watch as her eyes widen. “I already know this. And you had her hair comb. I know it was hers.” I lean in and squeeze her hand. “I just need to know the truth. Please.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again. “Where did you hear these things?” she finally says.

I bite my lip, not wanting to tell her I’ve seen Darian. I trust Coral, but I’m not sure that would go over too well with anybody. I shrug. “Lately, I keep getting these flashbacks, and when I saw the hair comb at the Grange, it looked familiar. I was always so drawn to it. I figured I just liked it, but when you gave it to me, the flashes became more vivid.” I tug the paper napkin out from my jeans pocket, and carefully extract the black strand of hair. “Then I found this. This was her hair, right?”

Coral swallows and turns pale. “Desiree, this can only bring you trouble.” She wrinkles her forehead. “You need to forget about this.”

I lift my brows. “Are you kidding? I can’t just forget. Isn’t that what the government does? Make us forget?” I say, tucking the hair away again.

She sighs. “I’m not sure what they did to make you guys forget her.”

I light up. “Forget her? So it’s true then! Sophia really did exist! And they make people forget by giving them a medication that works with the Dreamscape to fry your brain,” I add.

She looks at me, a deep crease forming between her brows.

I shake my head. “Never mind. You said you’re not sure what they did to make us forget her. But, it’s true, right? About Sophia?”

I need to hear her say the words—to confirm I’m not crazy—that Darian’s been telling me the truth all along. Even though I heard the officials talk about Jax, I still need to hear that Sophia was real too, and not just a part of my imagination.

She nods, closes her eyes, and inhales deeply. Looking back at me, she grasps my hand. “But, Desiree, she’s gone now. You can’t do anything, and if you tell anybody, they’ll turn you in. You don’t know who to trust, believe me, and you don’t want to be found Noncompliant.” She pauses, worries her lip between her teeth. “The Terrorscape is much worse than you think.”

I can’t imagine it being any worse than I think. Watching the reactions of people suffering in the Terrorscape on the data port screens scares the hell out of me even though it’s only for the first five minutes.

“Why did they find you Noncompliant?” I bite my lip, knowing it’s a personal question, but push on anyway. “They said you stole things.”

She twists her lips, cheeks flushing red. “We didn’t steal anything for us, Desiree. Please believe me. We—we took supplies for the Unwanted—”

“What? So it’s true!” I jump up from the table. “Coral, if there are more second-borns surviving somehow, then Sophia might be out there, too!”

She shakes her head, stands in front of me, and takes my hands in hers. “No, honey. Calm down. You’re getting yourself all worked up. We take the baby supplies for the ones that haven’t been discovered. Second-borns who, for the last ten years, have managed to escape detection. That so-called miracle drug they developed for sterilization wasn’t so much of a miracle, I’m afraid. There aren’t a lot of second-borns, but of the ones that are born, only a very few make it past The Protectorate’s all-seeing eyes.”

“But Sophia made it for years, Coral,” I say, desperately needing to hang onto any hope she could still be alive. “And The Protectorate may be cruel, but they wouldn’t actually kill innocent children…would they?”

The thought turns my stomach.

She lowers her gaze. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Well, what about the Unwanted?” I wince as the word leaves my mouth. “The children that you get the supplies for,” I correct.

“I don’t know where they’re kept, honey, and we shouldn’t even be talking about this,” she says with a shaky voice.

I’ve never known Coral to be afraid of anything and seeing her like this unnerves me.

She cups my chin in her hand, then leans over and kisses my cheek. “I don’t want you to suffer through anything like Owen and I did. Life is too short. I just want you and Shia to be happy.”

I cast imploring eyes on her. “But—but, we can’t just forget Sophia. And my parents don’t even know, right?” I pause for a second, thinking. Maybe my parents do know, but they’re just trying to protect me. I tilt my head. “Do my parents remember Sophia?” I ask. “And wait. How do you remember her? Did the officials not realize you guys knew?”

“No, your parents don’t remember her.” Alarm fills her eyes. “And please don’t say anything. You’ll only upset them and the chances they’ll remember are pretty much non-existent. I’m actually shocked you remember.” She rakes a hand through her hair, worry etching her face. “As for me and Owen, we never forgot Sophia. When The Protectorate found out about her, Owen and I were at work when they came to question us. They were vague and we played dumb. Luckily, they didn’t suspect us of knowing anything. Hiding an Unwanted is not something you’d usually share, so they didn’t suspect your parents told anybody. But you and your parents were hospitalized for a while after The Protectorate found Sophia.” She grimaces. “Then, when you guys came home from the hospital, it was like she never existed. It was devastating. Thank goodness Sophia was kept from Shia.” She frowns and shakes her head. “We couldn’t trust that Shia wouldn’t let it slip…but to think if she knew about all of this.”

A sharp pang of sadness flows through me. The Protectorate snuffed out our memories like they had blown out a candle. Even now, although I know Sophia was a real person, I still don’t have any memories of her other than the little flashes of her running through the leaves. I rub my hands up and down my arms, a raw sense of violation creeping across my skin.

Coral pours herself a cup of coffee and takes a sip. “After that, I did my best to find out where she could be, I promise you. I didn’t find anything that could lead me to her, but I did find out about others like Sophia. It’s sad that they can’t get baby supplies, not so much as basic immunizations. The Protectorate manages that, as you know.” She stares out the window wistfully. “I always figured it was a way to keep an eye on the health of our youth. I managed to get some supplies for Sophia when she was a baby…I did my best.” Her voice catches and she clears her throat. I can tell she’s trying not to cry, and that she feels guilty somehow.

And I feel it too—guilt worming through me—for forgetting Sophia, for how Coral feels right now. Coral and Owen sacrificed a lot for Sophia, for my family, and for other Unwanted.

I imagine Sophia screaming as The Protectorate dragged her away from Mom…or maybe it wasn’t like that at all…maybe they tricked her and told her lies, stealing her away in the middle of the night.

I shift my gaze toward the window, sadness knifing through me.

Then another horrible image crosses my mind—a flash of Coral and Owen’s faces as they were under the Terrorscape…punishment for helping others.

I take her hands in mine and give them two pumps. “Thanks for helping us, Coral. I mean it.” I smile. “It’s not your fault. Hey,” I say, an idea coming to mind. “Do you know if we were at Mercy Hospital?”

If we were, I could ask around, look through the data port for information somehow.

“No, honey. You were all brought to different hospitals apparently.”

The same thing they’re doing with Mrs. Walsh’s family.

“I assumed at the time it was because they didn’t want anybody to recognize you,” she says. “It was torture for us while you were away…wondering where they’d taken you, and what they’d done with Sophia.”

Tears spring to my eyes. “What did they do to her?”

Coral sighs and averts her eyes. “We’re not sure.”

“We need to find her. She could still be out there!”

A tear slides down Coral’s cheek. “I did the best I could. The contact that I gave the baby contraband items to? I begged him to tell me something, but he doesn’t know anything—or, at least, he won’t admit to it, no matter how hard I try.”

Then it hits me. I’m being totally selfish. What if Coral and Owen are still stealing stuff for the Unwanted? If they’re found Noncompliant again, The Protectorate will put them in the Terrorscape forever. I reach up and wipe the tear from Coral’s face with my thumb. “You have to think about yourselves now…and Shia,” I say firmly. “You can’t risk getting caught with that stuff again, you know that. You know what they’ll do.”

She blinks, then nods her head. “We’re lying low for now. They’re keeping an extra close watch on us at work, we know that.”

“What’s his name?”

She tilts her head. “Whose?”

“Your contact.”

She heaves a sigh. “Desiree, you’re asking for trouble. He won’t tell you anything, and if you’re caught—”

“I won’t talk to him, I promise. I just want to know his name. Please?”

She lifts a shoulder. “His name’s Luther Mills.”

Luther Mills. I engrave his name onto my brain, solid as steel. I promised Coral I wouldn’t talk to him, but I didn’t say anything about not following him. If he’s taking contraband to the Unwanted, I intend to find out where that is.

Coral clears her throat. “Trust me. Stay out of trouble. Don’t think you can find him, either,” she says, as if reading my mind. “He doesn’t come around the distribution center. And after Owen and I were found Noncompliant, he disappeared off the radar.”

Crap. There goes that plan.

“I’m not sure how the Unwanted are getting their supplies now,” she says with a sigh. “Listen, you don’t want to be caught sticking your nose in the wrong places and be found Noncompliant. You’ll end up in the Terrorscape. And believe me, it’s not what you think.” She takes a long, deep breath as she rubs her hands against her face. Looking back at me, she sighs and stands up. Then she slowly lifts the back of her shirt and twists around so I have a full view.

Horror rips through me. Red welts stripe her back as if she’s been struck by a whip. I gasp and draw back, covering my mouth. Through the slats of my fingers I ask, “What happened?” even as I reach my other hand out to her.

She lowers her shirt, pats my hand as she passes by me and walks to the stove. She idly moves the spatula through the stir-fry. “You don’t want to ever go into the Terrorscape,” she repeats in a whisper this time. “It’s a living, breathing nightmare in there. But if you don’t listen to me and they catch you…they will tie you to that gurney and put you in there.” Her eyes take on a faraway look. “If that happens, Desiree…whatever you do…run.”

Chapter Nineteen

There was no getting Coral to tell me any more about the Terrorscape and how she got the welts on her back. I can only assume some horrible official whipped her at some point while she was inside.

I manage to eat a little and I’m thankful Shia is there, flitting through the room, doing cartwheels and laughing until it almost feels normal again.

I quickly finish eating, thank them, and head out more eager than ever to find Darian.

It’s cool outside, so first I pop into the house to change. I bundle up in my mauve winter jacket and shove my hands into my black gloves that end at the knuckles. I slide my feet into my faux-fur black boots that slide up just below my knees, and head out.

As I hop onto the tram that heads toward the metro, I shiver. I’ve never gone into the metro alone before. Even though crime is much lower than it was in the Manic Age, things still can happen and I’ve been warned by my parents to not go alone.

As the tram moves out of the burbs at a swift pace, up ahead the glimmering shades of the metro light up the skyline. Glowing signs for pubs, restaurants, and nightclubs in every neon color imaginable blink on and off. There’s something both magical and ominous about it all.

I search through the window of the tram as if somehow Darian will miraculously appear, but soon decide to get off the tram and take my chances searching the streets.

The chilly air nips my skin as I head out and I tug my zipper all the way up. People are moving all around me, coming in and out of fancy restaurants, the echo of their laughter carrying on the wind.

The farther I go, the fewer people there are. After I walk several more blocks, the buildings spread wider apart, separated by long, dark alleys. The building to my right is boarded up with an Out of Business sign plastered across it.

Popcorn and candy wrappers swirl in little funnels against the concrete wall of the old movie theater like they’ve been caught in a tornado. With fewer buildings here to light up the night, and with only a crescent moon in the sky, it’s eerily dark.

I pick up my pace and quickly rush several more blocks. My eyes dart over every sign and behind every corner, looking for some sign of Darian. More and more by the second, I realize how stupid I am for ever thinking I’d find him here.

It hits me that what the newscaster said on the port screen could be true—that the officials were hot on Darian’s trail—and that maybe they’ve found him already. The thought makes me sick. After seeing Coral’s back, I can’t imagine anyone being forced to endure the Terrorscape and whatever else they do to you at Olympus Jail.

Just when I feel like giving up, my gaze falls on a sign above an old building. It depicts a full moon hanging low above a drawing of a smog-filled cityscape. The neon-red, blinking letters above the moon are lopsided and in disarray. I angle my head in the same direction and read the words: The Shimmering Mist. One m in the word “shimmering” has burned out, but Darian’s words rush back with complete clarity.

I kinda like how the moonlight reflects against the smog, like shimmering mist, he said when I last saw him.

It’s got to be it!

Below the sign rests a double set of steel doors marred with graffiti. Although I’ve been rushing to get here, I hesitate as I reach for the door handle. Despite the cold, my hands are slick with sweat.

What if he’s not here?

And what am I doing?

I rub my gloved hands together and pull open the door. I’ve come this far. I at least need to check it out.

The crowded room is filled with smoke—billows that hover over the room like a veil. With all of the people packed close together, it’s much hotter in here than outside. I slip my gloves off and tuck them inside my jacket pockets, and snake through the dancing, sprawling bodies, searching for Darian.

“Hey, sexy,” someone yells over the pulsating music. I turn to face an older, bald man hanging off the bar. He tips his glass filled with a copper-colored liquid in my direction. Someone dancing behind me accidently knocks me in his direction, and I stumble.

“Now you’re talking,” he says snatching my arm with a hiccup. He lays down his drink, and then runs his other hand up my arm.

“Let me go!” I say, tugging my arm back.

“Hey, you came charging into me, young lady,” he says, and wraps a hairy arm around my waist. The reek of stale booze hangs on him, thick as a blanket.

I try to pull away, but he grips me harder and leans in as if to kiss me.

I jerk my head back. “You’re drunk,” I snap, pressing my hands against his chest as my heart rate whips out of control. I curse myself for coming here and look for an escape route. As soon as I wrench myself free from his disgusting fingers, I’m out of here. I slam a knee into his groin. The guy doubles over with a groan, but quickly reaches up and snatches my arm again before I can bolt.

Then it’s like I’m seeing things in slow motion. The image of a blue baseball cap, a fist skimming through the air until it meets the bald guy’s face, blood oozing down his nose as his grip around me drops. I sway backward.

Everything accelerates again and I gaze up into Darian’s face, contorted with anger. “Don’t you fucking touch her,” he growls to the bald guy in his deep baritone voice. Darian’s chest rises and falls, and a muscle in his jaw throbs. And I know if we don’t get away from this guy soon, he’ll be on the floor—or worse, someone will notice Darian.

I tug on Darian’s sleeve. “C’mon. He’s just drunk and stupid.”

Darian pulls his arm back, hand still clenched, looking like he’s about to punch the guy again, his eyes glazed over as if he didn’t hear me.

Bald Guy holds his hands up defensively. “Sorry, man. I didn’t know she was your girl.”

I want to tell him that I’m not Darian’s girl—that I’m not anybody’s girl really, but it doesn’t matter.

I step in front of Darian, but his enraged eyes are still focused over my shoulder on Bald Guy. “It’s me.” I gaze up into his deep blue eyes that resemble a storm brewing over troubled seas. They mesmerize me, drawing me back to a time in the sixth grade when Darian found me face-planted in the mud—after Asher had pushed me into it. Darian’s twelve-year-old self flashes in my mind’s eye. He’s wearing the same dangerous look, glaring at Asher, with his fists held at his sides. Darian was skinny then, unlike the muscular hulk he is now, but brave—always brave.

Someone shuffles past, bumping into me, and stirring me back to present day Darian. I keep my gaze on his. Deep in his eyes I still see the little boy in him—the one that always protected me.

“Darian,” I say. “It’s okay.” I squeeze his hand. “Forget about him.”

Finally, he lowers his gaze, meeting mine, and the anger slowly washes away from his features. He picks up my hand, threading his fingers through mine and guides me through the crowd. I try not to focus on how his hand feels so warm wrapped around mine. It reminds me of the way it felt on the tram when his mouth was just a hair’s breadth away from my ear, filling me with excitement and adrenaline.

This is just Darian.

He leads me to a back corner and tugs out a seat for me at a small, round table.

“Sorry about that,” he says as he sits across from me.

“No worries,” I say, just glad to be away from the creepy bald guy. I use the napkin placed on the table to try rubbing away some grease marks before resting my arms on its edge. “I can’t believe I actually found you.”

His lips curve into a sly grin. “Looks like I found you.”

“Well, not really,” I retort. “I’m the one who had to decipher that code and get to this dive in the first place.”

He chuckles. “Then you’re a quick study, aren’t you?”

I laugh. “But you didn’t need to punch that guy, you know,” I mention, although truthfully, a part of me thinks he deserved it. “I had it under control.”

He arches a brow until it disappears under his baseball cap. “I saw that,” he says with a laugh. Then, shaking his head, he growls, “He’s drunken scum. He’s lucky all he got is a bloody nose.”

I slip out of my winter coat and sling it over the back of my chair. “It’s hot in here,” I say, changing the topic before he flips out again.

A waitress walks by and Darian waves his hand, catching her attention. “A Cherry Coke and a Sprite,” he says. I smile, warmth tingling through me that he remembers my favorite drink. He digs into his jeans pocket, pulls out a twenty, and hands it to her. “The sooner the better, please.”

The waitress nods and sashays off. Darian looks back at me with a lopsided grin. “Still love Cherry Coke?”

I nod and smile. “Yup, thanks.” Then I take a breath. “But, Darian, I came because I discovered something…and you’re the only one I can tell.” His eyes widen slightly and I lean across the table, searching his tired but gorgeous face. “I found out about a drug The Protectorate uses that wipe your memories of whatever they want. It’s called Falnesia, and it somehow works together with the Dreamscape. That’s why I forgot about Sophia.” I swallow back tears. “You were right…about everything…and I’m sorry it took so long for me to believe you.”

His face lights up with surprise, followed by unmistakable relief. “You couldn’t have known. Falnesia, huh?” He goes quiet a moment, rubbing the stubble on his chin, as if processing what I said.

The waitress plops down two glasses in front of Darian and he slides my Cherry Coke across the table. I catch it and gulp some back, my mouth suddenly very dry. “But what are we going to do?” I ask. “There are others out there. The Unwanted, like you said. I got a name of a contact that brings them supplies, or at least he used to. His name is Luther Mills.”

Darian inclines his head toward me. “Luther Mills?” The pale light of a candle shimmering on the table draws my attention to the silver-gray scar running down the side of his neck. I shift, and reach across the table, just managing to stop myself before I touch it.

Darian cocks his head. “What’s wrong?”

“How did you get that scar?”

Darian doesn’t flinch, but after a moment he reaches up and clasps his hand around the side of his neck. “I got it when I was in Olympus Jail. It’s not a topic I like talking about.”

“How?” I press anyway, curious.

Darian looks away, narrowing his eyes, which seem to be growing stormy again. “You don’t want to know, trust me.”

I lean back and decide to let it go for now. We have other things we need to talk about, so I decide to push it another time. I sigh. “Darian, we need to get that flash drive you told me about. I’ve got an empty drug vial labeled Falnesia. Together with the flash drive that shows how the Dreamscape works, maybe we can convince people that—”

“Convince them of what, Rae?” He blinks, unbelievingly. “To not use the Dreamscape and never sleep?”

He’s right of course. Defeated, I drop my head into my hands and groan.

Darian sighs, reaches across the table, and rubs a finger gently across the back of my hand. It sends a little electric pulse through me, unexpected and unsettling. I pull my hand back and lift my head.

“Look,” he says. “I’m working on a plan. Don’t give up, okay? I didn’t get a chance to tell you the other day on the tram, but I met the owner here. He’s like me—you know—in that one percent the Dreamscape never worked on. He lets me use his Dreamscape briefly here and there just so I can get by, but I think he knows people, Rae. I’m trying to get him to trust me…to let me in.” He shoots me one of his amazing, crooked grins, then lifts his Sprite and gulps back the whole glass.

“And I see you still like Sprite,” I say with a laugh.

He sets his glass down with a clunk and lifts an eyebrow, his gaze leveling mine, his eyes smoldering. “It’s about having good taste and knowing what you like.” His lips slide into a side grin and I feel myself blush.

Before I can respond, he says, “But I do need to get the flash drive. I’m just waiting for the right time. This guy I met here? Jameson? I overheard a conversation between him and some other guy talking about a group of people. He referred to them as the Awakened. I think they’re trying to gather evidence against The Protectorate…and I think they live somewhere else—without the Dreamscape.”

“The Awakened??” My heart pounds in shock and disbelief. “And they can really sleep without the Dreamscape? But, but…how’s that possible?”

He shrugs. “I have no idea. That’s what I’m saying. I need time to convince Jameson to let me in. I’m not even supposed to know as much as I do. But if it’s true, that flash drive can buy us in—proof that we’re with the Awakened and against The Protectorate.”

I dart my eyes around the room, making sure nobody is watching us, and thankful for the loud music. Even though I now know that The Protectorate is innately corrupt, hearing him say the words “against The Protectorate” sends a shiver rushing through me. I was never that girl—never one to cause trouble—and here I am now—my life consisting of nothing but trouble.

“But what about my parents and Laken…and my neighbors?” I think of Sage and Mr. Williams and of everyone I want to help escape from the veil of brainwashing we’re subjected to, who I don’t want to leave behind.

A fine crease forms between his brows. “I can ask about maybe bringing your parents, Rae, but I think we’ll be lucky if they even let us in.”

And by us, I figure he mostly means me. Darian is big and strong and I’m sure he would be considered a huge asset to any uprising. I, on the other hand, would most likely be considered dead weight.

He frowns and adds, “I think we’ll be lucky if I can even get Jameson to tell me what’s up. But give me some time, okay?”

It feels just like it did when we were little, on a scavenger hunt in the woods for items his parents hid, or competing to see how many fish we could catch. The memory makes me smile a little, even though I know trying to gather information in this case means much higher stakes.

The hope of finding a way to sleep without the Dreamscape is both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. I’d be free of its manipulation—now that I know that’s what it is—but I’d eventually have to face what I’ve been told is a nightmare.

It’s always the unknown that’s the scariest, but facing a nightmare seems like the only real solution…and my only hope of finding people who might know more about what’s truly going on. And what happened to Sophia.

Darian tugs me to my feet, tearing me from my thoughts. He squeezes my hand and a small smile flicks across his face. With his other hand, he tucks my hair behind my ear and slides the back of his fingers down my cheek. “I’m glad you came tonight, Rae.”

I’m pretty sure this is what flirting is, and all I know is that it feels thrilling and awkward at the same time.

He cups my chin and pulls my lip free from my teeth. “Stop biting your lip,” he says with a laugh. “It’s your tell-tale worry sign.”

I pull away, run my tongue over my lips, and cast my eyes to the floor.

“Listen, I’m a man of my word,” he says, drawing my attention back. “If there’s an answer to this, I promise I’ll find it.” His lips curve upward. He tugs his cap low and cocks his head to the side, smirking. “Trust me?”

I nod. He’s being cocky, of course, but deep down I know if there’s an answer to be found, there’s no one more capable than Darian.

“You need to go home and get some sleep,” he says. “But will you meet me at the Dungeon after school tomorrow?”

I unconsciously take in a sharp breath and step back, mesmerized by his good looks, charm, and invitation. Darian is my childhood friend, but the feelings stirring inside me hint of something different—something more—and it surprises me.

He pauses, watching me. “You okay?”

I smile and force myself to act normal. “What? Yeah, I’m fine.”

He rocks back on his heels, grinning. “Dungeon tomorrow?” he asks again.

“Sure,” I say, natural as rain, surprising even myself. “Dungeon with the dragon,” I add and laugh, remembering what I called him when we were kids.

Darian tips his head back and chuckles, a deep, throaty laugh, and I laugh again, too, ignited by something I don’t recognize.

He helps me back into my coat, takes my hand, and leads me outside. Darian walks me all the way through the metro streets until we’re just feet from the Sky Tram Port. And even though it’s cold and the wind has picked up swirling debris around our feet, a warm feeling buzzes through me until it almost feels like I’m floating.

Chapter Twenty

The next day is a blur. I’m so focused on meeting Darian after school that it’s hard for me to concentrate. A few times Sage waves his hand in front of my face and asks me to come back to the land of the living, and once I even try to drink my Cherry Coke without popping the lid.

I attempt to talk to Mr. Williams on my lunch break, but he refuses to say anything about his cancer. The only thing I can get out of him is, “I’m almost fifty-five now, sugar. My time’s about up anyway and I get to see Henry again in the ever after.”

I hug him and thank him for helping me escape and, to my surprise, Mr. Williams doesn’t ask questions. He just pats my back. “Try to stay out of trouble, Desiree. I don’t want anything bad happening to you, ya hear?”

Mrs. Vickers keeps the class late, going over issues one of the students had in dealing with a patient and how better to handle certain situations. I keep eyeing the clock and I swear I can hear each second ticking by.

When I finally make it to Lake Briar about fifteen minutes late, Darian is waiting for me just by the cut-off that leads through our secret woods. He’s leaning against a tree, a smile tugging at his lips. He looks showered, clean-shaven, and is wearing jeans and a thick blue and black lumber jacket. The sun shimmers down through the canopy of trees, sending ribbons of light dancing across his face.

“Hey, Rae.”

“Hey, dragon,” I reply, unsure of what to say.

“You shouldn’t keep me waiting.” He grins. “I’m an impatient man.”

“Sorry about that, but my teacher—”

“You hungry?” he asks, cutting me off. He bends over to pick up a basket at his feet.

I’m more nervous than hungry, which in and of itself is strange, considering I’ve known Darian pretty much my whole life. “Sure,” I say. Then I do a double take. “When did you learn to cook?”

He heads through the woods toward the lake. “I don’t know if throwing meat and cheese between bread is considered cooking, but I guess I learned about an hour ago.” He chuckles, and I trail after him. It’s nice that he’s made an effort. The Darian I knew would have burned water.

I suddenly feel bad that I’ve shown up empty-handed. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring anything. I didn’t realize you were coming bearing gifts and all.” I jump over a log and try to keep up with his long strides.

He glances over his shoulder through long, dark lashes. “Well then, that means you owe me, right?”

“Ha. Owe you what exactly? Knowing you, it’d be something like my kidney.”

“I’ll think of something.” He cocks an eyebrow and his lips tilt up on one side.

When we reach the lake, I take in a cleansing breath. No matter how many times I come out here, it still amazes me. The sunlight shimmers over the surface of the water, creating a kaleidoscope of sparkling diamonds. A cool breeze rushes over the lake, shifting my hair back, but with the warm sunlight filtering down, the crisp air only feels refreshing.

Darian digs through the basket and throws me a red woolen blanket. I spread it out on a spot of grass under a patch of sunlight. Multi-colored leaves surround the blanket, scattering across it as the wind blows. I place a rock on each corner to hold it in place and begin helping Darian take the food from the basket.

I pull out two sandwiches, two thermoses labeled hot chocolate, and one chocolate bar. I cast him a confused look, knowing we both love chocolate. “I hope this is for me,” I say boldly, and grin.

He laughs. “Looks like we’ll have to fight for it, huh?”

“Oh, yeah?” I ask. “Okay then, but only if you want to lose.” I cock a brow. “What did you have in mind anyway?”

He points to a large, thick tree that towers high into the air. “Search and rescue,” he says, and I laugh, remembering the game we used to play as kids. Darian’s parents would sometimes hide an object somewhere nearby and give us a few hints. Search and rescue, they’d say. If you want dessert.

“You’re on!” I narrow my eyes. “What’s the object?”

He gives me a devilish grin. “Find the blue bear.”

An image of a blue teddy bear his parents gave me one Christmas races through my mind, but before I get a chance to ask if that’s it, Darian dashes toward the tree.

“Hey, you didn’t say to start!” I yell. I grab a mound of leaves with two hands, propel myself off a moss-covered rock, and throw them at the back of his head.

He laughs, shakes them off, but keeps going. When he reaches the tree, he plants a foot on a low branch and yanks himself up.

The way I see it, Darian has big feet and I don’t, which means I can scoot up using smaller branches. Then again, he’s stronger and can use his arms to pull him up quicker.

I get to the tree just moments after him, stretch my arms high, and pull myself up. The crackling and shifting of the branches above me is a reminder of just how fast Darian is.

“Aren’t you afraid you’re gonna fall?” I taunt. “It’s a long way down, you know.”

He shifts a branch from the other side of the tree, peering down and giving me one of his stunning smiles. “Are you afraid?” he asks, then releases the branch, sending pine needles trickling down. He’s climbing again, faster now, and he’s laughing so hard it’s contagious and I can’t stop laughing, either.

I pull and heave myself higher and higher, breathless now, the desire to win outweighing any need for a chocolate bar.

Finally, I catch up and grab a hold of his ankle just before he’s about to move to the next branch. “Gotcha!” I exclaim.

Darian glances down at me, bites the corner of his lip, and then tips his head back, stretching his arm high up into the tree. He pulls out the royal blue teddy bear that the cheater obviously tucked away before we arrived. “I win!” he hollers, looking down at me with a giant grin. “I’ve got Blue!” He grips a branch with one hand and, with the other, he holds up the bear in victory.

“You cheated.” I pause. “And you had a head start.” I shake the branch that he’s standing on a little and he lowers the hand that’s holding Blue to steady himself. “You’re the one who hid the bear, and knew where to look,” I add.

“Don’t be sad, Rae,” he teases. “Maybe I’ll let you have little Blue back.” He winks.

I roll my eyes and laugh. “Whatever, dragon,” I scoot back to sit on a thick branch, not in any hurry to climb back down. I stare out over the lake, watching the sunlight dance in iridescent waves, the scent of pine needles surrounding me.

Darian sighs above me and I can tell he’s happy, too. It’s great not to have to worry about anything for this one moment…not The Protectorate, not Asher, not anything.

After we climb back down, he hands me Blue and, although Blue’s now missing one eye, I can’t help but hug him to my chest as we trudge back to our picnic spot.

We spread out on the blanket and eat our sandwiches while one-eyed Blue watches us from where he’s propped up against the picnic basket.

All around us the mountains soar upward, protecting us like a shield, and I imagine that we’re in our own little world.

Darian doesn’t bring up anything serious, and I don’t ask. It’s only been a day and I doubt he’s gotten any more information out of Jameson.

After we finish our sandwiches, Darian drinks his hot chocolate, and then quickly pulls back the wrapper on the chocolate bar, grinning at me from behind sooty lashes. He takes a bite, and savors it. “Mmm,” he moans. “So good.”

I give his leg a little kick with my foot, but he quickly catches it in one hand. In a sudden, swift move, he tugs my boot off, and grips my ankle. He cocks his head to one side, his lips lifting into a wry grin. “You should watch what you do with that thing, you know. I remember someone being very ticklish.” He holds the chocolate bar in-between his teeth and tickles my foot.

I tug my leg back, giggling. “Jerk.” I pull my legs beneath me as he takes another bite of the chocolate.

Looking over his shoulder, I squint as though I’m looking at something across the woods. “Check out that hummingbird over there,” I say with awe. When he glances away, I quickly reach over to grab the chocolate bar.

I narrowly miss it as he swipes his hand through the air, quick as an arrow…and instead I tumble against his firm chest, laughing, my hair tumbling in a curtain around my face.

I lift my head and my breath hitches as our gazes latche on to each other for a moment. My stomach dances and flutters in waves, like a flock of birds has been released inside me.

The old Desiree comes back to haunt me, telling me I shouldn’t be here…that Darian is just an old friend…and a convicted murderer. Not to mention the twinge of guilt because I know I’m bound to Asher. But then I think about Mallory and all of The Protectorate’s deceit, and remember none of that is real.

I push the old Desiree aside as a blush works its way across my cheeks. “Sorry,” I mumble. I press my hands against his muscular chest to push off and shift back to the safe zone on the other side of the blanket.

But Darian doesn’t let me.

He lays the chocolate bar down and wraps two warm hands around mine, all the while holding his dreamy gaze on me. The birds take flight within me all over again. He grins and lifts me up slightly and tugs me forward onto his lap until I’m kneeling over him—bodies so close—closer than I’ve ever been to a boy. My heart thuds so hard I’m sure he can hear it.

He twirls a thick strand of my hair around his finger, smells it. “Your hair is the color of a chestnut, Rae.” He lifts his gaze to meet mine. “It reminds me of the wastelands in the fall…so beautiful…just like you.” Leaning in, he whispers in my ear. “I think payment is due.” His breath moves across my cheek, in my ear. He cups one hand around the back of my neck, and slides his fingers up into my hair. He tugs it back slightly, playfully, his lips curving into an amused grin. “I did bring you lunch, and find Blue for you,” he says coyly, his mouth grazing the skin on my neck.

I incline my head toward him, every inch of my body electrified. “What do you want exactly, Darian?” I ask, hardly hearing myself say the words.

“You,” he says simply, with a sexy grin. He starts to close the small gap between us and I move forward, too, meeting him halfway until our lips are a hair’s breadth away. “You,” he repeats again, quieter, against my mouth, just before pressing his soft, parted lips against mine.

At first he gives me quick, soft, hungry kisses. His full lips are soft, melting into mine until I feel as though I’ve stopped breathing.

His fingers thread through my hair as he deepens the kiss with a low growl. He stops only for a second to run his tongue across my lower lip. The taste of chocolate fills my senses. Warmth pools inside of me—waves of heat as adrenaline courses through my veins.

My hands shift inside his unzipped jacket. I move my fingers across his firm chest, out to his muscular shoulders, slipping down the back of his shirt, and caress his warm skin. I can’t help but think his whole body is like the sculpted god Thor.

And I know in that one moment that I wasn’t meant to be bound with Asher. I didn’t know I could feel this kind of passion for anyone—never knew it even existed. All of this time, I never imagined being with Darian—my friend—like this.

I always thought it would be with someone from somewhere far away. But now, in an instant, I realize this is better because I know Darian so well and this kind of knowing is a deeper level I want to explore.

When he finally pulls away, I roll over and lie on my back, gazing up into the bluest sky, dreaming that those desires are realistic. The crisp air kisses my cheeks, cooling the skin still burning from Darian’s kisses.

He picks up the chocolate bar still in its wrapper. “I think you’ve earned this,” he says, smiling. He lies beside me on his stomach, propping himself up on his arms, and feeds me a bite of chocolate. Running his index finger along the bridge of my nose, he says, “I’ve always loved the sprinkle of freckles you have here.” The humor fades and a look more serious than I’ve seen all day crosses his face. “Desiree, I want to protect you from this mess. We—”

I shake my head, not wanting to talk about the reality of our life where little children are stolen, people are bound to others like it’s meant to be, and sensors link us to machines that are needed for sleep.

I want to stay in the dream that is my life in this moment—beside Darian, eating chocolate—happy, silly, and free.

Chapter Twenty-One

Over the next few days Darian and I meet at Lake Briar, where we’re hidden away from prying eyes. Sometimes we hike through the woods all around the lake, sometimes we roast marshmallows over a crackling fire, and other times we stargaze and just talk.

Darian told me his grandparents had whispered in his ear the day of his murder conviction, right before he was taken away. They were born Sevens. Their termination date was six months after Darian’s conviction. They told him where they’d hide money and that if he ever got out of jail, he’d know where to find it. Then they told him to never come looking for them. They said they weren’t sure what to believe, and in the event that he was innocent, they wanted to make sure he was taken care of. But in case he really was guilty, they didn’t want to see him ever again—they couldn’t bear it. The day he was found guilty of killing his parents, Darian had also said good-bye to his grandparents forever.

“They died not knowing the truth,” Darian said, averting his gaze from mine.

When I tried to hug him, he shot me a sad smile, pulled away, and stared blankly out the tree house window.

On Friday evening, as I head to meet Darian again, I can’t help but think about everything he lost: his parents, his only remaining family’s love and trust, his freedom, his life. The more I think about it, the more it feels like my heart is breaking right along with his.

I give my parents the excuse that I’m heading into the metro to go shopping with Laken. When I get to Lake Briar, Darian is waiting for me in his usual spot, a sly smile lifting one side of his lips. He pulls me into a hug and gives me a quick kiss. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to him kissing me, but I have to admit I don’t mind trying.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says, slipping his hand into mine and tugging me down the hill until we’re both running through the forest.

I’ve never been the type to really like surprises. I’m always worried it’ll be something I’ll have to pretend I like and that the look on my face will give me away or I’ll blurt out something stupid, and they’ll know how I really feel. I’ve always had trouble hiding what I’m thinking. Either my mouth or the expression on my face gives me away.

Darian rushes the rest of the way to the tree house, even when I ask him to slow down. I can tell he’s excited, which makes me even more nervous about how to react when I discover what the surprise is. My mind races with possibilities. I wonder if he’s somehow framed my art that he bought, or if he’s made another picnic lunch.

“What is it?” I ask, out of breath when we finally stop.

He smirks. “Patience, Rae.”

The door to the Dungeon creaks as he pushes it open. He ushers me in ahead of him, and the first thing I notice is the scent of vanilla tickling my nose. It’s dim in the tree house with the shutters pulled closed, but candles flicker around the room and I realize they’re the source of the fragrance.

The futon has the red blanket from our previous picnic draped over it and above it hangs my—thankfully—unframed painting with the sea of bats exploding out. Beside the futon there’s a basket filled with popcorn, chocolate, bottles of water, and soda. In front of the futon, on top of a large box, a Telex Tablet is lifted into an open position.

Darian shuffles in behind me and I twist around to face him, curious. “What’s this about?”

Darian shrugs and chews the corner of his lip. “I thought we could, you know, hang out and watch a movie or something.”

I smile and try to speak, but my throat feels tight. I can’t believe he went to so much trouble for me.

He steps forward and tugs me into his arms, kissing me again. The room falls silent with only the whistling of the wind and the soft rustling of the trees surrounding us. I realize it’s only us in the middle of the whole woods, and I wish we could stay here like this forever.

I pull back and gaze up into his eyes. “Thank you. This is the best surprise ever,” I say and mean it.

“No problem.” He takes my hand and sits me down on the futon. “I was hoping you’d like it.” He kneels in front of the cardboard box and powers up his Telex Tablet as I stretch out on the futon.

“So, what’s playing?”

“Roses and Romance,” he replies, a lilt of humor in his voice as he says the name of my favorite old movie.

“Are you serious?” I ask, shocked. “But you hate that movie.”

He glances over his shoulder, his lips slowly curving into a wolfish grin. “I’m cool with that. I like it when you owe me.”

I laugh. I think I do, too.

After he starts the movie, he squeezes in behind me on the futon, wrapping an arm around my waist. Throughout the film, he occasionally kisses my ear and my neck, deliciously distracting me. I think we only end up watching, well, really watching about half of the movie, but it was even better than the other ten times I’ve watched it.

When the movie is over, I twist around to face him with a sigh, and lay my head against his chest. The sound of his heart thumping in my ear soothes me.

I clear my throat and bring up the inevitable. “So, any news?” As much as it’s fun pretending everything is okay—it isn’t. “Has Jameson told you anything yet?”

Darian leans down, kisses my forehead softly, and places a hand on the small of my back, where my shirt has shimmied up. His touch on my bare skin makes me shiver.

“Yeah. I was gonna bring it up soon, but since you ask, I have good news.” He runs his fingers through my hair, pushing it away from my face. “Jameson told me last night that if I show him the flash drive with the proof of what the Dreamscape does, along with the vial you found—something tangible, that the Awakened can use—he’ll tell me the location of their nearest cell.”

My eyes widen. “Cell?”

He nods. “Yup. Apparently there are different cells in various locations.” He pauses. “And, Rae? I was right. They found a way to remove the implant that makes us need the Dreamscape to sleep.”

“Seriously?” I lift my head to meet his gaze and push aside the sinking feeling in my stomach like I’ve just jumped out of an airplane. The thought of someone digging under my skin is scary, even if it does set me free.

He swallows, his face turning serious, and nods. “But the nearest cell is a three-day hike.”

I bolt upright. “Wait. What? Three days? Are you kidding? Smackers, Darian. How are we supposed to go three days without sleeping?”

He sits up and takes my hand. “We can do it. We’ll have each other to talk to, I’ll bring lots of water, coffee, chocolate, and we’ll…well, we just have to do it, that’s all.”

I shake my head, thinking. Even if we can make it three days without sleep, how can I just leave my parents, Laken, my neighbors…my life?

I realize no matter what I tell my parents, they won’t jump up and leave. They’re happy with their life, madly in love, and have no memory of Sophia. Even if I try to tell them about her, remind them somehow, it would only hurt them. I have to deal with the fact that Sophia is probably not even alive, and telling my parents would only be torture—or at the very least, they’d think I’m crazy.

But it’s more than that.

There’s my parents’ upcoming termination date in three months—their fortieth birthdays. I need to bring them with me. I at least need to try convincing them to come. I can’t let them go in for termination believing they’ll live on together in the Dreamscape when I know everything is probably just an illusion. I’m not sure anymore where the truth begins or the lies end—if they do at all.

“I can’t leave my parents,” I whisper, fear gripping me.

Darian frowns and slumps back against the futon. “Jameson said it could only be the two of us. They don’t know us, and it’s a risk revealing their location as it is. That’s why we need proof of our solidarity. But showing up with too many people at once is against the rules.”

“But my parents only have three months to live if they stay here,” I say, my voice breaking. “Maybe we could eventually go back to get them. It’s a big risk, though, because what if, when they take the implant out, it messes with us, or The Awakened has rules about not leaving? Who knows? And when it comes to my parents’ lives, I don’t want to take that risk.”

Darian closes his eyes, sighs, and leans forward. He cups my head in his hands and presses his lips against my forehead. He keeps his mouth against my skin a moment as if he’s thinking.

He leans back and sets his jaw. “Then convince them to come and we’ll take them.” His eyes, the bluest shade of indigo, dance with determination.

My lips spread into a big smile. I know it’s a huge gamble bringing them without permission. We could all be turned away and never make it home again. But knowing Darian is willing to risk that for me makes my heart feel like it is growing and bursting, warmth tingles inside me. “Thank you!” I sink into him as he wraps his arms around me.

I know I can’t leave my parents with their termination dates looming so close and, if I’m going to go at all, bringing them along is a risk I have to take. Trying to convince them to come? That’s a daunting task I can’t even dwell on right now. I know the possibility is small, but I need to try.

And I want to find out about the Awakened for more reasons than just escaping the Dreamscape and my crazy binding. If there is any chance Sophia could still be alive, the Awakened are the ones who would probably have information on the Unwanted.

I need to find out what happened to my sister.

Darian stands and holds out his hand. “Come here.”

I slip my hand into his and we walk the couple of steps to the window. He opens the shutters, revealing the night sky. Thousands of stars glitter over the lake like sparkling diamonds.

Darian pats the window ledge and moves to the side for me to stand in front. Then he wraps his arms around my waist, resting the side of his face on my head. “Tomorrow I’m going to get that flash drive,” he says, setting his jaw. “Then we’ll leave in a day or two—as soon as Jameson gives me the information we need to find the closest cell. You need to talk to your parents…convince them somehow.”

I know that’ll be a lot easier said than done. Leaning my head back onto Darian’s shoulder, I look up into his eyes. “You’re not going to try and get that flash drive without me. I’m coming with you.”

He gives me a quick squeeze, and I feel his body move slightly as though he’s shaking his head. “No,” he says. “It’s too dangerous.”

I gaze back out the window. “Exactly. It’s too dangerous on your own. They’re looking for you. I have a better chance of getting it than you.” I don’t tell him that, since the official scanned me on the tram, I worry that it’s only a matter of time before they make the connection between us. I ignore the knot twisting in my stomach.

I can practically feel him roll his eyes behind me. “As if I’d send you to my old house where the officials could be waiting.”

“Well, you’re not going without me—”

“Fine,” he grumbles, cutting me off. “You win. But you can only come to keep watch. Then tomorrow night we’ll come back here to celebrate.” He leans in, bites my neck playfully, and nibbles on my earlobe. A wave of shyness runs through me and I feel my muscles tense. I’m not sure how he plans on celebrating, but I’m not ready for anything more than kissing.

Darian’s muscles suddenly tighten too, and I wonder if he’s noticed my unease. But then he stretches out his arm and runs a finger along my pre-binding bracelet. With a low growl, he spins me around toward him and lifts my left arm. “I can’t wait to rip that thing off your wrist.” His brows are pinched tight, his voice stony, as if he just remembered it was there and what it means. “You’re my girl, not Asher’s.”

I follow his gaze, wishing nothing more than to be able to tear it off, too. Then it hits me. “Oh no,” I say, spinning around and staring aimlessly back out the window into the inky night. “I have to go on another group date with Asher tomorrow night.” My stomach sinks, and I face Darian, not wanting to deal with his reaction. “Darian, if I don’t show up, they’ll definitely come looking for me, you know that. I have to go.”

Darian grumbles something indiscernible under his breath as he stalks over to the futon and grabs a Sprite. He downs the contents in one long gulp and, when he’s done, he crunches the can flat with one hand.

“I’m sorry. I promise I don’t want to.”

He inhales a deep breath, releases an exaggerated sigh, and then comes to stand beside me again. “It’s not your fault. I just can’t stand the thought of you anywhere near that guy. Just one more date, then we’re outta here.”

I press my back into his chest, and he folds his arms around me again. “I think you’re jealous,” I say with a laugh.

“Of that loser?” he scoffs. “Hardly. I just don’t like to share my girl.” He lifts my hair, sliding it over one shoulder, and kisses my neck softly. I smile, even though he can’t see my face, letting the words my girl linger in my mind and liking the sound of them.

“And I’m sorry I got mad. I understand you have to go tomorrow, but then after that…” He pauses. “If you want to, of course, you can take that bracelet off, and we’ll have three things to celebrate—getting the flash drive, your break up with Asher…and our ability to escape from the scumbag hands of The Protectorate.”

I realize Darian is probably worried I’m having second thoughts. “I do want to take it off, believe me,” I say, squeezing his hands. “But when are we going to get the flash drive?”

I figure Darian wants to go looking for it tomorrow night when it’s dark, but now that I have the date with Asher to go on…

“You up for an early morning outing?” he asks. “We can go before the sun comes up.”

I nod. “Sure. But do you think it’s still there?” The thought sends a deep fear rushing through me.

What if the flash drive isn’t there?

And if it isn’t, will Jameson agree to cough up the location of the nearest Awakened cell based on only an empty vial—an empty vial labeled with a drug they’ve never heard of?

Somehow, I don’t think so.

Darian straightens up behind me. “It has to still be there. And the good news is, it seems like the officials have moved on from staking out my old house. I’ve been watching them…hunting for me…like the wolves that they are. But still, we can’t take any chances.”

Darian makes his way to the other side of the room and pulls a flashlight from a box in the corner. “Come on,” he says. “We’d better get you home.” He turns it on and taps the light until it flickers to life.

As much as I hate to leave, I know he’s right. Even though the trams run later on the weekends, if I don’t leave soon, I’ll miss the last one.

We blow out the candles in the room one by one. Tiny, gray billows of smoke swirl through the air, the aroma of smoke and ash mingling with the scent of vanilla.

Then he takes my hand and leads me back through the woods, following the glow of the flashlight. The sounds of birds rustling in the trees and critters skittering through the brush seem enhanced in the dark.

Darian tells me about the plans for the morning as we walk—where to meet, signals to exchange if there’s a problem.

I hear every word he says. Although our plan terrifies me, the sound of his voice is comforting, so deep, strong, and familiar, that a sense of calm works its way through my fears.

Chapter Twenty-Two

When I’m almost home, all I can think about is getting at least four hours’ sleep before my early rise, and about what excuse I can give my parents. They’re working the night shift, and I’ll be leaving the house when it’s still dark and before they get home. I decide to leave a note before I take off. The last thing I need is for them to worry when they see my empty bed.

Just when I’m pulling my bike up the driveway, something shifts in the shadows beside me. I twist around and see Laken standing with her arms folded over her chest. “So, tell me, Desiree,” she asks. “What did we buy?”

Our shopping trip. My parents must’ve asked her about it… I only hope she didn’t tell on me.

“Laken…sorry, I—”

“Didn’t go shopping, I know,” she cuts in. “What’s going on with you, Rae? You hardly call me anymore and you were acting all weird about Asher the last time I saw you. And now I find out that you lied to your parents and said you were going shopping with me.” A thin line forms between her brows. “What’s up with you? It’s like you’re sick or something. You never lie to your parents.”

That was the old Desiree. The one that existed before I found out we live in a world of deceit.

I shake my head. “Nothing’s going on. I’m not sick, and I’m sorry I haven’t called lately. It’s just been hectic with my schedule and everything. How did it go with you and Rowen on your first date?” I ask, trying to change the topic.

She lowers her arms and smiles a little. “He’s as amazing as ever. I just wish we could be bound sooner, that’s all.” She shrugs and sighs as though she’s deciding whether she should still be mad at me. “Did your date go okay?”

I set my bike down on its kickstand and walk toward the garage. “Yeah, it was good. Asher was nice and everything.” I roll up the garage door, thinking it’s best to leave out all the stuff about Mallory…and about me fainting.

Laken is quiet, shifting from one foot to the other and looking everywhere except at me. I push my bike into the garage, step back out, and roll down the door. The rumbling sound breaks into our awkward silence. I hate it. I wish our friendship could be the way it was before Darian broke out of jail, before this binding stuff happened with Asher, and before I found out the truth about The Protectorate.

Turning back to face her, I rub my hands together. “How’s school?” I ask, in a desperate attempt to find an easy source of conversation.

“It’s all right,” she says, lifting one shoulder. “So…you gonna tell me where you really were tonight when you were supposed to be shopping with me?”

The question hangs there a moment, and I’m not sure what to say. I obviously can’t tell her I was with Darian, and if I tell her I went to the metro alone she’d never believe me anyway. The old Desiree would never do something that reckless.

I try to swallow back the lie burning in my throat, but it bubbles up anyway. “I just went for a bike ride, you know, to clear my head. I, ah, figured if I told my parents I was going alone at night they’d worry, you know. S—so I said I was going with you. Sorry, I didn’t think they’d call to check.” I look at my shoes, and then back at her. “Did you say—?”

“Don’t worry. I covered your butt,” she says, frowning, and I don’t know if she’s more angry or hurt. “I would have come with you, you know…if you bothered asking.”

Yeah, definitely more hurt.

“Sorry,” I say again, and I am. I wish I could tell her everything I know to be true, convince her somehow. I miss the close friendship we had, but I can never go back to the way it was and pretend that everything is okay.

Laken is bound to the guy of her dreams and was born a Seven, so it’s easy for her to be content with things the way they are. Still, she deserves to know the truth so she can make an informed decision.

But even if I tell her now, I doubt she’d believe me with so little proof, and Darian and I are already pushing it by bringing my parents. Laken is safe for now. Once I get more evidence and we find the closest cell of The Awakened, I’m coming back for her, for the Monroes, for Mr. Williams and his wife, and for Sage too.

“All right then. Well, I won’t keep you,” she says, sounding completely formal as she turns around to leave.

I reach my arm out as she pulls her bike from the shadows. “Hey.” I’m about to ask her if she wants to hang out next weekend, but then it dawns on me that as long as Jameson comes through, I won’t be here. That this is probably the last time I’ll see Laken for a while—until I come back for her—if I’m even able to come back at all. It hits me that this could be the last time I ever see her if things go badly.

The thought makes my throat burn and memories of Laken and me flood my mind. Baking cookies, swimming lessons, dreaming of being bound with someone amazing like a high standing official’s son, or a gorgeous athlete. Our marathon late-night conversations and learning how to whistle using our fingers until we both hyperventilated…

Everything.

“Yeah?” she asks, bringing me back to reality.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, because it’s the only thing I can think of and the only thing I can manage past the huge lump in my throat.

She shrugs. “Yeah, me too.” She hops on her bike and rides off into the night, leaving me with a burning hole in my stomach.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Before I know it, my Dreamscape shuts down. I force my eyes open, hardly feeling rested at all, and stretch my arms wide with a yawn. It’s early and still dark outside, but I quickly grab a bowl of cereal, careful to leave the box and used bowl out on the table as evidence of being home, and scribble a note for my parents.

I write that I’m going for an early morning bike ride. By the time they get home it’ll be light outside and they’ll most likely think they just missed me. I also write that I’ll be sure not to wake them when I get home, and that I have another group date with Asher tonight.

I still haven’t figured out exactly how to convince my parents to come with us. But if Darian and I get the proof we’re after, they’ll have to believe me.

The roads are quieter at this time of the day with fewer cars coming and going to the various Sky Tram Ports and, although it’s kind of creepy, I push on. My heart thumps, thinking of seeing Darian, and I’m worried about getting caught.

Just as I slide my bike into the bike rack at the Sky Tram Port, I hear someone shout my name.

Gasping, I twist around, wondering who could be here at this time, and see that it’s Asher.

What’s he doing here?

“Oh, hey,” I say, as he comes running up to me. “Why are you here?”

Asher laughs, his cheeks pink from the cool air. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

I look back at the tram, hoping for an answer as to why anyone who didn’t have to would ride it just after four a.m.

Twisting my hands behind my back, I dig my fingernails into my palms. “I went for a bike ride, and I got cold so I thought I’d take a ride. That way I can look at the pretty fall colors and keep warm at the same time,” I say lamely.

“You always were into colors and stuff, weren’t you?” he asks. “You still draw?”

I inwardly roll my eyes. Drawing is something like painting, but still. “I paint.”

He nods. “Right. Sorry. But, I’d love to see some of your work sometime.”

I can’t help my surprise. He sounds sincere, like he really is interested in seeing my art. Maybe I’ve been too hard on him. “Thanks, Asher.”

“I’m heading to The Empire.” He ticks his head toward the Sky Tram Port.

And it’s then that I notice his charcoal-gray wool coat, bearing the owl logo of The Protectorate, stitched into the spot above his heart, and remember he’s studying to become a head official.

“You have school on the weekend?” I ask, surprised.

“Not usually, but we have extra hours on the weekend because we’re…” He leans in and whispers in my ear. “We’re learning how to work the Terrorscape.”

I shiver involuntarily and immediately think of the time Darian, Coral, and Owen spent there. Swallowing hard, I grit my teeth, realizing that I wasn’t wrong. Asher was a bully and if he likes his job, then he must still be one. The Protectorate chose him to be a head official in the first place. They must’ve known from birth his true nature, and they really are right about a lot of things.

“You’re enjoying that then?” I say, forcing back the undercurrent of venom lacing my words.

Then something odd happens.

Asher looks at me with pain in his eyes. As if he doesn’t want me to notice, he turns his head away and coughs into his hand. When he looks back, he sighs and says, “Between you and me, I hate it. I know The Protectorate needs to punish our criminals, but I just wish there was some other way…it just seems—” He shrugs. “—harsh.” His eyes cloud over and he looks away. “Sounds dumb, right?”

I choke on my next breath. This Asher is not the Asher I knew from my childhood. I place my hand on his shoulder and say, “No, it doesn’t. Are you okay?”

He takes a deep breath and shakes his body in a quick, spastic motion like he’s trying to chase away bad thoughts. Looking back at me, he smiles. “I’ll be fine. I’m new at this so I guess it takes some getting used to.”

“Right,” I say, suddenly feeling bad for him. “I’m sure it does.”

My watch beeps and I remember the alarm I set this morning. If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late again meeting Darian.

And today is one day I can’t afford to be late. If the sun comes up, we’ll lose our chance to sneak into his backyard and find that flash drive.

“You have to be somewhere?” Asher asks, cocking a blond brow.

I shut off the annoying beeping on my watch and wrap my arms around my elbows. “It’s just a reminder not to be out too long,” I say. “My parents are working the night shift and I want to get home before they do.”

I’m not really sure if that’s possible, but it sounds good anyway. It’s eerie how I lie so easily now.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you tonight,” I say.

“Right!” Asher says, suddenly beaming. “I almost forgot.” He reaches his hand under his jacket and pulls out a piece of white paper folded in crisp lines. “I was going to give this to you then, but here you go.” He hands me the paper. “Mallory wrote this for you.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “Mallory? As in your Mallory?” I ask.

Asher shakes his head and frowns. “She’s not my Mallory…you’re my Desiree.”

My insides drop, guilt burning through me like acid when he says it. He really believes we’re meant to be, even though he obviously cares for someone else. I never wanted to be with Asher, but I never wanted to hurt him either…especially now that I’m beginning to see that he’s changed.

My stomach twists itself into knots as a strong sense of duty fills me. I glance into Asher’s bright eyes, meeting his expectant gaze. Maybe if I didn’t know the truth about The Protectorate, I could have made a life with him work. I’m not sure I could ever really love him or even like him the way I do Darian, but maybe it wouldn’t have been as bad as I first thought.

But knowing The Protectorate tricks us, that they give us medication to make us forget, and steal children from their families, makes me realize they could be doing a lot more that we aren’t aware of—including binding us with people, clueless whether they’re the right choice or not.

For all I know, our binding partners are created by some random draw. And I don’t want to live my life based on chance decisions made by somebody else. Or by a machine. This I know.

Besides, I’m pretty sure if Asher knew the truth about everything, he’d choose to be with Mallory. He’s just trying to do what he thinks is right and what he’s been brought up to believe. What we’ve all been brought up to believe. There’s something to be said for the old saying, “ignorance is bliss.”

Asher shakes the paper in the air, making a ruffling sound, returning my focus on him. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable on our dates,” he says. “Mallory told me what happened in the bathroom, and I’m really sorry.”

I give him a hesitant smile and quickly open the note. Darian is waiting for me, but I’m curious what Mallory could possibly have to say. I drop my gaze to the paper in my hands.

Dear Desiree,

Please accept my sincere apology for how I treated you the other night. I had no right to speak to you that way. All I can tell you is that I let my emotions take over and that I was wrong. Even though it kills me, Asher belongs with you. I know this and I know I have to accept it. Asher told me that you’re great and I hope that one day we can all be friends.

Sincerely,

Mallory Six Moore

I think my eyes nearly pop out of my head. I look from the note back to Asher. “You sure she wrote this?” I ask, wondering if he actually wrote it and just said she did. There’s no way the girl I met in the bathroom wrote this letter.

Asher laughs. “Yeah, she wrote it yesterday. She’s really amazing—” He stops and sighs, the softest of sounds.

“It’s fine,” I say, forcing a reassuring smile. “That was really nice of her.” I hand the note back to him. “But you better destroy it. If by some chance an official sees something like that, it could definitely cause you problems.”

He nods and his face flushes as though he’s embarrassed. And I realize what a huge risk it was for both of them to even write the note to try to make me feel better.

“Please thank Mallory for me for writing it, and thank you for showing it to me. I mean it.” I eye my watch. “But, Asher, I’m sorry but I’ve got to go.” I rush toward the Sky Tram Port, and he jogs alongside me.

“Yeah, I’ve gotta get to work,” he says. “But hey, it’s supposed to be unseasonably warm temperatures today, and our date tonight is an outdoor barbeque at the beach—did you hear?”

“No, but that sounds good,” I say, my mind shifting to thoughts of Darian—how I need to get to him, how much I miss him, and how much I wish the barbeque date was with him.

As we hurry toward our separate trams, I can’t help wondering what Asher will do when I disappear. Mallory is bound with another guy, so he can’t be bound with her. The thought makes me feel guilty, so I push it away, unable to deal with the ever-growing emotions swirling inside me.

Darian is waiting exactly where he said he’d be—one street over from his house, by the Post Depository. It’s still dark outside, and the neighborhood is asleep with only the low glow of streetlamps lighting up the road.

“Are you ever on time?” he says when I approach, out of breath.

“Sorry about that,” I say and leave it at that. Telling him that I ran into Asher might throw him into a bad mood, and right now we need to focus.

Darian pulls me into a hug and whispers in my ear. “You sure you want to do this? You know what will happen if they find us together, right?”

A shiver runs through me, but I pull back and nod. “Let’s just make sure they don’t find us,” I say firmly, sounding more confident than I feel.

Darian yanks out two black ski masks that have cut out slots for the eyes and a small hole for the nose and mouth. “Here,” he says. “In case they have video surveillance.”

My stomach drops to my knees at his words, but I take the hat. Before I can slip it on, Darian gives me a quick kiss. “Search and rescue,” he says with a grin.

I smirk. “Right.”

We walk down the street, keeping to the shadows, hugging the brush line so closely needles prickle through my jeans.

We round the corner and turn onto Avalon Road…Darian’s street. Just seeing the street sign makes my heart leap. I haven’t been here in a long time, and knowing officials could be lurking close by makes my blood pound in my ears. I can barely breathe under the stupid hat.

Another few yards and we’re close enough to Darian’s house that we can see the boarded-up windows. On one of the wood planks, a word is spray-painted in bloodred letters: Murderer.

I let out a small gasp, and Darian squeezes my hand. “Relax, sunshine. It’s only a house and a stupid word written by an idiot.”

“What a nasty thing to do,” I say, feeling a mixture of anger and disgust.

There are several cars parked along the side of the street, and Darian pulls me behind the tailgate of one of them.

He tugs out two tiny communicators from his pocket and clips one to the collar of my jacket. “Here’s how you’ll talk to me. It’s voice activated and very sensitive and will pick up the barest whisper.” His eyes gleam through the holes cut into his black ski mask. “So don’t worry, I’ll hear whatever you say. If you see anybody—and I mean anybody—you tell me, okay?”

Staking out the area while he gets the flash drive is probably the most helpful—and smartest—thing to do. But it doesn’t stop me from wishing I could go with him. I sigh, but don’t argue.

Darian jerks his head toward the treeline separating his old house from his neighbors. “I’m going to follow those trees. They’ll take me to the backyard and give me cover at the same time.”

A car zooms beside us, making me jump. Darian yanks me close against the back of the car we’re hiding behind, cursing under his breath.

He glances around the edge of the car. “It’s probably just that neighbor Steven Craig. He’s always coming and going at crazy hours. You’d swear he’s a vampire.” Darian looks back and laughs and I can tell he’s trying to keep it light, but his voice sounds more strained than normal.

He takes one last glance around, and then nods back at me. “The car’s gone. Time to go.”

I press the screen on the communicator and it powers up. “Please be careful,” I whisper, and I notice his eyes smiling at me from behind his mask.

“I will.” Darian squeezes my hand, then clips his communicator to his jacket, turns it on, and slips out from behind the car.

Running in a crouch, Darian hurries across the street. My eyes dart left to right, checking for anyone that could be lurking in the shadows, or peering from a window. My heart leaps against my ribs, and I try not to think about what could happen—how dangerous what we’re doing really is.

When Darian makes it to the treeline, he presses his body against a tree trunk, keeping tight to it until I can barely make him out anymore.

“Never thought I’d be breaking into my own property,” his voice whispers into the communicator. Then, “Anything?”

“Wait.” I scoot to the other side of the car and check the surroundings, then quickly move back. I shift my gaze and find Darian’s shadowy outline again. “You’re good to go.”

Darian moves along the treeline in the distance until I can’t see him anymore, but I can still hear his huffs and puffs from exertion through the communicator. After a couple of minutes, I whisper, “Everything all right?”

Please let this go okay. Please find the flash drive. Please, please, please.

“Yeah,” he pants. “I’m trying to find the right tree.”

He must move forward again, because I hear the rustling of bushes. “I hid it inside a hole in the trunk of a tree. One sec.”

A faint orange glow lights up in the distance. I avert my gaze and concentrate on the inky outline of a tall man moving along the sidewalk. His hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail. The glow moves to his mouth, then back down by his side.

Who comes out for a cigarette at this time of night?

He stops in front of Darian’s house, takes in another long drag, and flicks the cigarette away.

Then I notice him say something. Even though I can’t make out the words, there’s no question his mouth is moving. Which means, unless the guy’s crazy, he’s talking to someone on a communicator.

I pull my head back. “Darian,” I croak in a terrified whisper. “Some guy is out front. You need to get out of there now.”

Darian grunts. “Shit. It’s gotta be here.”

“Forget about it,” I hiss. “Just get out of there—Darian, he’s talking on a communicator to somebody else—somebody else that I can’t see. They could be right next to you.”

I peek back at the place where the man just stood, but he’s gone.

Fear clutches me like an icy fist.

“It’s stuck,” Darian snaps and, after another moment, he whispers, “Rae, move!” His voice is tight, edgy. “Go back to the Dungeon and wait for me there.”

I cross the street, dashing in the direction of Darian’s house, and slink down beside another car. I’m not leaving without him. I can’t. I edge up beside the car and crane my neck to peek through the driver’s side window. I stare across the sidewalk toward Darian’s house, my nails gripping the window ledge of the car.

Something moves, and my gaze shifts, catching sight of the guy again. Except now, there are two of them talking to one another.

Maybe if I distract the men somehow. I could throw a rock…do something…anything.

Ponytail Guy points in the direction of Darian’s back yard.

I bite my lip, nearly drawing blood, and lower my gaze. As I do, I notice a set of keys dangling from the car’s ignition.

The way I see it, I have two options. I can rush to the Dungeon and wait for Darian like he suggested—and pray he gets away. Or, I can look at the keys left in the car as an open invitation to do something to help.

When I glance back up, the men have separated. They each take one side of the house and head toward the backyard.

Trapping Darian.

I lift the door handle as quietly as I can and shimmy into the seat, gently pulling it shut. “They’re coming from both sides. There are two of them!”

More rustling.

My nerves are wired. I press my lips against the communicator. “Darian!” I say, my voice breaking.

Heavy breathing into the communicator.

I don’t know if he’s passed out, hurt…or what. Did they find him? Is Darian hiding, and that’s why he’s not saying anything? But I need to let him know my plan…that I’m coming for him.

“Listen to me,” I whisper in the smallest voice. “I’m in a blue car and I’m going to drive around to the street behind your house. Hop the fence and come out,” I say, panicked.

I turn the car’s ignition like I’ve seen my parents do so many times. I’ve never driven a car before, but I have to move. Do something. I shift the car into the drive position and grip my slick hands around the wheel. My foot shifts onto the accelerator and I press harder than I intend. The car jolts forward, causing the motor to whir.

Smackers, Desiree!

I twist the steering wheel sharply, barely missing the car a few feet in front of me, and stomp on the accelerator, racing up the street.

“Hello, Darian,” an unfamiliar, rough voice rasps through my communicator. The hairs on my arms rise.

They’ve found him.

My head spins, panic filling me. I reach the corner and yank the wheel as the sounds of fists meeting flesh and loud grunting rush at me through my communicator.

Another man’s voice crackles, “You’re going back to the Terrorscape, Sterling.” He laughs, followed by a sound I assume is another punch.

More groans, but not Darian’s. A flicker of hope ignites inside me.

Rustling, then panting, panting, panting.

“I’m coming,” Darian finally says into the communicator. I’ve never thought the sound of his voice could be so amazing.

Racing toward the back of his house, I realize the car’s headlights aren’t on. I glance down and fumble around for the switch and flip them on.

When I look back up, Darian stumbles forward at the end of the street. His hat is missing. Behind Darian, another tall figure drops over the fence. I realize it’s the same Ponytail Guy that stalked the shadows earlier. Darian elbows him in the face, then dashes in the direction of the street, toward my car. Ponytail quickly regains his composure and leaps toward Darian. His growling voice creeps eerily out of the communicator clipped to my jacket. “Darian,” the guy says far too calmly. “There’s nowhere to run, just give it up.”

At the top of the fence, the second guy’s head shoots out of the dark. I honk my horn and gun the accelerator.

Both men shift their attention to me right before Ponytail Official swings and punches Darian in the jaw. Darian staggers back.

“You’re going down this time, Darian,” he spits. “Vega will never let you escape again!”

“Fuck you, Richards!”

The glow of the headlights blurs their expressions, but I imagine Darian’s face is full of rage.

The ponytail guy that Darian called Richards yanks a gun from the holster hooked to his belt and a scream bursts from my throat.

“Watch out!”

Darian pummels Richards before he can use the weapon then, with one quick movement, sidesteps the retaliating blast from the gun aimed at his leg. Richards stumbles in front of my car and I come to a screeching halt.

Richards flips up over the hood, with a horrifying thump, thump, thump.

Darian yanks open the passenger side door and hops in, narrowly missing the second guy’s grasp. “Drive!”

I peel out and Darian smashes the car door outward, knocking the guy to the ground, and hauls it closed.

I stomp the pedal and Richards drops backward over the hood of the car and rolls several feet across the road.

My jaw gapes. I stare at his unmoving body in my rearview mirror. “Did I just kill that guy?”

“Keep your eyes on the road, Rae.”

I snap my gaze back to the road and squeal, swerving and narrowly missing yet another parked car.

“Damn it!” I rip off the stupid ski mask and flick it out the window.

“Where did you get your driver’s license by the way?” Darian asks, humor evident in his voice.

I roll my eyes. “Um, by the way, I didn’t. And don’t complain. I just saved your ass.”

He chuckles. “I’m not complaining, sunshine. You did good. And I doubt he’s dead,” Darian says, way more calmly than I feel. “But if he is, it’s not your fault. He ran into the car, not the other way around.”

I grip the wheel and breathe, trying to focus on the road and on not getting us killed. My gaze darts to Darian. “Are you all right?” I ask. “Did you get hurt?”

He smirks and slips a hand into his pocket. Retrieving a small plastic baggie, he then pulls a black flash drive from inside it. “I’m better than all right.” He gives a cocky grin. “I’m perfect.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

We decide to ditch the car a few blocks away from my house, knowing the officials must have its description and are probably already searching for it.

The sun will be rising soon and, if I hurry, I can make it home before my parents—which is better than I expected. Darian pulls me down an alley, behind an old warehouse. “Okay, so we need to come up with a plan. First of all, you should go home,” Darian says, as if reading my thoughts. “I’m going to make a copy of the information on this flash drive.” He holds up the small, black drive. It’s hard to believe something so little is worth so much.

With a smirk, he then shoves it deep into his jeans pocket. “And I’ll give the copy to Jameson. I can’t take any chances and lose the only bargaining chip we have.”

“You want me to come with you?” This meeting with Jameson is important and, although I know I need to get home, a part of me wants to see what will happen.

Darian leans against the gray brick building. “No, it’s okay. You go home and lay low for a while. You had on the ski mask, so they definitely didn’t recognize you. You’ll be safe.”

I twist a stray locket of hair around my finger, trying to look calmer than I feel. “I know, and I need to talk to my parents—try to convince them.”

“Yeah, you do, but you still don’t have any evidence yet other than the empty medicine vial, which I don’t think will be enough—”

“Wait,” I say, digging into my pocket and handing him the empty Falnesia vial. “Then take this and show it to Jameson along with the flash drive.”

Darian nods and slips the vial into his pocket. “Great. Now, you need to wait until we can show them the information on the flash drive. Then we can tell them about the Awakened.” He angles his body toward me. “Are you going to tell your parents about Sophia?”

I swallow. “Only as a last resort,” I whisper, imagining their shock if I drop that bomb. “I’m hoping that with your information along with my vial, it’ll be enough. I don’t want to upset them more than I have to.” I sigh. “Although, I probably should tell them eventually. They have a right to know.”

He tucks a ribbon of hair behind my ear. “Why don’t you go home and just relax for a bit while I take care of this.”

Relax? The only way I could relax is to shut out the world and go under the Dreamscape, where I’m guaranteed to sleep with amazing dreams. But knowing Darian could be caught while we’re apart makes that idea impossible. I don’t want to relax knowing he could be in danger.

“I’d rather come with you,” I say.

Darian shakes his head. “I can get this done faster without you, trust me.”

“Okay, but when can we leave?” I ask, anxious to find the Awakened. Truthfully, as nervous as I am about leaving and facing the unknown, I’m more terrified of staying and being caught, which at this point is inevitable. And now that I’ve turned into an all-out Noncompliant, my stress level has reached new heights.

“Hopefully, with this new information, Jameson will cough up the location of the nearest Awakened cell. But with a three-day hike and no Dreamscape miraculously dangling from the sky, we need to get some sleep before we leave.”

I open my mouth to protest, but then close it, realizing I have a date with Asher tonight. If I don’t show up, we won’t have much of a head start from any officials looking for Darian. And I know Darian is right.

I scrunch my shoulders to my ears. “Yeah, and I have a date with Asher later, remember?”

He laughs humorlessly, and narrows his eyes. “How could I forget?”

“Well, after tonight’s date, there isn’t another one scheduled for two days. So if we wait until tomorrow to leave, not only can we catch up on sleep, but we’ll have almost a two-day head start without anyone noticing me missing. If my parents agree to come, they’ll have to call in sick.”

Darian wraps a hand around mine that, until now, I didn’t realize was trembling. “That sounds right, and as long as Jameson comes through we can leave in the morning.”

With the little sleep I’ve had and the adrenaline crash I’m beginning to feel right now, my eyes feel heavy. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?” I offer anyway.

He gives me a sexy smile before pulling me into a hug. “No, sunshine, this is something I need to work out with Jameson myself.” He pauses, then, in a conspiratorial voice, says, “But, if you want to meet me at, say, one o’clock at the Dungeon before your last date with butthead, I’d love it.”

I pull back, smiling. “All right.” One more chance to hang out with Darian at Lake Briar is an easy decision.

“But hey, if things go well with Jameson,” he says, “you should call your parents and make up some excuse to get them to come home from work right after your date. They’re working the night shift, right?”

I nod, but I’m still thinking how he said, “if things go well.”

If things don’t go well, and Jameson is nothing but a big fat liar, I don’t know what we’ll do. And that thought terrifies me.

Darian squeezes my hand. “Rae, listen. Don’t worry about anything. Leaving tomorrow makes sense because not only do you need time to convince your parents, but they will also need some sleep before we leave.”

“Yeah, I know.” A thought suddenly comes to me. “Darian, you called that guy by name back there. You called him Richards.” I quirk a brow. “How do you know him?”

A muscle pops in his jaw and he looks away. After a moment he answers. “Because,” he says, his voice hoarse. “He’s the one who killed my parents.”

Letting out a shaky breath, I reach out and touch his arm.

His eyes suddenly take on a faraway look and he turns away. “I don’t want to talk about it, Rae.” He lets out a strangled laugh. “I do want to kill that guy, though. I hope you did kill him when you hit him with the car.”

If Darian knows Richards was the one to kill his parents, then that means he witnessed their murder. My chest constricts until I feel like it’s hard to breathe. “I-I’m so sorry, Darian,” I whisper, not knowing what to say or do. “I can’t imagine anyone having to watch something like that.”

Darian squares his shoulders and shakes his head, turning back to face me. “It’s done now and we just need to stick with the plan.”

Stepping forward, I push his unzipped jacket open and lean the side of my face on the soft fabric pulled tight across his firm chest. I wrap my arms around his waist, holding him tightly, and press my fingers into his back.

A wave of sadness rushes through me—for Darian’s loss, for what he’s had to go through, and for the sister I’ve lost, too.

I cling to him a moment longer, worried he’ll be caught while he’s gone. Or that Jameson has been lying about everything, and there are no Awakened. That it’s just a myth, and we’ll be forced to live in denial under the ever-present control of the Dreamscape.

Then, it’ll be just one more loss we’ll both have to endure.

I make it home before my parents, and barely manage to wash the dishes I’d left out and make them breakfast before they come in the door.

“Oh, you’re up early,” Mom says with a smile when she sees me.

Filled with relief, I rush over and throw my arms around her. I’m happy I made it home safe and to see Mom’s smiling face. “Hi, Mom,” I say. “I’ve really missed you.” And it’s true. With them working the night shift lately, and all that’s been going on, it feels like a lifetime since the normal days before Darian’s escape and my pre-binding ceremony.

Dad clears his throat. “What about me, sweet face?” he asks, grinning.

I laugh and hug him too. “You, too, Dad.”

“What’s that smell?” he asks.

I fan my hand through the air, ushering them into the kitchen. “I made you bacon and eggs!”

Mom slips out of her shoes and follows me across the room to the kitchen. “What’s this about?” She grins at me as I take a sip of orange juice. “Are you in trouble or hiding something?” She cocks a brow.

I nearly spit out my O.J. and place it down, pounding my chest. When I can finally breathe normally again, I ask, “Can’t a girl do something nice for her parents?”

Dad snatches a piece of bacon and chomps it down. “Absolutely,” he mumbles.

I take in a big breath. “But now that you mention it,” I say slowly. “There is one thing.”

Mom holds up a finger. “I knew there was a catch!” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, laughing.

I take a seat at the table beside my dad as Mom rummages around in the fridge. “No, seriously,” I say. “It’s nothing much…just if I need to talk to you, I’m asking that you’ll keep an open mind…”

Mom twists around and closes the fridge door, her face growing serious. “What’s this about, Desiree?”

Great. “Nothing, Mom.”

Nothing yet anyway.

“But see? You always get so serious when I want to talk.” I shake my head. “But anyway, it’s nothing right now. Never mind.”

Dad frowns at Mom, then reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Sorry you’ve been by yourself so much lately. I know when we work the night shift it must get lonely for you. And if you ever need to talk, we’ll make time, you know that. We love you, sweet face.”

He lifts his head and raises his eyebrows at Mom. “Right, dear?”

She sighs. “Of course we love her.” She looks away from Dad, and casts soft eyes on me. “You, Desiree. We love you. I just worry about you and your happiness.”

She stands behind me and pulls my hair back off my shoulders before leaning over and kissing my cheek. “I’m off to bed, but whenever you need to talk, you let us know, okay? Whatever it is, we’ll work it out. There isn’t any problem that doesn’t have a solution.”

I’m not sure she’s going to think that when I drop the bomb about The Protectorate on her, but I make a mental note to remind her of her own words when the time comes.

After my parents are asleep, I quickly shower and throw on a pair of turquoise jeans and a yellow top before heading out to meet Darian. Asher was right. Today is unseasonably warm and actually feels like a spring day.

I rush all the way to the Sky Tram Port, my legs pounding the pedals. My mind races, wondering if Darian got the information we need and thinking about how strange it is that I miss him already. Just thinking about Darian makes me feel warm inside…even his cocky attitude has grown on me.

For the first time ever, I make it somewhere before Darian. I lean against the tree where he normally waits for me, and every horrible thought imaginable races through my head. Has he been caught? What if Jameson was lying and there are no Awakened, and I’m forced to marry Asher and pretend everything is okay?

I slump to the ground and lean against the tree, counting every colorful leaf on the forest floor I can see—anything to occupy myself. The sun beams through the trees and even though I’m shaded, I’m still hot—partly from the bike ride to the Sky Tram Port, partly because of the warm temperature, but mostly because my adrenaline is pumping madly. I run my fingers back through my hair, and my heart rate ratchets to new levels.

Finally, I can’t take it, and I race to the lake on the chance that Darian headed down there without me.

No Darian.

I check the tree house and still come up empty-handed.

Frustrated and starting to panic, I rush back up the hill, deciding that if Darian isn’t here in another fifteen minutes, I’m going to the Shimmering Mist, finding this guy Jameson, and asking questions.

When I reach the top of the hill again, Darian is casually leaning against the tree. I let out a strangled sigh of relief.

“You’re late,” he says, giving me one of his incredible, crooked smiles.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I say and lunge at him, giving him a light punch in the arm. “I’ve been here a while.”

He tugs me into him, playfully nibbling my neck. “You’re looking colorful today,” he says softly.

“I’ve always liked lots of color.”

“Mmhmm, you have.” He drags his teeth lightly against my earlobe. “And I think you owe me again,” he says seductively.

I pull back, eyes wide. “Did you get the information?”

He runs his fingers back through my hair, grins, then pulls me back against him. “I always deliver, babes. Of course I did.”

I laugh. “You’re in a good mood, dragon,” I say. “Tell me what happened.”

“We’re outta here tomorrow,” he says, slipping his hand into mine and leading me down the hill toward the lake. “Jameson was blown away by the information I had on the flash drive. And not only did he give me the location of the nearest Awakened cell, but they want me to work with them—you know—use my amazing hacking skills to help bring The Protectorate down.” He grins. “They’re going to set me up with the equipment I need and I’ll be part of the plan to make this happen…and, of course, you and your parents are coming with me.” His lips spread into a wide smile.

Darian is so excited…and so badass…I can’t help but smile, too. He gazes at the lake that’s glistening under the warm sunlight. A grin slides across his lips, and then he tugs his shirt over his head. Shucking off his jeans, he tosses them aside, too.

“Swim?” he asks, eyes flaring in a dare.

I stare at him, trying not to gape. He’s a mass of solid muscle from head to toe, and his boxer briefs leave very little to my imagination.

I’m about to turn around, but then decide against it at the last second. He’s just too much eye candy to ignore.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks, giving me a steady gaze.

“Are you crazy? Even though it’s warm today, that water will still be freezing!”

He tips his head back and laughs, deep and throaty. “Chicken.”

It’s the same word, the same tone, he used on me as kids.

I snort and, even though my cheeks are blushing red, I strip down to my bra and panties.

Darian pauses and I can feel his eyes raking over my body. My cheeks feel like they’re about to spontaneously combust. Nobody except my mom has ever seen me in my underwear.

Unable to take the scrutiny another second, I dash into the water. Not only will it make me look not chicken, but it will also give me some cover.

He rushes in behind me and I squeal from the bitter cold water that shocks my system.

Before I get too far he grabs me from behind, wraps his arms around my waist, and spins me around to face him.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he says, lifting me up into his arms as though I’m made of air. I wrap my legs around his waist, realizing the way I’ve felt so gangly all of my life doesn’t seem to exist around him. He’s so tall, muscular, and strong that I actually feel small in his arms.

“Kiss me,” he whispers, and I do without another word.

His mouth is on mine, until I feel like I can’t breathe. He holds me up easily with one arm and, with the other, he traces small circles on my back and lightly tugs the ends of my hair. A low growl works its way from the back of his throat, and I run my fingers across his buzzed hair, and deepen our kiss.

He moves forward through the water until he’s chest deep, the water lapping in little ripples around his shoulders. I shiver from the thrill of his kiss, and from the cold water touching bare skin.

A flock of birds suddenly darts into the sky, their calls and fluttering of wings pulling us out of the kiss.

I jump, a tiny little movement, but at first I’m still too dazed from Darian’s luscious lips to pay attention.

It’s the crackling and popping sounds that finally bring me back to reality.

When I look up, billows of smoke, ash, and fire fill the sky—worse, it’s coming from the direction of the tree house.

“Dammit!” yells Darian, putting me back down on my feet.

Fear springs inside of me so quickly that I get dizzy.

Before we can move, several men rush from out of the trees into the clearing.

Right in front of the lake.

One man has long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. I instantly recognize him as Richards…the man who murdered Darian’s parents. He limps forward, then picks up my jeans and dangles them in the air from one of the belt loops. “Get out,” he snaps. “Now.”

Several more men wearing the charcoal-gray uniform of The Protectorate approach and flank him. A sinking feeling washes over me, intensifying when I notice that slung beneath one of the official’s arm is my painting of the colony of bats spewing out from The Protectorate’s Empire.

And just when I think it can’t get any worse, I recognize one of the officials’ scowling faces.

Asher.

Chapter Twenty-Five

A sense of dread washes over me. My stomach clenches as though I’ve been kicked, nearly doubling me over. Everything is a spinning distortion of color—blinding dizziness. I never imagined myself trapped in such a horrible situation, yet here I am caught with a convicted murderer—in my underwear—with my binding mate glaring at me like I’m some sort of tramp.

“Desiree, I need you to listen to me,” Darian whispers, drawing my attention away from Asher’s cold stare. “When I get out of the water, there will be a fight. I need you to promise me that you’ll run—and that you won’t look back.”

He doesn’t need to tell me there’ll be a fight. There are five men standing by the lake, including Asher. And even though Darian is about 6’3” and packing tons of muscle, I know he isn’t a match for five men.

“Get out now!” Richards yells again, before nodding to one of the men beside him. The guy steps into the water.

“Darian,” I whisper, voice breaking, “I don’t want to leave you.”

He grips my shoulders and shakes me slightly. “This isn’t a question, Rae. I’m telling you to leave. I want you to go to the Shimmering Mist, find Jameson, and tell him what happened. Then go to the Awakened cell.”

“I-I can’t just leave you. I won’t.”

“Yes. You. Will,” he bites out each word, and I wince. His expression softens. “Do it for me,” he says, and gives me a tiny smile. “You get there, and I’ll find a way to break out somehow like I did before. I promise I’ll find you.”

My eyes grow wide at the thought of leaving him to face these men while I run off half-naked and alone. It also hits me that there’s a very real possibility they won’t bring him back to the Terrorscape at all. Maybe they’ll kill him. As fast as the thought comes to me, I shove it aside, not allowing the fear to grip me anymore. My gaze falls on his beautiful features, his jaw now locked, as he waits for my response. I realize he won’t take no for an answer. It’s pointless to try. I slide my fingers along the scar running down his neck, swallow back the lump in my throat, and nod. I have to hope he’ll get away, make it back to me somehow.

The moment I do, Darian rushes through the water with a loud growl, unnatural and frightening.

The guy who took a couple of steps into the lake stumbles back, looking surprised.

Darian quickly makes it to the shore, grabs a rock, and smashes it against the guy’s jaw. Tugging the guy in front of him, Darian then holds him in a firm headlock. “Don’t move or his brains will get an early morning bath,” Darian shouts to the other men.

Richards holds his hands up defensively. Taking advantage of their moment of distraction, I sink low in the lake and move forward, veering off toward the left, and away from them.

Asher’s gaze meets mine. He begins moving toward me, lips tight.

“I’ll kill him!” Darian yells, and Asher snaps his head toward Darian.

“You need to calm down,” Richards says, limping forward a step.

I obviously hurt him when the car hit him, but right about now—like Darian—I wish I’d killed him.

“Calm down?” Darian snaps. “You killed my parents and framed me, you coward. You ruined my life!”

“You’re a One,” Richards taunts with a laugh. “You don’t have much of a life left anyway.”

I make it to the edge of the lake several feet away from them and step out as quietly as I can. I shiver from a mixture of fear and the cold air brushing against my wet, bare skin.

Flames lick the sky in the distance. Scorching, popping beams of reds and oranges suck away our tree house—our memories—and I realize that they, The Protectorate, steal everything. Even the simplest, most innocent things like a tree house in the woods can be ripped away, because they want to fill us only with their dreams.

“You and your parents were sticking your noses where they didn’t belong,” Richards’s rough voice breaks in. “You have no right—”

“You have no right!” Darian shouts, cutting him off, his face growing red. “The Dreamscape is just a way to brainwash everybody into believing the verbal diarrhea you Protectorate spew. It’s not meant to help us sleep better,” he scoffs. “It gives subliminal messages, Richards, and you know it. Except that shit doesn’t work on me. And you know that, too. And that’s why I’m used as the poster boy of Noncompliance—to scare the hell out of anyone who dares to stand up against you.”

Richards lunges toward Darian as I reach the tree line and, from what I can see, so do the other men. Darian throws a punch, hitting Richards in the face.

Then I’m running, not looking back, remembering my promise to go to the Shimmering Mist, find Jameson, and get to the Awakened.

Tears stream down my face as I dash through the woods, torn between escaping and leaving Darian to fend for himself. Branches scratch my bare skin, and loose stones and debris scrape at the soles of my feet.

More yelling erupts from behind me, but I can’t quite make out the words.

Then, a loud, painful shriek.

Instinctively, I know it’s Darian.

I freeze. My blood turns to ice and everything in me wants to turn back.

Suddenly, there’s rustling in the bushes behind me, growing louder, closer. The cracking of a twig sends me running again, fueled by fear. Running so fast that leaves, branches, and twigs become a blur, until I barely feel the ground beneath my feet, and I’m panting for breath.

There’s movement closer behind me now—so close I know somebody is gaining on me—somebody stronger, faster.

Hunting me.

I twist around and catch a glimpse of the sole of a boot just before it’s thrust into my back.

Shooting pain like fire lances up my spine as I’m flung forward and fall, my face hitting the dirt.

Gritting my teeth, I scramble to my knees and force myself to move through the pain.

Another blow of a booted foot knocks me down again. Someone presses his knee into the base of my spine, yanks my arms behind my back, and handcuffs my wrists.

I angle my head so that my face is turned up as I hear more shuffling in the woods behind me. Whoever hunted me down holds me there silently, ignoring my pleas for release. It’s at least ten minutes before Richards limps forward.

“I’ll take it from here, Jake,” he tells the man who handcuffed me. “Go back and help the others with Darian.”

When Jake leaves, Richards kneels and presses one knee into my lower back. “Your friend Laken said you’ve not been yourself lately—that you’ve been confused and need help,” he taunts.

I gasp as the realization of what Laken did hits me like razor blades. Richards stares at me with deep-set green eyes, his long, dark ponytail dangling around one side of his shoulder.

“And it seems, Miss Haven, that you were recently scanned on the very tram where an escaped convict got away.”

He stands, using my body as leverage, and the painful pressure makes me grunt. I try to stand up somehow and face my attacker, but he plants a foot on my back, rendering me helpless.

“At that incident on the tram,” he continues, “you behaved suspiciously. Then last night, oh so coincidentally, some unknown person helped the murderer—Darian—escape yet again.”

“Darian’s not a murderer!” I snap.

He lifts his foot off my back and kicks my side. Hard. The sound of what I assume is a rib cracking is muted by my screams.

“She thinks,” he continues in a calm voice, “that maybe you’re stressed out and need a doctor.” He laughs. “I, on the other hand, think you need to find out what a run in the Terrorscape feels like.” He presses a foot between my shoulder blades. “You Noncompliant bitch.”

With a grunt, he then prods my ankle with something cold and hard. He runs the object up the soles of my feet and my bare legs. Then, with a guttural laugh, he twists it, grinding it into the back of my hamstring.

I scream again, squirming, feeling humiliated and angry. Then slowly he slithers the object up my back and across my cheek.

I kick back hard, landing my foot against his knee. My broken rib sends a shock of piercing pain through me. “Get away from me!”

Grunting through gritted teeth, he presses the hard object into my back. “Hold on tight,” he says.

A zapping, sizzling sound erupts from the rod in his hand.

My body explodes in a wave of surging agony—a burning hot pain radiates straight through me like an electrical current.

Somewhere inside, I’m aware that I’m convulsing. And it hits me as I begin to lose consciousness that the cold object he’s pressing into my back is a powerful Taser rod.

And that if he doesn’t stop soon…I’ll die.

Chapter Twenty-Six

My head lolls to the side and, with a start, I open my eyes to a large, darkened room. It’s so huge that I don’t see where it begins and stops—an endless, empty, silent room.

I have no idea where I am.

I must have died and this is my punishment for Noncompliance—an infinite, ever after of nothingness. I shift and a sharp pain pierces across my left side, reminding me of what I suspect is a broken rib. I’m still alive.

I try to touch the wound, but I can’t move my hands. I notice with a sickening awareness that my arms and ankles are strapped down to the stretcher. The feel of fabric against my skin is partly comforting, telling me I at least have clothes on again, but then I’m left to wonder who dressed me. My eyes snap to the ceiling straight above me and I zone in on a video camera. A cold sweat slicks my skin—I know exactly where I am.

The Terrorscape.

I can’t help it. I scream. I realize the clothes I’m wearing are the Olympus Jail greens. Years of watching people being punished in the Terrorscape have left me terrified of it.

Somebody moans to my left. At first I don’t see anything in the dim light, but then I make out a shadowy figure strapped to another stretcher a few feet away.

“Rae?” Darian whispers, sending shivers through me.

“Are you okay?” My voice comes out hoarse.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice sounding as if he’s just woken up. The clanging of metal meeting metal rings out as he struggles to break free, then silence again. I hear him take a long breath and exhale. “Are you? Did they hurt you?” he growls.

“I’ve been better, but I’m alive.” I decide not to tell him about my rib, knowing it will only make him angrier than he already is. “But I’m really scared, Darian. We have to get out of here.”

“Rae, I need you to listen,” he says in an urgent voice. “There won’t be much time and there’s a lot to explain.”

I want to reach out and touch him, but he’s too far away. “Okay…”

“When the Terrorscape starts up, I need you to be prepared. It—it’s not what you think exactly.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, and push aside the fear creeping in.

“The first five minutes or so will be a horrible nightmare. That’s the part that is televised. Remember when we were kids and we talked about what we thought a nightmare would be like?”

I nod, even though I know he can’t see me.

“Well, this is worse. I’m not saying this to try to scare you, but you need to be ready for it. You’ve never had a nightmare and these manufactured ones are brutal.”

I pinch my eyes shut in disbelief. My life flashes before me. It seems surreal that I ended up here…that what I thought was a perfect little life not that long ago has led to this.

“They can’t kill you though…not the nightmares anyway.” I think I hear Darian swallow. “But that’s not the worst of it.” Darian makes a noise that sounds like a growl. “And all of this is my fault. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say, my voice breaking. I dig my nails into my palms and will myself to be strong. I swallow and continue. “But what do you mean it’s not the worst of it? What happens?”

Coral’s voice suddenly rings in my ears. It’s a living, breathing nightmare in there. She also told me that if I ever ended up in the Terrorscape that I needed to run. A shiver runs through me.

Darian stirs beside me on his stretcher and again the sound of metal clangs out as his cuffs pull against the side rails. He mutters a curse under his breath. “After the first five minutes of the nightmare sequence, the real nightmare begins. That’s when we’ll be released from the stretcher and the Terrorscape becomes interactive.”

“Interactive?” I choke out, horror ripping through my chest like claws.

“It’s hard to explain, Rae. Everything in here is holographic images. But the thing is, it’s sort of real.”

“What? You’re not making any sense. You know that, right?” I strain to see him in the dark, to read his features, but I can’t quite make them out.

He sighs. “Sunshine, listen. The sensor The Protectorate inserted underneath our skin? Well, because it links to our nervous systems…the officials who control the Terrorscape can make you feel like the pain of an attack is totally real—every single cell in your body will tell you it’s real. So even though what you see will be a holographic image, not only will it look, sound, and smell real, it’ll feel very real, too because they’ll make it that way.”

Oh, God.

“From what I noticed there are about eleven different themes they’ve created to use in the Terrorscape that have unique holographic sequences. And believe me; I tried resisting over the time I spent here. One time, I refused to fight. I sat there and didn’t move.” He pauses. “You asked about my scar? Well that’s how I got it.”

“Wait. How?”

“There was something that…although I could plainly see its inhuman features right in front of my face, I knew it wasn’t real and so I refused to fight or run.”

My heart rate spikes. “Inhuman?”

“Yes. Look, if I could take all of this away, you know that I would.” He pauses, coughs, and clears his throat. “The thing is? The officials will be watching you the whole time once the Terrorscape sequence begins. And if you don’t fight back, run, or react somehow to the images that are in play in this amphitheatre, then whatever you see will come for you and attack you. And, trust me, the pain it would have inflicted if it were real, will be matched by what the officials will produce by using our sensors. So everything lurking in here? It’s the same as if it were a living, breathing entity.”

I choke back a gasp. “What? This is crazy!” I shake my head. “And I don’t understand. I get that the officials can make us feel the pain of an attack, but it doesn’t explain how you got that scar.”

“That’s the thing—for example, if something in here bites you, it will feel completely real, but they won’t leave a mark on your skin, because they aren’t technically real. But those bastard officials…” He trails off and I hear the sneer in his voice “…they’ll make sure to inflict pain on you for days by messing with your implant. The implants will send false messages to your brain that make you feel the injury.”

I shake my head. “I get that part, Darian!” I say, tugging up on the restraints as my pulse kicks up. “But again, if they don’t leave a mark on your skin, then how did you end up with that stupid scar?”

Darian pauses a second, as if considering how to tell me, which only adds to my panic. Finally, he says, “When I refused to play along in the Terrorscape amphitheatre one time, they sent in a few fighter bots. At the time, I thought they were holographic images, too. I was wrong. When one of them slashed me, I passed out and the next day I ended up in the hospital. It was an obvious warning to play their game or they’ll get revenge.” He pauses, his voice weary. “That cut left me in the hospital for two days. It cut an artery…almost killed me, and—”

A squealing of a microphone interrupts our conversation, blaring out from all around us.

“Welcome to Olympus Jail,” a man’s voice booms.

I recognize the voice right away as Prime Minister Vega’s. “I’m glad to hear, Darian, that you’re teaching your little girlfriend here how to behave. We don’t want to feel compelled to inflict any lasting scars on her pretty face, now do we? Because, after all, we—The Protectorate—are here to keep you safe.”

He laughs, making my stomach roil before his tone turns more serious. “It’s a shame, really. We did want to be that safe haven for all of our citizens, including the both of you. But you two are trying to complicate things. We can’t allow insubordination to go unpunished. We won’t. Your behavior will only lead to more Noncompliance from others, and that just can’t happen. I won’t allow our society to fall apart because of the disobedience of a few who want to try to cast us in a dark light. Speaking of light…”

Bright lights illuminate the room until I’m almost blinded. They’re so bright, and with my adrenaline pumping, my body feels like the sun itself is all around us, burning us with its intensity.

I squint and tug on the cuffs tying my arms down. “We need to get out of here,” I whisper.

“Don’t panic, Desiree. I’ll find a way, I will, but I need you to stay strong and fight back,” Darian says, his voice taut with frustration. “As long as you give them what they want, you’ll be okay.”

“Good boy, Darian,” Vega’s mocking voice cuts in. “I’m going to sit back and enjoy the show. But first, I wanted to say hello and see for myself that the murderers are secure.”

The fact that Vega said murderers instead of murderer makes me cringe, and I wonder if The Protectorate is going to accuse me of being an accomplice in Darian’s parents’ murder. That way they can make me stay in jail permanently and not just for the typical week. I quickly push that thought aside, afraid that if I dwell on that very real possibility, I won’t make it past day one.

“I refuse to allow the people of Tower to suffer by falling into chaos once again. It causes such pain…” His voice trails off as if he’s lost in thought. “Both my parents grew up under horrible conditions during the Manic Age. They suffered immensely and, because of that I believe, became cold—my mother especially. No one she met was left unscathed by the anger trapped inside her from her hardships—no one.” And by no one I assume he especially means himself. I wonder what he means exactly and if his mother abused him physically or if she simply ignored him. Cold, the way he described. I don’t have time to think for long. Vega takes in a sharp breath as though catching himself from spilling too much, more than he intended. After a moment he clears his throat and begins again. “The port screens will buzz momentarily with the capture of Tower’s most wanted convict and his outlaw, Noncompliant lover.” Amusement quickly replaces the sorrow that filled Vega’s voice and a hot flush works its way through my veins. Knowing my parents are about to witness me strapped to this stretcher causes my lungs to seize and my throat to burn. “I suggest you keep quiet while you’re making your debut. If not, as always, there will be a price.”

I grit my teeth. Of course Vega doesn’t want us to say anything that might tarnish The Protectorate’s image. They just expect us to sit back and take it—admit guilt of whatever they accuse.

I take in a deep breath and close my eyes. Tears well up behind my lids as I try to keep them from tumbling down my cheeks. I remind myself that Darian made it through years of the Terrorscape and Coral and Owen made it home safely, too.

If they did it, so can you.

The music of The Protectorate sounds out, and the famous newscaster’s voice—Davis Tate—the man that turned Ellery Walsh in for hiding her baby, soon follows.

“Good evening, citizens of Tower. We have good news on this fine fall evening,” he says in a chipper voice. “The Protectorate has captured Darian One Sterling—the most wanted criminal and murderer in all of Tower.” There’s a pause and my throat tightens as I imagine my parents watching me from the sofa at home, and how panicked they must feel.

Then I decide to do something crazy. I look to the camera and smile.

In all the years that I’ve watched people punished in the Terrorscape, nobody has ever smiled. I do it hoping it will comfort my parents even just a little—to let them know I’m okay—even when I’m not convinced of that myself.

Davis continues and I drop my smile into a neutral expression. “Unfortunately…” he drawls out, “Darian acquired help in eluding authorities with childhood friend and newly convicted Noncompliant, Desiree Six Haven.” Another pause. “Let’s hope that lessons will be learned by all in these unfortunate events. This is Davis Tate. Good night, Tower.”

Within seconds, the familiar humming of what I’ve always known to be the Dreamscape purrs—the sound that has always comforted me and lulled me to sleep. But tonight, even though its effects begin to force me to doze off, I feel anything but comforted.

“You’ll be okay,” Darian whispers.

I turn my head and meet his gaze. His beautiful features are lit up by the bright lights in the room. His eyes soften and he blows me a quick kiss before turning his face upward toward the camera. He tips his head back and laughs—actually laughs. And I realize it’s Darian’s way of letting The Protectorate know that they might have captured him, but they can never really own him.

I ball my hands up and squeeze, the fear of the unknown threatening to swallow me. Against my will, my body soon relaxes and although I try to fight it, the implant inserted under my skin syncs with the pull of the Syncro-Drifter. It’s then I notice that I don’t see a Syncro-Drifter. But before I can figure out how The Terrorscape is working, I feel the pull of slumber tugging me under like a benevolent friend.

Something rough touches me.

Whatever it is hisses and shifts by my feet. My eyes dart open. I’m still strapped to the stretcher. Oddly, the ceiling alternates between shimmering, brilliant colors one second and its original form the next. I blink my eyes, fear gripping me like a fist.

Something tentacle-like moves slowly inside the leg of my pants…slithering and sliding. Its cool surface ripples and undulates. I wiggle my foot with a yelp, but I can’t kick it away because of the restraints.

Loud hissing fills the room. I snap my head toward Darian and notice his eyes are as wide as mine must be. I don’t know what he’s seeing and if there’s something crawling on him, too.

The unknown creature bolts upward with lightning speed. It stretches the elastic band at the waist of my pants and shoots out, its head pitching toward me with a hiss.

The serpent’s fangs ooze with venomous saliva. The scales on one side of its neck ripple, and I slam the back of my head against the stretcher, desperate for escape. But then the snake’s head flops to the side, as if it’s about to break off. Its crusty skin bulges where moments before it rippled. I gasp as its scales burst open at the side of its neck.

I stare at the repulsive creature, feeling like everything good in me is draining out of my body, replaced with only fear. I’m as fragile as a bird in a cage, held hostage to the evil pressing in all around.

I gawk as a second cobra head sprouts out from the side of the serpent’s neck. Both creatures stare at me with dark, swamp-green eyes. I shake my head, my body trembling, fear coiled around me so tightly I can barely breathe.

It’s not real. I try to remind myself of Darian’s words, unable to connect those thoughts with the very real creatures in front of my face.

The snake’s heads sway as if assessing me, and they hiss their forked tongues toward me, trying to taste me.

Then, in unison, they lunge their sharp fangs toward me, one snake’s head at either side of my neck.

A blood-curdling scream rips from my throat as their teeth sink into my skin. A burning pain tears through me, stinging, and halting my breath. From deep inside, horror explodes, taking away any remaining childhood innocence.

A loud sound cracks into the room like a roar of a jet engine.

Then silence.

The cobras shift to mist and disappear. A subtle click, and my handcuffs snap open, releasing the firm pressure on my wrists.

And somewhere in the back of my head, one word resonates.

Run.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I bolt up, ramrod straight. A yelp springs from my mouth and I don’t know if the pain from my ribs or my neck is worse. The snakes are thankfully gone. I press my palms against the sides of my neck where the piercing pain of both bites pulsates. The lights blink on and off like they’re strobe lights, and when I pull my hands away, droplets of blood stain my fingers. My hands tremble, and I wonder how I’m even still alive. It can’t be real—if the bites were real, then the poison would’ve killed me.

Calm down.

Darian.

I jump off the stretcher, but freeze when I feel blades of grass beneath my bare feet. I glance down in shock, watching as the ground changes from grass back to the steel floor in blinking waves.

I hear a mechanical noise behind me and I whip around. The floor opens up and the stretcher sinks beneath it, and then closes again. I blink my eyes at the spot, now filled with the flashing forest floor. The air feels humid, and the heat causes my shirt to stick to my back and sweat to bead on my forehead.

“Look at me,” Darian says, and I twist around and find him standing right in front of me. A shooting pain rips through my side and I wince. I lift the hem of my shirt and notice that my rib cage has been wrapped in white gauze.

Darian takes my hand and squeezes it twice. “Whoever did that to you is gonna suffer, trust me,” he says through gritted teeth. Somehow, I don’t doubt that if given the opportunity, Darian wouldn’t hesitate to get payback.

“I’m bleeding,” I say, and show him the blood on my hands.

“What happened?”

I cringe. “Snakes bit my neck.”

Darian leans in, cups my chin with his hand, and tilts my face gently from side to side. “I see the blood, but there weren’t really snakes. But listen,” he says, softening his tone, “this is good—we’re together. I’ve never been in the Terrorscape with anyone else before. This must be added punishment for me…to watch you suffer in any way is unbearable.” He growls. “But at least I can help protect you.”

“I’m glad we’re together, too. But why is everything blinking on and off?”

“This is the part of the Terrorscape that I was telling you about. The program is setting up for the interactive phase. But don’t worry about that. Just stay with me, okay?”

I nod, a sense of shock working through me as my eyes survey the flashing landscape. The chirp of a cricket draws my attention to the right and I move in its direction, curious. A large willow tree forms in front of me and I stumble back a step.

I reach out my hand in awe to touch its flowing branches. At first my fingers slide through the leaf as though it’s made of air—still blinking on and off like a light switch.

Darian moves in behind me and I sag back against him. The tree finally stops blinking and stays fully formed. I pluck a leaf from one of its branches, rub it between my fingers, listen to the sounds of birds twittering in my ears, and inhale the scent of pine that surrounds us.

“You’re sure all of this isn’t real?” I ask, gazing at the now dense forest.

Darian points to the dark sky that holds an endless sea of stars and a bright, full moon. “Yeah, and neither is any of that. But we need to move, Rae.”

One time, when we were kids, a hurricane whipped across Tower. The Protectorate said it was punishment for the way our ancestors lived in the Manic Age—that they didn’t respect the environment. At the time, Darian, Laken, and I were riding the tram home. The high winds seemed to heave the tram. I was terrified it would fly straight off the tracks and we would plunge to our deaths, but Darian assured me we’d be okay.

He whispers the same sentiment in my ear now as he presses a hand gently against my lower back. But before I can move, a low, creepy moan rumbles through the air, echoing against the terrain. My heart jumps, terror sparking inside me like I’ve been hit with a live wire, triggering a million goose bumps.

Darian twists around, searching the darkness, then twines his fingers through mine and pulls me forward.

“What was that?” I ask, my voice rough with fear.

The moaning grows louder.

I glance back a second and wish I hadn’t.

A boy about my age ambles toward us. He seems almost normal except for the sag of his jaw, his wild eyes, and the way he claws the air, moaning and desperate.

He stops when his gaze meets mine. Cocking his head in an odd angle, his pale skin pulls taut over his gaunt features. He lets out a loud snarl and moves toward us again in jerky, spastic motions.

“Let’s go,” Darian says. “We don’t want the undead to catch us.”

“The undead?” I choke out, horror gripping me like icy fingers. I don’t want to look back again, but I can’t help myself.

Several more of what Darian calls the undead lurch out from the trees. I’m watching over my shoulder, stumbling over twigs and brush as Darian pulls me away from them.

One of the undead is a girl with blond, matted hair mixed with blotches of something rust-colored.

They are thankfully moving slowly and sluggishly—at least for now. The girl lingers with the three undead boys. One minute she staggers alongside them, hungry eyes intent on me, and the next, she heaves herself onto the back of one of the boys.

She twines her dirty, blood-streaked legs around his waist, grasps his hair, and yanks his head back. With a growl, she sinks her teeth into the flesh between his shoulder and neck.

A spray of blood shoots out, splattering her face. I scream and, with a sickening awareness, realize the rust color in her hair is dried blood. The bitten boy drops to the ground, convulsing in a pool of blood.

“It isn’t dead,” Darian says, pulling me around, forcing me to tear my eyes away from the horror. “It’s only wounded. Those things are hungry for blood—especially fresh human blood—and they won’t stop until they get it.”

I keep pace with Darian as he picks up speed and jogs through the woods. I cradle my wounded rib and push aside the pulsating pain in my neck. My mind reels in panic.

Darian slows down and tips his head back. “Give me a knife!” he yells. He starts jogging again, guiding me through the grass.

“What was that about?” I ask, breathless. “Who are you talking to?”

He points up, but doesn’t slow down. “The assholes that run the Terrorscape.”

“Do you mean they give you weapons…but why?”

We reach a large tree and Darian comes to an abrupt halt. He lifts a shoulder. “Making us fight, terrorizing us, is all part of the punishment for Noncompliance. But I can’t help thinking that they do it for sport, too.”

For sport. I play the words back in my head as I stare at the plush grass beneath our feet. The level of The Protectorate’s control continues to amaze me—how they can get away with this.

And suddenly it comes to me.

I had no right to believe in the fantasy of The Protectorate. It’s nothing more than the old fairy tales that children used to believe in—the happily-ever-after of it all. And, in real life, it is the happiness we find ourselves, like little treasures hidden in the sand, that is worth fighting for.

Darian pecks the bridge of my nose, and then quickly lifts me onto the tree’s lowest branch. The undead’s moaning grows louder and closer. Too close.

“Climb up as high as you can,” he says, giving my ankle a squeeze. A small smile twists his lips in encouragement, but it doesn’t quite reach his indigo eyes.

Backing away, he dips his head back again and looks to the night sky. “Put a knife in play, you bastards!”

Thud.

I follow the sound to the ground near Darian. The moonlight glints off a blade.

“Get up as high as you can,” Darian says and, before I can respond, he swipes up the knife and tears directly toward the undead.

“Darian!”

I climb higher into the tree, watching in horror. The undead spread out as Darian approaches.

Their moans intensify, low and guttural, sending a shiver rippling down my spine. Darian sprints the last few feet, then propels himself off of a moss-covered rock and drives his knife into the skull of one of the undead. But before Darian can move, another sinks its teeth into Darian’s forearm.

Darian curses and covers his wound with his free hand. Blood spills between his fingers. My head swoons at the sight of it, my stomach tumbling. I know somewhere within me that it really isn’t blood—that they’re holographic images like Darian said. But it looks completely real, and knowing that Darian is feeling the pain makes fire ignite in my veins.

Without thinking, I jump out of the tree and land on my feet. “Knife!” I scream to the stars, terror heaving against my chest. “Knife, knife, knife!” I refuse to watch Darian continue to get bitten.

A knife drops from the sky and I snatch it up, clutching it in my damp palm. I dash toward Darian and the undead, pumping my arms hard, hardly feeling the ground beneath my feet. Their hungry moans intensify, and the sickening realization hits me that it’s probably because the scent of fresh human blood is in the air.

Darian’s blood.

I swallow back the huge lump in my throat as ribbons of shock and fear latch onto me.

As I approach, the undead girl focuses on me. Bits of decaying flesh hang from her face, and blood drips from the sides of her mouth. She snarls at me, revealing sharp, glimmering teeth.

My breath hitches in my chest, but somehow I keep running. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just moving on pure adrenaline and the instinct to survive—and protect Darian. Do it! I command myself. Slice her!

She reaches her claw-like hands high, anticipating a similar jump like Darian’s. Instead, I drop and roll, then quickly pounce to my feet behind her, reach around, and stab the knife into her eye socket. I gasp, out of breath as sharp pain splinters my rib cage.

Darian’s gaze darts over my shoulder just as loud moaning rumbles in my ear and stale, hot breath tickles my neck.

I let my legs collapse beneath me, dropping to the ground like a stone just as Darian lunges forward. The undead trips over me, stumbles forward, and Darian sinks the blade between its eyes.

“Look out!” I scream as the last undead ambles up beside Darian.

The words barely escape my lips before Darian tugs his knife back. In one swift move, Darian swings his muscular arm around and buries the knife into the base of the last undead’s skull.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“You were supposed to stay up in the tree,” Darian says, a hint of annoyance edging his voice. He holds out a hand to help me up.

“And let you have all the fun?” I grin as he helps me up, then quickly hide my trembling hands behind my back. Leaning in, I take a look at his wound and wince at the sight of his torn flesh. “Oh my God. That looks so bad. Are you okay?”

He shrugs. “It’s fine.” He tears a strip off of his shirt and wraps his wound. “But I’ll cover it so it doesn’t freak you out.” He ties the fabric in a knot, and then sets his gaze back on me. “When we wake up, we won’t see the injuries anymore. All we’ll be left with is the pain.” He leans in and whispers in my ear. “I need you to help me.”

I pinch my brows. “With?”

“Remember the power outage the night I escaped?” He cocks a brow.

I nod. “Of course I do. It was the only power outage I ever remember happening.”

Darian shifts, checks the surroundings, then looks back at me. “Well, that was no accident. It took me a long time to figure things out, but I caused that. And once the power went out, everything went crazy. I took my opportunity, scooped up a knife, and made my getaway.”

Darian checks over both shoulders again, and then bends to pick up a stick. He points it at a bush. I can tell that, besides checking for more of the undead, he’s trying to make it look like we’re talking about something else to anyone watching. “C’mon,” he says, leading me into the shadows behind a cluster of trees. “We better lay low for now so we won’t be taken off guard if there’s another attack.”

“Another attack?” I say, anxiety creeping into my voice.

He looks away and a muscle pops in his jaw. “You never know when the officials will pull us out…or send in reinforcements.”

The thought of reinforcements is unsettling and I wrap my arms around my elbows as a shiver rushes over me, despite the humidity. “How did you manage to knock out the power?” I ask in a hushed voice.

“Well, first off, I figure this place is about the size of a football field.” Darian ticks his chin toward the sky that’s still glittering with hundreds of stars. “And all of it is controlled by one huge Syncro-Drifter that hovers over the whole amphitheatre. It connects to the mainframe that controls both the Dreamscape and the Terrorscape. If I find a way to get to her—what I call, the mother Syncro-Drifter—and mess with it, you know, give it a virus—it will short the system,” he whispers with a grin.

“Seriously?”

His lips tip up. “Yeah, seriously,” he whispers. “In the event of a power shortage, she’s programed to pull from all power resources across Tower in an attempt to juice herself back up. But after I mess with her system, there’s no amount of power in the world that can get her up and running again until The Protectorate can remove the bug.” Darian snickers and grins, looking proud of himself. “And pow! There you have the reason for the power failure that night.”

“You refer to this mother Syncro-Drifter like its human,” I whisper.

“Well, it sort of feels like that in a way, doesn’t it?”

I guess with what it’s capable of, I can sort of see his point, but thinking of a machine as human is just creepy. “I guess.”

Darian’s face grows serious again. “It could take me a while and, to be honest, they could have made some adjustments that might make it more difficult, but I won’t stop trying. I’ll find a way to get us out of here. And if I don’t find it over the next few days, you’ll be out soon, anyway. You’ve only got six more days after tonight, then they’ll send you home.”

I nod and force a smile.

Only six days.

I don’t tell him I don’t think I can make it six hours, let alone six more days. It’s not like it’s six days of being grounded, or six days of detention. Who knows what other terrors The Protectorate will force us to confront and fight. Vega’s words ring in my ears. Murderers.

“Prime Minister Vega said that we are murderers,” I say. “I think he’s going to claim they found proof that I helped you kill your parents and make me stay in here forever.” The moment I say it, I feel a twinge of guilt. My fear of this place makes me want to get out as soon as possible. But Darian is never getting out unless he escapes again. And the moment I leave—if I do—he’ll be on his own. If I stay, I can help him, but the thought of being in here night after night terrifies me.

I slip my hand into his, deciding that I’ll do whatever I can to help him. “You’ll just have to find a way out before I leave,” I say. “Or I’m coming back for you.”

Darian stiffens beside me. In one swift move, he scoops me up under my arms and plops me back on my feet in front of an oak tree. He leans forward until my back is pressed against its trunk. With a low growl, he places his hands against the bark above my head.

Challenge fills his eyes. “That’s not going to happen, Rae,” he says scowling. “Don’t even think about that.” He narrows his eyes, then opens his mouth and clamps it closed again, jaw working. He looks to the sky and heaves a sigh. “You know what you need to do when you get out of here.” He nods at me and leans back, his shoulders squared.

I know he means for me to find Jameson and go to the Awakened cell. I also realize he doesn’t want to mention anything about them while we’re in here with prying eyes and ears, but leaving Darian seems cold.

As if reading my mind, he says, “I’ll be just fine.” He slides a stray strand of my hair behind my ear, his expression softening. “I’m sticking to the plan, beautiful.” He winks.

“All right,” I say, even though I’m not sure I can follow through with that plan. And I know Darian means he’ll escape and find me, but it seems next to impossible. “Where do we start looking?”

He lowers his voice to a bare whisper. “I found a hidden trap door in a tree that leads up to the control room. The image of the tree covered the staircase. It’s where the fighter bots appeared from that time I told you about.”

“In a tree?” I say too loudly. I bite my lip, tug a leaf from a branch, and glance over my shoulders. Looking back I say in a hushed voice, “You can’t be serious. There has to be a thousand trees in here. How are you going to remember the right one? And do you honestly think they’d use the image of the same tree to cover the stairwell?”

Darian surveys our surroundings and I know he’s searching for more of the undead again which makes my stomach twirl in anticipation and dread.

“Probably not,” he says. “But at least I know there’s some hidden way to the control room.”

“So does that mean all the sequences in the Terrorscape are in a forest setting?”

He shakes his head. “No, that’s just where I happened to find it. I remembered that’s where the fighter bots came from and tracked it down the next time I was in that setting. But I figure it’s gotta be hidden somewhere in each setting…it just makes sense.”

The grass blinks again, from steel floor back to grass. I stumble backward as the tree I’m leaning against disappears.

“Shit,” Darian says. “I didn’t get a chance to look around. Maybe we killed the undead too quickly and the officials are pulling us out.” He blows out an exasperated breath. “Tomorrow night, you hide and I look,” he whispers quickly. “Deal?”

The same sound from before, like a jet plane, roars out and once again we’re surrounded by endless steel walls and floors.

“But if I only hide…” I say, my eyes widening. “Won’t they send in the fighter bots that could really kill me?”

He sighs and glances to the ceiling, a look of something like defeat flickering across his face. “All right. You might have to run a bit so the officials at least see some action. But, Rae…” he says, casting his blues on me as he threads his fingers through mine, “…if they send in the fighter bots, I’ll be there to protect you.”

After being ushered out of the Terrorscape by armed officials, Darian and I are separated. One official guides me into a small room with stainless steel walls and no windows. A toilet and sink sit at the back of the room. He leads me to the single bed.

“What now?” I snap, unable to contain my annoyance.

He presses a button on the wall and a Syncro-Drifter drops from the ceiling. “Now you sleep.” His words come out devoid of emotion. “Unfortunately, a dark, dreamless sleep.”

I’m not sure exactly what he means by that, but right now I’m so tired I don’t care.

He presses a button, setting the Syncro-Drifter, then turns to look at me. I can’t help but think his eyes look tired…or maybe it’s a trace of sadness. Maybe it’s even possible that he isn’t an animal like some of the other officials who seem to enjoy punishing people. “Four hours is all you get,” he says with a nod. “Try to go right to sleep, okay? You’ll need the rest.”

I close my eyes and fold my arms over my chest. I don’t have the energy to answer, but four hours of sleep sounds like heaven right now anyway.

I know the official has left when there’s a soft clicking sound of the door closing. I’m so tired that I don’t even bother checking to be sure…already the hum of the Dreamscape is pulling me under.

Pain erupts across my side and I open my heavy lids. It’s a dark-haired official. His long hair is pulled back into a low ponytail and his deep-set green eyes are narrowed at me. The smell of stale liquor and sweat seeps from his skin like smog off a swamp.

I blink my eyes alert. It takes a second, and then I realize it’s the official who caught me at Lake Briar—the one who kicked me, breaking my rib…and the one who killed Darian’s parents. Now he’s poking me in my rib cage with the Taser rod. Even though it’s turned off, it aggravates my injury.

I push the rod away with a grunt, sit up, and cradle my side. He nods to a tray placed at the end of my bed with what looks like bread, butter, and a glass of water.

“Eat and wash up. I’ll be waiting outside your door.” He smiles at me without an ounce of kindness. “You’ve got visitors.”

Visitors. Excitement builds in my veins. Maybe my parents are here…or Coral…I’d be happy to see any friendly face right now.

But then, I wonder if it could be Laken. Would she apologize? Or would she tell me I need this. I don’t know how I feel about what Laken did. The sick part is, in some small way I understand her and what she did. We used to be the same—think the same. And I don’t believe Laken ever meant for me to end up in the Terrorscape. It’s probably what the official said—she thinks I need help. I have to hold on to that thought or else the pain of her betrayal will stab me deeper than any blade.

I quickly gulp back the water, realizing how thirsty I am, then stuff the bread into my mouth. It tastes stale, but I push it down anyway, knowing I’ll need my strength.

As I’m cleaning up in the sink, something dawns on me. Even though I feel a little rested, I didn’t have one dream while I slept—none that I can remember anyway.

It feels like such a void. All of my life I had the most beautiful dreams, later remembering every one in vivid detail. And now that they’re gone, it feels odd—off, somehow. Even though I’ll be released in six days—if Vega lets me—I only plan to go home to convince my parents to come with me. I wonder what it would be like to have my sensor removed…to see what real dreams feel like. Could they really be as good as the ones The Protectorate produces? And are real nightmares as disturbing as the ones in the Terrorscape?

Tucking my hair behind my ears, I head to the door. I take in a deep breath and shake my hands in a vain attempt to calm my nerves. Clearing my throat, I knock on the door.

Instantly, it swings open, and Richards smirks. “The bags under your eyes are very becoming, Desiree.”

I hate his pompous attitude and glare into his sullen green eyes, wishing I could claw them out. But as my gaze drops onto the Taser rod gripped in his left hand, I bite my lip instead.

He ushers me down a long, empty hallway, prodding me in the back every couple of seconds with the Taser rod, making me wince every time.

When we round the corner, he opens the first door on the right. He ticks his head for me to go inside. “You’ve got five minutes, Noncompliant.” He screws up his face like he smells something bad—like my being Noncompliant makes me lower than human.

For a moment I’m filled with shame. Everything I ever thought about the Noncompliant comes rushing into me like a freight train. But then I hold my head high, inhale deeply, and open the door. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of thinking he got to me.

I couldn’t have been prepared for what I see next. My parents are standing behind a thick pane of glass—their faces a mask of despair. Mom paces in small circles, biting down on her clenched hand.

Dad catches my gaze and rushes to the glass. He holds up a silver device and jerks his chin toward the shelf on my side of the glass. A matching device sits on the waist-high ledge. I push aside the metal chair, pick up the device, and click it on. It crackles, then falls silent.

“Desiree!” His voice booms through the device. “Are you okay?”

Mom rushes to the glass beside him, her face contorting into awkward angles as tears pour down her cheeks. She’s dressed in her prettiest white dress and my throat grows tight knowing that she dressed up to come see me.

“This is my fault,” she says. “We pushed you too hard…And we weren’t there to talk to you when you needed us.” Her shoulders shake as tears spill down her cheeks.

“No,” I say, my throat burning. “It’s not your fault. I-I…” Tears sting my eyes. “I found out things, Mom. Things that made me realize The Protectorate aren’t what they seem.”

She frowns and Dad shakes his head.

“Desiree…” he says as though I’m as fragile as an egg. “You’ve been hanging out with that boy again. He’s confused you, sweet face.”

“No, Dad.” I realize people could be listening and that maybe I should wait until I get home to say anything, but I have a strong feeling that Vega plans to implicate me in Darian’s parents’ murder. And if he does, I’ll never get home again. If I’m convicted of murder, visits will be banned. I don’t want my parents to think there’s something wrong with me, that I’m a horrible person, or mostly, that any of this is their fault. “It’s not your fault,” I say. “And it’s not because of anything Darian did either.”

I gnaw my thumbnail, then the words bubble up until I can’t hold them back anymore. “The Dreamscape—it manipulates people—brainwashes us.” I suck in a sharp breath when I see their shocked faces.

Maybe I’m blurting out all of this because I’m overwhelmed from lack of sleep. Or maybe I’m not myself after being attacked by a two-headed cobra and the undead…or maybe it’s just my intense need for the people I love most in the world to believe me.

“Don’t you see?” I say, my voice breaking. “Why should we need a machine to sleep?” My heart is pounding, racing in my ears. I can’t believe I’m finally telling them what I know to be true. A mixture of panic from trying to convince them, and guilt over disappointing them, engulfs me.

Mom and Dad look at each other, confused, then back at me. Mom presses her hand against the glass and I place mine on it too, covering hers.

“Desiree, honey,” she says. “We love you so much and we understand that you’ve been through a very hard time. You’re just confused right now—”

They’re not listening to me. “They give medication to make you forget things, Mom. I found it at the hospital. They gave it to a patient…and I overheard their conversation. They’re lying, Mom—Dad—about everything.” My words are tumbling out uncontrollably now, without thinking. “Please listen to me,” I beg.

“Stop it,” Mom demands. “You’re scaring me. What you’re saying makes no sense.”

I drag in a deep breath and feel my lip begin to quiver as I drop my gaze to the floor, feeling shattered. Pools of tears spill down my cheeks. I don’t think they’ll ever believe me. How could they? They’ve gone almost forty years fully believing in The Protectorate. How can I change their minds in five minutes?

“They took Sophia,” I croak out, desperate. Lifting my head, I meet my mother’s bloodshot, stunned gaze. I pound both of my palms against the glass in frustration. “Do you hear me? They took my little sister Sophia—your other daughter!” A heavy weight crushes my chest.

Silence stretches out for a few moments, shock and disbelief apparent on their faces. And then, the door behind my parents swings open, knocking against the back wall with a loud bang.

Richards bursts in in a whirl of black and gray, and everything becomes a blur.

A flash of a gun.

A blast. Then another.

Before I have a chance to register what’s going on, my parents collapse on the floor. I stumble back a step, horror ripping through me. My heartbeat accelerates.

“Mom…Dad?” My words are whispers, my voice stolen as shock rocks through me and our gazes meet. Realization dawns in their glassy, frightened eyes, hitting them all at once, and they know everything they’ve believed in their whole lives was a lie.

Mom opens her mouth like she’s trying to speak, but nothing comes out.

It’s too late.

Bright red blood soaks through my mother’s pretty white dress above her heart and, although a thick pane of glass separates us, I taste the blood’s strong metallic flavor on my tongue, smell it in the air until it drowns me. Tears flood my eyes. Fear consumes me.

The realization of what just happened hits me like a truck. My mouth hangs open in shock. I watch Richards as he moves toward me, my throat tight as if he reached through the glass and gripped cold, clammy fingers around my neck and squeezed.

He laughs through the device, deep and throaty. It seems to echo off the walls around me, making me dizzy, nauseous. “Murderer,” he drawls. “It’s quite nasty how you stole a gun from an official and broke in here to kill your parents in such a hateful fury. You know what that means, don’t you? Lifetime in the Terrorscape for you.”

His words tear me from my shock and bring a new emotion bubbling to the surface: rage. “No!” I scream, smashing my palms against the glass—to do something other than watch my parents bleed out and die. “I’ll kill you!” I pick up the chair and hurl it at the glass, but it doesn’t shatter. The chair clatters against the solid glass and clangs to the floor.

Richards stalks out of the room without another word.

Sobs rack my body. Anger, horror, despair, and a million other emotions speed through me at lightning speed, zapping all my strength. I fall onto my knees, then drop to my side and roll into a ball like a ragdoll. I’m crying so hard that I can’t breathe. I can’t comprehend that my parents are gone—taken that way—like they were worthless.

It’s my fault. He killed my parents because I told them the truth. I wish I could take it back. I scream, my crying intensifying until I sound like a wounded animal. And right now I wish they’d kill me too because maybe it would be better to shrivel up and die then to exist in this world full of hatred, control, and deceit.

Murderers, Prime Minister Vega said.

I drag in air through a strangled gasp, realizing my parents never stood a chance. It was The Protectorate’s scheme all along. They weren’t going to accuse me of helping Darian kill his parents. Their idea was way more sinister. Since my capture, they must have developed a plan to kill my parents and frame me—just like they did to Darian.

It doesn’t comfort me, knowing that it wasn’t really my fault. My parents are still dead. The Protectorate never planned on releasing me, I already figured that. I just guessed wrong in how they’d rationalize keeping me in the Terrorscape to the citizens of Tower. There’s no better way to provoke anger and fear in people than by claims of a new murder.

But what I do know for sure is that, according to The Protectorate, Darian and I know too much. And instead of killing us, they plan to use us as examples for all of Tower, like lab rats.

Forever.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. I was thrown into my room, where I stayed curled in a ball on the bed, drowning in tears. Some official brought me dinner—something that smelled like ripe roadkill. I pushed it away, my stomach a rumbling mess. I didn’t feel like eating anyway—not even if it was the best pizza in all of Tower.

By the time somebody comes to get me, my eyes are a stinging, blurry mess. The room and the official’s shadowy outline seem watery, the walls and his image melding into one big blob.

I don’t say anything when he pulls me up by the elbow. I hardly feel the pain in my rib at all. My head is too heavy to lift so I let it hang and watch my shuffling feet. I’m a walking mess of numbness.

When I enter the Terrorscape I hear Darian gasp, but I don’t look up. I can imagine my hair is a tangled mess and that he can tell I’ve been crying all day.

His cuffs rattle against the frame of his bed and I think I hear his whole stretcher move. “What did you do to her? You bastards will pay. Trust me when I tell you this,” he yells. “Desiree,” he says, in a softer tone as they strap me down to the stretcher beside him. “What happened?”

“Shut up, Sterling,” the official says before leaving the room. “Save your energy for your next escapade.” He laughs and the door closes with a soft whoosh before the sound of several locks click, sealing us in.

I vaguely hear Darian whispering to me, but it’s as though he’s miles away. Soon his voice fades and the newscaster’s breaks in. I catch snippets of words here and there. Double murders…shocking…life sentence.

Mostly I think of how last night I felt horrible that my parents were watching me from home and how it’s nothing compared to the overwhelming grief knowing they won’t be tonight—that they never will again.

The newscaster stops speaking. The hum of the Terrorscape sounds out and sleep overtakes me.

“Oomph!” The wind has been knocked out of me. I’m gasping for air when I realize that something has been dumped on me from above.

I open my eyes to look at what’s causing the writhing, squirming sensations all over my body. Bugs, beetles, earthworms, and cockroaches skitter across me, reaching the bare skin of my arms, my feet, and worse—my face.

With a shriek, I try to shake them off, but there are so many and because I’m tied down I can’t get them off me.

Bugs scuttle up my nose, worm between the crevices of my lips, and into my ears. I’m tossing my head side to side, spitting and spluttering.

I’m suffocating.

The sound of a jet plane roars through the room, then my cuffs release. I jump up, rubbing my arms frantically all over me, and shake my head, screaming.

Something touches my arms and I lurch backward with a yelp.

“Rae,” I hear Darian say. “It’s just me.”

I look at my body and see with great relief that the bugs are gone. Bright lights blink on and off in the room and I know the amphitheatre is setting up. Carnival music plays intermittently with the faint tinkling of an ice cream truck in the distance. And I swear I can smell hot dogs and cotton candy, but none of it makes sense. There’s nothing scary about carnivals and cotton candy. We have a few moments before the Terrorscape is in full mode so I figure it must be a glitch in the set-up.

Darian reaches out for me. I propel myself into his arms and lay my head against his chest. He smoothes my hair away from my face and kisses my forehead. I release a small sigh at the comfort of his lips.

“I heard what happened, sunshine,” he says. “Mr. Tate announced it on the news—well their version anyway. I’m so sorry. They’ll stop at nothing to maintain their control.” He pauses as I nuzzle my head farther into his chest, wishing I could burrow myself under his skin and stay there forever.

His shirt shields my eyes from the blinding sun. Although its rays warm my skin, I know it isn’t real. He smells vaguely of sweat and warmth, but even Darian’s sweat is comforting, safe.

“I’m going to do everything in my power to get revenge on The Protectorate for your parents—and mine.” His body stiffens, and he takes a deep breath. “But we can’t stay here, Rae…we need to move soon…I’m sorry,” he says again, as if it’s his fault. “C’mon. If your parents knew the truth about everything they’d want you to fight back, right?” He holds me back by the shoulders. His eyes look serious, but full of concern. He leans forward and kisses my lips—and although it’s quick, it’s gentle and sweet. “Don’t you give up on me…I need you.”

I nod. “Okay. Let’s do it.” I slip my hand into his as we begin moving. I’m not really sure where I’m going to get the strength to get through this, but I need to try. Of course my parents would want me to survive—to fight back. They were just asleep like most of the other citizens of Tower…oblivious and unaware. It wasn’t their fault, but there’s no way I’m going down without a fight. I rub my eyes, inhale deeply, and take in the surroundings.

“Where are we?” I ask, looking around in awe. A large old Ferris wheel soars into the sky, making creaking sounds as it rotates slowly. I tilt my head back and watch the revolving seats. The red paint is chipped, leaving rust spots in its place.

Beside the Ferris wheel spins a carousel of white horses, rising and falling in a big circle.

On our other side, a row of carnival games spreads out. I remember playing some of these games as a kid with my parents. There’s mini-bowling, whack-a-mole, darts, and many more games, but oddly, nobody is standing behind the counters and it seems like it’s only Darian and I in the otherwise deserted park.

I rush to one stall and look behind the counter at the stuffed animals. Even they look old and worn, left behind as an afterthought. Some are missing eyes, others have stuffing falling out, and others are smeared with dirt.

I realize Darian is quiet—too quiet—so I turn and face him. His hands are on his hips as his eyes dart left to right. The carnival music changes and begins playing a tune at a slow, eerie speed. I recognize the song as the music that played from the old jack-in-the-box my grandparents handed down for me. It had belonged to their grandparents. I used to like the music it played, until it broke.

But here, when played in slow motion, the melody seems creepy.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my heart picking up speed. “And what is this place?”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “This is one of the worst sequences, Rae,” he says before slipping his hand into mine and pulling me close. He whispers in my ear. “I have to start looking for the entrance to the mother Syncro-Drifter. You need to hide and don’t come out until I come back for you. Let’s go—!” He tugs me into a running gait and quickly darts between two game stalls. After zigzagging through a couple more while keeping to the shadows, he lifts me up onto the counter of one of them.

“Okay, hide under here,” he instructs.

“Wait a second. I thought you told me I need to be interactive…and you’re scaring me. Besides, I’d rather come with you.”

“In this sequence I’m not sure I want you…involved,” he says. “But if it’s taking me too long, I’ll come back for you, I promise.” He sighs when he sees me shake my head. “You’ll be safer here.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “Hiding isn’t fighting back.”

He makes a noise that sounds like a growl and shakes his head. “All right, fine. I don’t have time to argue. Instead of hiding, look for a concealed staircase. You can start in the booths. But if you find it, call for me, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, thinking this will be like looking for a grain of salt in a bowl of sugar, but also knowing we don’t have a better option. I would rather go with Darian, but I know we have a greater chance of finding the hidden entrance this way.

Darian gives my hand one last squeeze. “Stay away from anybody you see in here.” He runs a thumb across my cheek with his free hand. Then he dashes off to the other side of the park.

Stinging tendrils of terror sprout inside me. But by keeping busy, I feel charged and proactive. I want to get out of here more than ever.

I jump over the top of the counter and begin searching everywhere—under the counters, behind the stuffed animals, and pushing on the walls and every surface. It’s so strange. Even though I know this place doesn’t really exist, it still amazes me at how real everything feels and sounds.

After finding nothing, I hop back over the counter and head toward the next cubicle. A warm breeze swirls around me, bringing with it empty cotton candy wands and popcorn bags. The air is full of the scent of hot dogs and sweets, with an underlying current of old things, something like rust.

Colorful balloons fill the back wall of the next kiosk. Darts are lined up on the counter. I make my way over the ledge, careful to avoid the sharp edges of the darts, and begin searching. The balloons flitter in the wind, making a scratchy sound as they rub against each other.

Tons of old stuffed animals are littered beneath the counter. With a groan, I begin tossing them aside. Dust floats around me, making me cough.

“Desiree…” I hear a man’s soft voice call.

I jump up, nearly knocking my head against the counter, and gasp.

A tall clown stands on the other side of the counter.

He’s dressed in an oversize red and white polka dot costume with large green buttons. His face is painted white with two bright patches of red circles on his cheeks, and a matching giant-sized clown smile painted around his mouth. The clown laughs at my reaction and flicks his long, pointed fingernails up through his hair—which is the strangest hair I’ve ever seen. It’s gelled up in stretched, hard spikes that look like orange flames licking upward.

I keep my gaze focused on his dark, beady eyes while slipping my hand around a dart. Tucking my arm behind my back, I quickly take two giant steps backward. I wedge myself against the wall of balloons so hard one suddenly pops, making me squeal.

“What’s wrong?” asks the clown, pulling a stack of cards out from his back pocket and plunking them down on the counter. “Don’tcha wanna play?” He spreads the cards out, rests his elbows on the counter, and tilts his head up at me grinning. The red paint on his mouth cracks as his lips spread wide.

I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. “No,” I answer.

Darian said to stay away from anybody I might encounter here, but in this cubicle I’m trapped. The only way out is over the ledge that the eerie clown is now leaning against.

“Why so glum?” asks the clown, his black eyes flicking over me. “Is it because of your folks?” He arches a penciled-in brow.

My breath catches. “What’s it to you?” I snap, narrowing my eyes.

The clown laughs again. “Did ya ever think they could still be alive, little girl?”

Tears spring to my eyes as I remember the blood soaking Mom’s dress—the way the white fabric turned crimson above her heart. I blink my burning eyes. “No, they’re dead.” I grit my teeth, and twist the dart behind my back, thinking about digging it into the clown’s eye as I pass. I wonder how fast I can go—if I can be fast enough.

A tinkling sound draws my attention and something white flutters down from the sky. It lands on the ground in front of me. I squint and notice that it’s a white piece of paper, folded in half. On it is scrolled one word, written in red ink.

Desiree.

I snap my eyes back up to the clown and it doesn’t seem like he’s noticed. He’s still poking at his cards on the counter. In order to get the paper, I have to step forward, within his reach. I wonder who it’s from or if it’s just another hologram meant to trick me into getting closer to the clown. But something about seeing my name on the paper causes goose bumps to rise on my skin.

I need to get it.

The clown taps his nails against the cards in a mesmerizing rhythm, drawing my attention back. “I just wanna play, Desiree…don’tcha wanna play some cards?” he asks.

I can’t take my eyes away from his hands. His yellow nails are long and brittle. They’re shaped into pointed, sharp edges, and as he strums them on the cards, he hums along with the creepy, carnival music.

Then, oddly, the images on the cards begin to swirl. “Why don’t you join my pack,” the clown says between humming. “My pack of cards—it’s fun when we all play together—Rae.”

At the mention of my nickname, I shiver, then watch in horror as my mom’s moving image swirls on the face of one of the cards. Richards slams into the room and shoots her just as the carnival music chimes out, Pop goes the weasel.

The clown laughs hysterically, then stops abruptly. “It’s your fault, Rae,” he says leaning in and curving a painted lip. “But maybe if you join my pack of cards you can stop it this time—prevent their murder. I am a clown after all, don’tcha know…” He scrapes one nail over my father’s dead image on one of the cards, the gritty sound jolting me. “You believe in magic, Rae?”

Fury boils my blood. I’ve never been so angry. Angry for my parent’s murder, for Darian’s folks, too, for what The Protectorate is doing to us—has done to my sister—is doing to everybody in Tower.

Adrenaline takes over. I jump forward, quick as lightning, pushing aside the shooting pain from my broken rib. Grabbing the paper on the ground beneath the ledge, I then hop onto the counter.

The clown darts his head up as if he’s startled and opens his mouth with a shriek. His teeth are black, decaying, and the stench from his mouth is like rotten eggs and something metallic.

I swing the dart toward his head, just nicking him as he jumps backward.

He recovers and lunges forward just as my feet hit the dirt. He grasps my arm, his claw-like fingers digging into my flesh. I scream and try to pull back, but the clown digs his talons deeper.

“I was trying to be nice, don’tcha know, don’tcha know?” he says, grinning. The volume on the creepy, old-time carnival music surges louder. “But I think instead of giving you a chance to save your parents, you should join them.”

The clown drags one nail down the side of my cheek so hard that a trickle of blood runs down my face. He increases his vice grip around my bicep until every nerve in my body screams and warm blood oozes down my arm.

“Darian!” I shriek, but I doubt he can hear me over the music. Lifting my knee, I pound it into the clown’s groin. Then I swing my arm around, sinking the dart into his ear.

The clown releases me and grasps his ear as blood oozes between his pale fingers. I hit the dirt running, pounding my feet into the ground, the creepy music blaring in my ears.

When I reach the Ferris wheel, I don’t hesitate and hop into a bucket, heart pounding, crazed. I’m shaking uncontrollably as I duck down into the seat, waiting every second for the clown to pop its head over the ledge, drag me out, and force me to look at those cards again.

The Ferris wheel shifts around and lifts me high into the air. I open my clenched, trembling fist to look at the now crumpled piece of paper. I pry it apart.

Desiree,

This is Asher. Do exactly as I tell u. Walk Run in different patterns 2 times around the park. Don’t talk or make any other sounds, or give off any different body language. Then sit in the middle of the carnival. No matter what happens 2u, be quiet and do NOTHING or this won’t work. After ten minutes get up and go sprint 2 the carousel. Right in the middle of the carousel on the floor is a trap door. U won’t see the handle for the door—U have to feel for it. Find it fast, open it, climb down, and head to the south exit. You’ll only have three minutes before the fighter bots are released into the Terrorscape. U need to be out of there before they come or this won’t work. Don’t let them get u. HURRY!

Chapter Thirty

Can this really be happening? My mind races as I try to put things together. Why would Asher want to help me?

I need to find Darian. If he hasn’t found a way to the mother Syncro-Drifter, then we have to take this chance of escape Asher’s offering.

I poke my head over the back of the Ferris wheel as I soar high into the air, searching for Darian or the crazy clown, but don’t spot either of them. Only the eerie melody plays out, mixed with the swirling scents of rust and cotton candy.

The bucket rounds the top and begins revolving backward. I shift my weight, preparing to jump out when I reach the ground. The seat rocks and creaks in protest. I grip the bar.

The closer I get to the bottom, the faster my heart gallops.

The note, Asher, Darian…the clown.

The bucket reaches the ground and I hop out before it swings upward again.

Before I can make it two steps, something yanks me to the side, pulling me into the shadows behind the Ferris wheel.

“Rae,” Darian whispers.

Relieved, I turn to meet his concern-etched face.

“Is it really you?” I ask, smiling.

“Yes, it’s me,” he says, before lifting my arm and inspecting the cuts the clown inflicted.

I cringe and jerk my arm back. “I’m fine. Did you find the exit to the control room?”

Darian shakes his head, a deep scowl forming on his face. “No, but I will find it. I won’t give up.”

I open my hand just enough to reveal the crumpled note. “Asher sent this in the same way the knives came,” I whisper, handing him the note.

Darian raises his eyebrows and slips his hand over mine. He covertly takes the note and hunches over to read it. After scanning, he rips the paper into a hundred tiny pieces, letting them scatter into the breeze like dandelion fluff. He rubs his forehead while sucking in a mouthful of air and releases a heavy sigh.

When I can’t take his silence any longer, I ask, “You don’t think it’s legit?”

Darian twists his lips, thinking. “Well, Asher saw us together at the lake…and you were promised to him…I’ve got good reason to think this could be a trap—but—” He pauses and kisses the scrapes on my face from the clown’s nails. “I guess it’s worth a shot. I don’t want you in here a minute longer than you have to be.” He gives me a fleeting flicker of a smile and lowers his voice. “Asher must want you to run in different patterns so he can create video footage and run it in a loop—allowing us time to escape. If you run in different patterns and stay quiet, it won’t be obvious to anyone watching that it’s repeated footage.” He grins, hope sparking in his brilliant eyes. “Smart. After that, Asher wants us to sit still for ten minutes. That’ll bring in the fighter bots and make the trap doors automatically unlock.”

A sinking feeling hits me that Darian could be right. “What if Asher just wants revenge for what I did and it’s a trap like you said? I did shame him by running off with you. What if there isn’t a way out and he wants to send in the fighter bots to really kill us?”

Darian groans and I drop my gaze to his clenched fists. “There’s a real chance that’s what he’s up to,” he says. “And there’s also a risk that even if Asher’s being honest, that he could make the mistake of sending us to the same exit the fighter bots come in from. But either way, we should—”

“Desiree…” The clown calls out in a singsong voice somewhere in the distance.

My heart rate spikes. “That clown is crazy scary, Darian, holograph or not.”

“I know, believe me. He’s a freak on legs.” He lets out a breath. “But listen, we need to try this. I know I promised you I’d find a way out, and I will.” His coal-black brows draw together. “But it could take months and this could be our only real shot.” He pauses and sighs. “If this is a trap and the fighter bots come and we don’t find the exit—or Asher’s directed us to the same trap door they’re coming from by accident—then I’ll have to kill the bots before they kill us.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “And just how do you plan on doing that?” I whisper in the tiniest voice. “I mean, I know you’re tough—but fighter bots?”

He shrugs and leans in to whisper. “I’ll do it with my bare hands if I have to,” he says, his lips pressing into a hard line.

I don’t have time to argue. The clown’s unnerving voice edges in close behind us.

“Cards, Desiree…don’tcha wanna see your parents again…?”

At the mention of my parents, my stomach does a nosedive and tears sting my eyes. It’s taking everything in me not to think too much about their murders right now…and the clown knows it.

The music changes to another tune that sounds like it’s coming from one of those old-time music boxes, the kind with the spinning ballerina. Like the other creepy music, it plays at a slow, eerie tempo.

“Come on.” Darian slips his hand into mine and we take off running.

We jet around the carnival through so many twists and turns I get dizzy. The words on Asher’s note, along with what Darian said about the video footage being shown on a loop, run through my mind. I force a neutral expression on my face and stay quiet.

We pass glowing neon signs, a circus tent that reads Jugg U Lar Carnival, and a hall of mirrors that make our images transform from two feet to ten feet in seconds. And, through it all, I don’t react. I keep pace with Darian and swallow the fear that’s squeezing my throat from the inside.

Darian dashes in-between the carnival games. I imagine the clown jumping out at me from behind every ledge and every corner, gripping me with his nails and taunting me with his cards.

Finally Darian runs to the middle of the carnival and drops to his knees. His jaw working, eyes wild.

I hit the dirt and scramble up beside him without a word, panic pricking me like needles.

Darian blinks his eyes at me once. I blink back in acknowledgement.

Now we have to wait ten minutes.

We can’t run.

We can’t hide.

We need the officials to see us refusing to interact with their game of terror.

I count the seconds from one to sixty and start over again, trying desperately not to count too fast. If I do, I’ll move too soon and screw everything up.

“Aha!” The clown hollers. He jumps out from behind one of the gaming stalls just feet away. “There ya are!”

A chill runs through me. My gaze drops to his huge purple clown shoes that thud across the dirt as he makes his way closer. My mouth gapes as I glance back up to his hair that looks like it’s on fire, then I meet his piercing stare.

“Two murderers for the price of one.” He eyeballs Darian, and then cocks his head to one side, glaring at me. “Ain’t that grand, Rae? Maybe I’ll letcha both play cards…hang out a little while with the dead…” He throws his head back and lets out a high-pitched laugh, then snaps his gaze on me again. “You wanna see my cards again?” he rasps. “Ya wanna playyy…Rae?”

I close my eyes. Sixty. One, two, three, I count out the seconds in my head. Four more minutes to go. Ignore, ignore.

A whoosh of movement blows my hair back. I reluctantly pry my eyes open. The clown’s grinning face is inches in front of mine. The white paint on his skin is cracking and peeling—his eyes like dots of coal, shoved deep into dark sockets.

It takes everything in me not to scream. He inclines his head closer until he’s a hair’s breadth away, igniting fresh horror in me, then smiles, exposing rotten teeth.

Everything in me shouts to run away, but I can’t react. I can’t move. If I do, the officials won’t send in the fighter bots. And if they don’t send in the fighter bots, the trap door won’t unlock for our escape.

I keep counting as the clown runs his hand over the side of my hair. Darian stiffens beside me. I give a subtle shake of my head, so afraid Darian’s anger will get the better of him and that he’ll hit the clown, ruining everything.

The clown leans in and exhales rancid breath in my face just as the music box melody gets louder and faster all at once, mimicking my heartbeat. He digs one pointed nail down the trail of scratches he inflicted earlier. “Such a waste of a pretty face, don’tcha know…”

I wince and lock my back teeth together as fresh pain bursts across my skin, but I don’t move or scream.

I feel sick. The whole carnival is a spinning distortion of colors, aromas, and a cacophony of sounds.

We’re not gonna get out. My whole body goes ice cold. I dig my nails into my palms, trying to calm myself.

Fifty-nine, sixty, I finish counting in my head. It’s been ten minutes, I realize with a surge of adrenaline.

I nudge Darian. “Let’s go!”

We jump up, dash around the clown, and begin running. I’m praying I didn’t screw up the timing and that we make it.

A loud horn blares as we race toward the carousel. It sounds like the horn on a transport truck that I’ve seen in the movies from the Manic Age.

I whip my head around, expecting to be smashed by a truck, but there’s not a vehicle anywhere.

“Shit,” Darian yells. “Hurry up!” He grasps my hand and we run faster until we reach the carousel. “That’s the same sound I heard before the fighter bots rushed in the last time.” He jumps onto the spinning merry go round. “Hopefully Asher’s running the video loop now.”

“But wait,” I say, as I rush to the center of the carousel and begin searching for the trap door. “If the officials see us running in that loop now, won’t they stop the fighter bots?”

Darian drops to his knees in the middle of the ride beside me and slides his hands around the steel floor. “Nope,” he says, sounding winded. “That sound means they’ve already programmed the fighter bots to come in. And once that’s set in motion, there’s no stopping it. Besides, they probably figure I’m being my usual defiant self and that now I’m running away from the bots.”

“It’s not here, Darian.” I pound my hand against the floor in frustration. “There’s no trap door—Asher lied!” My words grate against my throat. How could I have believed Asher would help us after my betrayal? I was desperate to even think that was a possibility.

“Wait,” Darian says. His hand forms a curved shape as though it’s cupped around an invisible source.

I gasp. “You found it?”

A clanking of metal sounds in the distance, and I sense the fighter bots moving in.

Darian utters a curse. His arm moves up and down in jerky motions, and I can tell he’s tugging up on something. “I’ve got the handle, but it’s stuck and I hear the fighter bots coming!”

I peek around the rising and falling white legs of the horses on the carousel. Tall, silver bots that have glowing red laser beams for eyes leap out from the Jugg U Lar circus tent. They march in fluid motion one after the other until they form a straight line.

I lick my parched lips and shoot a glance over my shoulder at Darian. He’s still tugging on the handle.

The bots spread out like ants. I cover my mouth to contain my scream, then turn back to Darian.

“Let me help—”

Darian shakes his head, “No, I got this,” he says, calm yet forceful. I’m instantly reminded of how he was as a kid—how he’s always been—the guy who wants to protect me more than anything, like the mythical hero who comes to the rescue. Except Darian isn’t a myth—he’s beauty, strength, courage, and something else that I can’t put into words—something that makes my insides feel differently than ever before.

Darian crouches low and places both of his hands around the handle. He tugs backward with a low growl.

Pop.

Darian stumbles, but doesn’t let go. He shifts his arm up as if he’s pulling open the invisible door. Then he lowers his hand over to the right and all the way down, resting what I figure is the door flap onto the floor of the carousel.

My gaze leaps to the now gaping hole in the ride and the staircase that descends below it.

“Let’s go, sunshine,” Darian says, and grins, extending his hand.

I scrabble down the stairs, ducking my head under the steel floor of the carousel. The reverberation of mechanical machinery-like furnaces and air conditioning units rumble in my ears. A box that looks like it’s filled with tools sits near the bottom of the staircase, but otherwise the basement of the building is empty.

Darian follows, and I turn to wait for him as he stretches up to grab the trap door again. He begins to pull it over us just as a fighter bot jumps onto the edge of the carousel with a loud thump. My stomach flips and I clasp my hand over my mouth to mute my gasp.

The fighter bot, which looks eerily humanoid, stands with its back to us. The curve of its metal is sculpted into a mass of muscles. As it slowly turns its head to the side, searching the area, its laser eyes light up one of the horses in a glow of red.

I want to tell Darian to hurry and close the trap door before it sees us, but if I talk, the bot will hear me, too.

We’re dead, I think. I’m so full of fear that it’s worse than any nightmare I could have ever imagined. It fills me with a nausea that cuts through me like a razor blade.

And just when the bot starts to twist around and I think it’s going to catch us, Darian finally eases the trap door closed with a soft click.

It’s like a tranquilizer has been injected into my veins, removing the buzzing adrenaline coursing through me all at once. I collapse against the stairs, breathless.

Darian sits on the step beside me, runs a hand over the back of my head and down my hair. “Come on, babe,” he whispers. “We’re not free yet. We still have to get out of the building.”

I nod and begin to lift my head, the relief of the moment overshadowed by the escalating need to really escape.

But before I can stand up and face Darian, a familiar voice calls out from the bottom of the staircase.

The voice of the man who murdered both of our parents.

Richards.

“And therein lies the problem, Darian,” Richards says, his voice laced with derision.

I twist around and face Richards’s mocking grin, and notice that he’s holding a black revolver. It’s pointed directly at us.

Chapter Thirty-One

“You haven’t gotten out of the building and you never will,” Richards says.

I scramble to my feet. Darian holds his arm out across my chest, then walks the few steps down toward Richards. Darian raises both hands into the air.

“Fine. I’ll make you a deal,” Darian says in a surprisingly even tone. “Take me and I’ll stay here forever without a fight, but you have to let Desiree go.”

I pad down the steps. Oh, hell to the no. There’s no way I’m letting Darian sacrifice himself for me.

Darian edges closer to Richards.

Richards laughs. “I have to let Desiree go?” He snickers. “You seem to forget the fact that I’m the one holding the gun, and…” He strums a finger against a communicator clipped to his belt. “With one tap of this…in comes a whole lot more officials.” Richards sizes up Darian. “You see, after your last jaunt in the infirmary, I didn’t really believe you’d just sit there, knowing full well about the fighter bots. Especially knowing they would come to get you and your little girlfriend here…not unless something was up.” He jabs his gun toward us. “So I had an official stand watch over every exit from the Terrorscape just in case. You just happened to pick the lucky one and got me.”

A muscle twitches in Darian’s jaw and he returns the official’s glare. “Just let her go,” he snarls, inching forward another step. “Who are you trying to kid? It’s me that you want anyway.”

“Let her go?” The official arches an eyebrow. “You know Prime Minister Vega will have none of that. We can’t have a murderess out running through the streets of Tower, now can we?” He mock laughs. “You escaped the last time under my watch. That cost me a month’s salary and a mountain of heat from every angle. For that, I promised myself you would pay.” His face grows steely. “I can assure you that your escaping won’t happen again. And as punishment for your attempt at such, you will be whipped…but first, Darian, you get to watch the pretty one get her lashes.”

My eyes fly open, looking from Darian to Richards. An image of Coral’s back and her whip marks flashes in my mind, and I wonder if she tried escaping, and if the whipping was her punishment, too. Rage thrashes inside me and my palms tingle with sweat. I wrap my hands around my elbows, weighing my options.

My gaze drifts to the toolbox on the far side of Richards. I wonder if I can move fast enough to grab a heavy tool before he notices and shoots me.

But before I can make a move, Darian lunges forward with a growl. A blast of the gun rings out. For a second, terror spikes my bloodstream. But then I see Darian struggling with Richards, rolling on the ground in a ball of arms and legs. There’s no blood.

Darian whips Richards around onto his back, straddles him, and fights to get the gun still gripped in the official’s hand.

If the gun goes off now, it will blow Darian’s head off. My whole body goes ice cold. But somehow I race to the toolbox and look for something I can hit Richards with.

Then I spot it—something better than a tool—the Taser rod.

Richards must have brought his favorite accessory with him and laid it against the boiler.

I dash forward and grab it as grunts and groans continue behind me.

I whip around and the gun’s just inches from Darian’s face. I flip the Taser rod on and it buzzes to life. “Watch out, Darian!” I shriek, bolting toward them.

Darian eyes widen as I race toward them with the Taser rod. He rolls off of Richards and lands with a hard whack.

In one swift movement I kick the gun out of a stunned Richards’s hand and jab the Taser rod into his side and twist. His body convulses in a wave of spasms.

“That’s for my parents,” I yell. “And for Darian’s parents, too!”

I’m blind with anger as the image of my parents’ lifeless bodies runs through my mind. Rage and grief rush through me like a violent river until I’m gritting my teeth, digging the rod into his rib cage harder, and heated tears flood down my cheeks.

Darian places a soft hand on my arm. “Rae? You can stop now.”

It takes a second, but I’m brought back to reality. I blink. Foam oozes out of Richards’s mouth. I turn off the Taser rod.

Darian leans down and feels for the official’s pulse. “He’s still alive, but he’ll be out for a while.” With a smirk, he then holds up a box cutter. He slides the blade out. “But I’m gonna make sure this douchebag will never forget what he did.”

My eyes widen, but before I get a chance to ask Darian what he means, he drops to a crouch beside the official.

“But first this.” In a sawing motion, Darian hacks off Richards’s ponytail, holds up the black hair, and drops it onto the official’s chest with a low growl. Then Darian leans forward, breathing hard, and holds the blade over Richards’s head.

All I can think is that Darian is about to kill the guy and, honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about that. I never thought I could kill anyone, but right now I’m very tempted—which scares the hell out of me. “What are you doing?”

Darian glances over his shoulder, meeting my gaze. “Making sure the murderer never forgets what he did. He killed both of our parents, Rae. I’m going to carve the letter M into his forehead. For them, you know. He’s just lucky I’m leaving him breathing.”

I place a trembling hand on Darian’s shoulder. “No, Darian, please don’t.”

I don’t know why I care about cutting Richards, God knows he deserves it, but it just doesn’t feel right to me. “We better go,” I say, squeezing Darian’s shoulder, feeling more than a little freaked out and worried other officials will soon show up.

Darian inhales deeply, sighs, and stands up with a growl. “Fine.” He slides an arm around my shoulder protectively and draws me against his warm body. When I look up at him, the tightness in his face softens and his lips tug up on one side. He leans over and wipes the tears from my eyes. “You did good, sunshine. Now let’s get away from Tower completely—you and me.”

I nod and force a smile, even though my pulse is still all over the place, fueled by anger, hurt, and fear. I tuck the Taser rod underneath the elastic at the back of my pants while Darian snatches Richards’s gun and does the same.

We hurry out of the mechanical room and through a doorframe into a corridor. The ceiling is so low that Darian has to crouch a little so he doesn’t bang his head.

There aren’t any doors on either side of the long, dim passage. When we reach the door at the end of the hall, Darian eases down on the bar that slides across the door, and it creaks open.

A fresh blast of cool air blows in, and I know right away that we’re at the back of Olympus Jail. There’s a tall fence at the end of the paved courtyard and, beyond that, a forest.

I wonder if Asher told us to go to the trap door under the carousel because he knew it would lead us to this exit, and that maybe we could make an easier escape. I still don’t understand why Asher is helping us, but right now I’m infinitely grateful.

After we step outside and close the door behind us again, I notice the night sky. It’s dark in the courtyard with only the full moon lighting up the night. The rain makes metallic pinging sounds against the steel roof of the building, and the scent of wet leaves and earth fills my nose.

After I check to make sure nobody is close by, I tilt my head back and stick my tongue out, letting the cool rain wash over me and wet my sandpaper-dry mouth. With the heat in the Terrorscape’s amphitheatre, I’d forgotten about the cool, fall temperatures coming down on Tower like a gavel.

Darian tugs me forward. “We have to keep moving. The other officials are gonna notice something odd about the video loop soon, or they’ll figure out that one of their officials is missing.”

“There are probably security cameras everywhere around here,” I say, anxiety creeping into my voice as I search the trees.

“Then we just make a run for it.” Darian shrugs.

I eye the fence about one hundred yards in the distance at the end of the courtyard. It’s at least twenty feet high with a plummeting drop to the forest floor on the other side.

“Let’s go then,” I say, knowing it’s our only chance of escape. I don’t know where we’ll get the strength to make the three-day hike to the Awakened cell, or how we’ll survive the cool temperatures with only the light Olympus Jail uniform. I figure we can stop at a stream and get a drink, but with no food, no Dreamscape machine for sleep, or even a jacket, it seems hopeless. This wasn’t the plan Darian and I had talked about.

Darian takes my hand and gives it two pumps, breaking me out of my trance. “We can do it.” He smiles, as though reading my mind.

“Ready?” he asks.

I swallow and nod.

“Set.”

Darian plants his feet in a runner’s stance and I do the same.

“Go!”

And we’re running toward the fence. My heart is whipping radically in my chest. I’m so scared I think I might pass out. Imaginary gunshots explode in my head as I visualize getting shot in the back. I imagine that somehow the clown has made it out of the Terrorscape and will haunt me forever…that maybe he’s lurking around this corner…or the next.

Ten more steps, I tell myself as the fence draws closer. Then Darian is boosting me onto it. The chain link fence rattles in protest and I swear someone will hear us at any second and sink a bullet into our heads.

Hands, feet, hands, feet, I think, drowning out the nightmare thoughts and ignoring the bites of pain from the steel fence cutting into the soft flesh of my palms. The fear of not getting away takes on a life of its own, threatening to swallow me whole. If I don’t get away, my parents’ death will have been completely for nothing. The Protectorate took Sophia and now my parents. To have them kill me too would be the end of my entire family.

I won’t let them do it. My father’s words echo in my ears. Always remember, Desiree—dream big or go home. Be brave and live life to the fullest.

Today I am brave—for me, for Darian, for my parents…and for my stolen little sister, Sophia. If there’s any chance she’s still alive, I need to escape and find the people who might have the answers.

I reach the top of the fence and swing my legs over. Even though I try to avoid the barbwire that whips out from the top bar like angry teeth, it snags one side of my pants. The sharp wire shreds a piece of fabric and scrapes my leg. Both my leg and my rib cage explode in pain. I bite my lip, forcing back the scream.

Darian huffs. “Hurry, Rae,” he says, as he swings his legs over the fence. He maneuvers around the barbwire and climbs down the other side.

As I’m climbing down, a loud bang sounds from Olympus Jail. I peek through the diamond shapes of the chain-link fence and notice the noise is coming from the door we came through. It has swung open in the wind and now bumps against the steel building in a rhythmical thump, thump, thump.

I gasp, panicked, knowing we secured that door, then miss a step and lose my footing. My body dangles against the side of the now-rattling fence, my weight yanking against my hands. A fresh wave of pain tears through me. I’m in so much pain and the fear of being caught is so intense, I might actually faint.

I struggle to maintain my hold, but know the second I move my feet against the fence it’ll make a clanging sound again. I lift my head with a muted grunt, searching for an official, for someone who came through the door, but I don’t see anyone. My sweaty hands threaten to slide off the fence at any second.

“Jump!” Darian whispers from the ground below me. “I’ll catch you.”

I glance over my shoulder and realize I’m about halfway down. I’m not sure Darian can catch me safely from this height.

Between the rain and the sweat, my hands keep slipping until I’m hanging on by only the tips of my fingers.

“Trust me,” Darian calls in a low voice.

I do.

I take a deep breath and let go.

The cool air whips around me, flinging my hair against my face.

I land in Darian’s arms with a loud “Oomph.”

Darian stumbles back a step, but grips his arms around my back and underneath the curve of my knees. He carries me into the darkness of the woods. My whole body is a shaking, trembling mass of pain, fear, and relief.

“We made it,” I say through gritted teeth, trying to conceal the pain. And, for the first time in a long time, I feel hopeful. I’m not totally sure we can make it to the Awakened cell, but at least we’re together. And as long as we’re together, I’m optimistic that we can make it through anything.

Darian jogs into the woods a few more steps, laughing under his breath, a deep rumbling sound, and I know he feels it, too. He places me on my feet behind a large cedar, and we both catch our breath.

“Did we really do it?” I ask, grinning. “Did we really break out of Olympus Jail?” I’m filled with equal parts shock and happiness.

Darian chuckles. “Yeah, sunshine. We did.” He tugs me into his arms and I laugh, too, my body shaking as I try to mute the sound. The happiness of the moment seems to dissolve the aching in my body—until I hear twigs cracking and the rustling of tree branches.

We both twist around to meet a straight-faced Asher as he steps out from behind the shadow of a tree. Moonlight illuminates his face. Asher’s usually neat blond hair is tousled, and his eyes are rimmed with dark circles. But most notable is the gun he holds in his trembling hand—that is now directed straight at us.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Step away from her, Darian.” Asher jerks the gun to the right.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Darian steps out, blocking my path. He tugs out Richards’s gun and aims it at Asher.

Asher squints at Darian and keeps his gun raised. “I’m not going to hurt her. I’m here to make sure you don’t.”

“Asher…” I say, stepping aside from Darian, and raising my arms high. “What are you doing?” I’m only partially comforted that he said he wasn’t going to hurt me. The fact that he has a gun in his hands doesn’t make me so sure of that, and I’m also worried they’re about to kill each other.

“What am I doing?” Asher shakes his head. “Getting Darian away from you. He’s the one that’s gotten you into this whole mess.” He stares at me with an expression I don’t understand. Like he’s hurt—like I hurt him. If anything, it has to be the shame of his binding mate being caught with another guy, because I know he doesn’t really want me on any romantic level.

“I’m sorry, Asher,” I say, and mean it. I never meant to hurt him—for anyone to get hurt. “But this isn’t Darian’s fault. I-I…” I struggle for the right word… “care about him.”

Asher winces. “He’s a murderer.”

I shake my head. “No, he’s not. And I didn’t kill my parents either. They did.” I tick my head in the direction of the jail.

Asher holds up a silencing hand. “I’m sorry about your parents, Desiree. Honestly, I am. That’s part of the reason I helped you escape. I don’t believe you did that, but I don’t want to hear about it right now either. All of this…everything is so messed up.” He runs a hand back through his dishevelled hair, then rubs a tired-looking eye. Sighing, he says, “I couldn’t stand to see you in the Terrorscape one more minute. I came out here to help you. And I needed…I needed to make sure that you really want to be with him.” He juts his chin toward Darian. “And that, you know, he wasn’t forcing you or whatever.”

I shake my head as Darian groans.

“Yeah, that’d be me,” Darian says. “Forcing girls to be with me. Just add rapist along with murderer to the charges flung at me.”

“He didn’t force me to do anything, Asher. I promise.”

I step forward and Darian starts to protest, but Asher lowers his gun. “I said, I didn’t come here to hurt her.”

Darian lowers his gun, too, and I heave a sigh of relief. I let my arms fall.

“If you want to help her, then you need to let us go,” Darian says, frowning. “There’ll be others coming to look for us, you know that.”

I need a few minutes to talk to Asher. He at least deserves that much after how he helped us escape. I glance over my shoulder at Darian and widen my eyes. “I’ll be okay.”

He rolls his eyes. “All right. I’ll keep an eye out for other officials. But please, don’t be long. We have to go.”

I nod and turn back toward Asher. “Tell me you don’t really want to be with Mallory,” I say, walking over to him. “Because I know that you do.”

“I won’t lie. I told you before that I have feelings for her. But that doesn’t matter, Desiree,” Asher says, his voice strained. “You’re my binding mate.”

“Says who?” I ask. I know that for Asher it’s about honor and commitment. “The Protectorate has all of these rules that they declare are to prevent us from making mistakes. But we’re not robots. We need to make mistakes in order to learn from them. And we need to go through bad times to appreciate the good ones. Everything doesn’t have to be perfect, Asher. And I’m not really cut out to be a nurse. I’m an artist.” I bite my lip, drawing courage, and then add, “And I don’t think you’re cut out to be an official.”

Challenge fills his eyes. “I’ll learn to deal with it.”

I reach out and touch his arm. “You sure? Because it seems like you’re struggling to believe that yourself.”

He shrugs. His gaze drifts silently to his feet, then up at the sky. His jaw twitches and it seems like he’s wrestling with his decision. Finally, he looks back at me, his face softening. He slides the gun into its holster at his hip, and then removes the pre-binding bracelet from his wrist—the one I gave him that bears my first initial. He clears his throat. “Here.” He holds out his hand. The golden bracelet dangles between his fingers. “You should have this back.”

I hesitate, then remove the one he gave me bearing the letter A for Asher. I give him a weak smile as we exchange bracelets. “You’re really a great guy. You deserve someone who’ll be totally crazy for you…someone like Mallory.”

He smiles. “You do, too.” His gaze slides to Darian for a moment. “We both deserve to find happiness.”

I look over my shoulder and Darian raises his chin. I know it’s hard for him to see me with Asher now, but Asher was my past. Darian is my future. I slip the bracelet onto my wrist and it crosses my mind that it’s the last thing my parents bought for me. That thought alone warms my wrist underneath it. Asher pockets his bracelet and I know it’s because if any officials notice he’s wearing his own bracelet again, it would mean trouble.

“You better leave,” he says finally, looking reserved. “Do you even know where you’re gonna go—” He halts and holds his palms in the air. “Wait. Don’t tell me. But, Desiree?” he says, lifting his brows. “I’m sorry for everything I did to you when we were kids. Maybe if I hadn’t been such a dumbass, you wouldn’t have been so disappointed to be bound with me. Maybe none of this would have happened.”

Growing uncomfortable, I shift my feet and shake my head. “The past is the past. But, Asher, even if none of that had happened between us, you still have feelings for Mallory. Guess the heart wants what the heart wants, right?” I pause, size up his wounded eyes and realize how much Asher has changed. He’s not the bully I once knew. He risked everything tonight to help us escape. If things were different, we could even be friends.

“And thanks for helping in there. Honestly, that was really brave of you.” I step forward, wrap my arms around his waist, and hug him. “I’ll never forget what you did for us.”

He stiffens for a moment in my arms, then slowly returns my embrace. Kissing the side of my head, he says softly, “Good luck, Desiree. Be careful.”

“Rae,” Darian calls from behind us. “We gotta head out.”

I smile at Asher and step away from him.

“Wait.” Asher rushes behind a nearby bush and pulls out an army-green backpack. “I hid this earlier. It’s stuffed with some things for you guys…just in case you said you wanted to go with him.” He shrugs. “You know, water, nuts, and stuff. I know you haven’t been eating much since—well, you know—since your arrest and everything.”

I swallow, hard, at his gesture.

Darian steps forward and takes the backpack. “Thanks, man,” he says. “That was really cool of you to help us escape.”

Asher nods. Then the unthinkable happens. Darian extends his hand and Asher accepts it with a firm shake.

I give Asher one last smile and Darian slips his hand into mine. As we run off deeper into the woods, I don’t look back at Asher, but I do think about what he’s going to face. I hope he can find happiness with whomever they arrange to be his new binding mate. I wish I could fix everything for him and also make a world where my and Darian’s parents are still alive—a world where we could make our own decisions, good or bad. I also realize that we shouldn’t have to depend on a machine to sleep (even though the thought of a real nightmare still scares me), and that nobody should have the right to tell us when we have to die.

It’s a long time before Darian agrees to slow down and drink water. We run until I don’t think my legs can take me one more step. My throat is so dry I can’t swallow, and spots begin to form in front of my eyes.

Finally, he agrees to stop, and we hide out among a thick batch of trees. Darian tosses me a large bottle of water as I lean against a tree, then grabs a bottle for himself.

I guzzle the cool liquid, coughing as it goes down.

Darian scoots next to me and places a jacket he pulled from the bag around my shoulders. “Take it easy, babes,” he says, leaning back against the tree beside me. He points to a huge crest of a mountain in the distance. “You see that mountain peak?” He downs some water and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

I nod and gulp back another mouthful. I rest my head against the spot where Darian’s shoulder meets his chest, and he wraps an arm around me. “And do you see how it dips in the middle in an uneven way?”

I nod again. “Yeah?”

“Well, that’s the way we head. There will be other landmarks along the way that’ll lead us to the Awakened’s nearest cell.” He reaches over and slides a hand along my aching leg. “Then we can rest.”

I’m so tired already that I don’t know how I can make it. My body is broken and bruised with dried blood caked to my pants. Worse, my eyes are weary and there’s no way for us to sleep.

Darian shifts and his warm fingers tug my chin up. And, despite everything, my heart throbs when our eyes meet.

“I’m so sorry about all of this,” he says. “I-I know you lost everything.”

I reach up and close my fingers around his arm. “You lost everything, too,” I say, my voice breaking.

His jaw tightens and he glances away, still keeping his grip on my chin. When he looks back, he kisses my eyes one at a time, then whispers against my lips, “But I didn’t lose you, my sunshine.”

My body tingles at the light touch of his warm lips. I lift my hand and run my fingers along his cheek. He keeps his kisses light, teasing. And even though we’re in the middle of the woods on the run, a wave of happiness runs through me.

We’re safe. Even if just for this one moment, we’re safe.

My body eases, my muscles relax. Warmth grows inside me as he gently tugs on my lower lip with his teeth, and places his mouth over mine, deepening the kiss. The gentle probing of his lips against mine makes goose bumps rise over my skin, pushing aside all of the horrible things that happened in the last few days. I slide my fingers back through his buzzed hair and pull him closer, thinking I can never be close enough.

A rumbling growl of pleasure rolls through his chest as he slides his hand up the back of my jacket and caresses the bare skin of my back. His touch electrifies me, sending shivers of pleasure rushing through me. No matter what tonight or tomorrow brings, we’ll always have this.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, smiling against my mouth.

I nuzzle my nose against his. “You’re not so bad yourself, dragon.”

“Rawrrr,” he says, and tips his head back, laughing.

After a moment, he holds up my wrist that’s sporting the golden bracelet. “I wasn’t meaning to spy or anything,” he says. “But did you and Asher trade-up bracelets?”

I nod and reach over, twirling it around so that the letter D is visible. “D for Desiree,” I say.

“Or D for Darian,” he replies with a wink.

I laugh. “That works.”

His lips twitch. “I told you you’re my girl.”

I run my fingers along his jawline. “I’m not complaining.”

Darian presses the side of his face into my hand and brushes his lips against my wrist. After a moment, he kisses my forehead and sighs. “As much as I hate to say it, we need to move on.”

I glance over his shoulder at the golden orb peeking its head over the mountaintop in the distance. We’ve been up all night and still have a long way to go. Terrifying thoughts creep in about what we’ll do if we can’t find the Awakened cell, but I try to push them away and think of positive thoughts like finding my sister.

I reluctantly stand and brush myself off with a yawn. “Do you think they’ll know what happened to Sophia?” I ask, trying to think of something that might give me hope. “Do you think she could still be alive?”

Darian looks away and I can tell he doesn’t think she is, which makes my stomach tumble. He picks up the backpack and runs the back of his fingers along my cheek. “I don’t know, babes. But I’ll be there when you find out either way.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

We rush through the woods as quickly as we can. Even though I’m anxious about coyotes and venomous snakes, I’m most worried about what will happen if our bodies shut down and refuse to function without sleep…sleep that won’t come without the Dreamscape.

I wonder what it’ll be like to really sleep without the machine—if it’s true that the Awakened have discovered a way to remove the implant that puts us at The Protectorate’s mercy. I haven’t admitted to Darian that I’m terrified about what a real nightmare will be like. I wonder if it’s anything like the manufactured ones in the Terrorscape.

I’ve heard that, without the Dreamscape, people used to have real dreams too—good ones. That’s the only thought that keeps me calm when I allow myself the hope that we’ll make it to the Awakened…and I think about what the first time having natural sleep would be like.

The night is the hardest. Without a flashlight, it’s eerily dark in the woods and, with the sounds of creatures lurking in the brush combined with my profound lack of sleep, my mind plays tricks on me. Darian stays close, allowing me to rest occasionally, but not for too long.

By the afternoon of the second day, I’m dragging my feet, stumbling over rocks and brush like I’m drunk. My head pounds and I squint against the bright sunlight. I barely feel the cool air anymore as it rushes against my cheeks until they’ve become numb.

I can tell Darian is tired, too. He doesn’t talk as much, and the times we stop for a water break seem to grow longer.

Then, when I’m eating a handful of nuts, a black helicopter springs from out of the horizon, the whirring of its propeller growing louder as it draws closer. The white owl logo of The Protectorate splays out on the side of the craft. I’m so deliriously tired I swear I can see the bird’s wings flapping in sync with the propeller.

Darian jumps into action, grabs my hand, and dashes through the woods. It’s only with a surge of adrenaline that I’m able to move that fast. A lot of the leaves have fallen to the ground and it doesn’t give us enough cover.

I can’t go back to the Terrorscape. Not now. Not ever.

Darian stops, eyes darting everywhere, then bolts toward an area filled with bushes.

“Over here!” he yells.

I slump beside him, behind the shrubberies, and Darian grasps me protectively by the shoulder.

The sound of the propeller is deafening as it flies overhead. It seems like forever, but finally the reverberations of the copter fade and Darian helps me to my feet.

My leg throbs. It’s coming from the spot where my pants ripped on the barbwire. I try to pull the shredded part of my pants open to examine the cut, but realize the fabric is crusted onto my leg with dried blood. White pus oozes out. I groan. The wound is infected. I straighten my shoulders so Darian doesn’t notice. There’s nothing he can do out here to help, and telling him about it will only make him worry. I know I should clean the wound with water, but we’re almost out, and we need the few remaining drops to drink.

My legs feel wobbly and heavy as we move forward for several more hours. Exhaustion overwhelms me to my core, making me stumble and trip.

Darian lunges forward and grabs my elbow, then eases an arm around my shoulder. “C’mon, babes,” he says. “Almost there.”

“Right,” I say with a sigh, my head lolling against his chest, then drooping against my own before I bob it upright again.

As my body tries to give in to sleep, needles sting my skin like porcupines, zapping me alert with a shriek.

“I wish I could cut out this stupid sensor,” I spit through gritted teeth, scratching my nails over the tattoo of the number six.

“You know we can’t do that. If that were possible, I would have ripped that sucker out long ago. You know if you do, it’ll kill you instantly—”

“I know!” I snap, feeling more irritable than ever. He doesn’t have to tell me how our nervous system is hard-wired to the implant. He doesn’t have to tell me how we’re held hostage to it.

Darian sighs and opens the backpack. We finish the last remaining water and he discards the bag in a hollowed-out log.

I don’t know how much longer we walk, how many minutes or hours. But I do know that night has fallen again. I vaguely notice we have left the trees far behind and at some point we walked into desert-like plains. Puffs of dust kick up from our shuffling feet, and Darian mumbles under his breath from time to time.

“Almost,” and “red rock,” I think I hear him mutter against the buzzing in my brain. I’m loosely aware that if The Protectorate’s helicopter were to sprout up now, there would be nowhere to hide.

I lift my head to the wide expanse and think I see a huge peak of red rock. It’s in the distance off to the right, but the moonlight is too dim and it’s increasingly hard to hold up my heavy head. All of the muscles in my body rebel, cramping, and begging for sleep.

Darian stumbles, drops to one knee, and mutters a curse under his breath. I lurch forward, staggering, and fall beside him.

“C’mon,” he says, standing sluggishly and reaching his hand out to me.

I try to move, I honestly do, but my legs don’t budge, the pain and exhaustion overtake me. “Mmhmm,” I mumble and shift, willing my legs to move, to hoist me up.

My head sinks down and swings up again almost as fast, my skin zapping with the pain. Something shakes me, pulls my aching arm. I open my burning eyes to meet Darian’s bloodshot ones. He’s kneeling on the ground, his troubled face inches in front of mine.

“Please, c-c’mon.” Darian’s words are slurred, but he continues to tug on my arm.

I try to stand, but the pain in my infected leg makes me crumble to my knees again. I wince and groan. “You go ahead,” I croak out. “You…can come back…for me…when you find them.”

Darian’s eyes close a second, then open again. He shakes his head, closes his eyes again, then jolts alert with a grunt from the electrical current ripping through his body. “Dammit,” he growls. “Get up, Rae! Get up right now!”

I inhale a deep, prolonged breath, grit my teeth, and tug against Darian’s hand to stand. Somehow, I move forward.

“The red rock,” he says again, pointing to it this time.

The red—what looks to be a mountain—rock is only several feet away, but it may as well be days away. My feet are numb, and I’m a stumbling mess.

Shadows move in the distance, then bursts of light rip the darkness like a blade that slices my eyes.

A flashlight.

People.

“It’s them,” I hear one man say as four men approach.

Darian stumbles in front of me. “W—who are you?” he slurs.

“It’s okay, man,” the guy in blue says. “You made it! We’re from the Awakened. We’ve been in communication with Jameson. We’ve been expecting you guys.”

Darian’s shoulders slouch in what I take to be relief as he expels a huge sigh. “Call me Dragon. My girl…” he says. “Please help her.”

My wobbly legs give out and I’m on my knees again. One guy kneels beside me, tilts my head back a little, and pours water from a canteen against my lips. I take a mouthful, but shove it away. It’s not water I want, but sleep I need.

“We better hurry,” he says, then slings me over his shoulder.

Then he’s running, my body bouncing up and down against his as he dashes off, another guy flanking us. And, despite the rough bouncing and dust flicking into my face, I rotate between the feelings of dozing off and the zapping of pain—until my body starts convulsing in spasms.

I always wondered what would eventually happen if our bodies were deprived of sleep for too long, when they didn’t allow sleep to come.

And now I know.

It’s death.

Chapter Thirty-Four

I’m coughing and retching. My surroundings blur into odd sounds and glimpses of rock, brush, and debris under the sporadic glow of the flashlight as it illuminates a path.

The men carrying me are grunting and groaning as they both heave me up the red mountain, pulling on ropes. My head slumps, then jolts, and my body convulses in a seizure.

When I open my eyes again—I’m shocked I’m still breathing—another man climbs over the top of the rock that looks like a giant cavern. I’m being passed from one man to another.

Darian’s voice mumbles something incoherent from behind me, and my head spins with the blur of colored clothing in the darkness. The guys’ chattering becomes a cacophony of sounds that pulsates against my head like a jackhammer.

Ropes and straps swirl around me, along with clicking sounds, as I’m strapped to one man’s back. Then the sudden rush of wind, the smell of something musty, and the trickling of water piques my senses. I’m vaguely aware that we’re rappelling over the cliff into the deep, dark cavern.

Fast.

We reach the bottom with a splash. Sprays of cool water dampen my face. The blond man unties me while several others rush out of nowhere to help steady me on my feet. Something cool wets my legs and I realize we’re standing in water about two feet deep.

Spread out as far as I can see are cave walls filled with stalactites and stalagmites, and damp air surrounds us.

More splashes and Darian and his two guides land close by. Darian’s face is pale, sickly, and it takes everything in me to force a weak smile at him.

An old gray-haired woman—older than I’ve ever seen before—wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Are you okay?” she asks, her voice echoing against the cave walls. My eyes widen at the wrinkles that cover every inch of her face like a grid.

Her eyes crinkle at the edges as she smiles. “You’ve not seen an old lady like me before, I’m sure…except maybe in pictures,” she says with a laugh, then adds firmly, “Nobody is gonna terminate me.”

Her words sink into my brain, reminding me of how my parents were terminated so young—and how much was taken away from them.

It’s that thought that does me in. Instantly, my mother’s image flashes in front of me, the crimson blood defacing her white dress, the look of death washing over her. I picture my father lying next to her in a pool of his own blood.

I have no family.

I am alone.

My dad’s nickname for me, sweet face, rings in my ears, as though it too echoes off the cave walls…and my heart breaks all over again.

I fall to my knees in a wave of exhaustion, strain, and nausea, and start convulsing again.

“No!” Darian yells.

His scream bounces off the cave walls over and over…and over.

When I open my eyes, I’m in a small, stone room. I’m stretched out on a cot that’s pressed up against a rock wall. A red-and-black checkered quilt has been placed over me. Another black blanket is pinned over a carved-out door in the middle of a cave wall.

I suddenly remember rappelling over a cliff into a cave. I try to sit up, but my head pounds, so I lie back down. IV tubing, connected to a vein in my hand, leads to a bag of clear solution on a rudimentary pole.

I notice Darian slouched in a bean bag sort of chair in the corner of the room.

“Darian,” I whisper, unsure if anybody is outside the door listening.

He doesn’t budge.

My gaze falls to the soft rise and fall of his chest, the expression of ease on his face, and the way his hand hangs limp over the chair.

And I realize he’s sleeping…without the Dreamscape.

Without the Dreamscape!

Then, like a memory, other thoughts rush into my head—images of my mom and dad pushing me on a swing when I was little, feeding me ice cream, and singing me a lullaby. Tears spring to my eyes with a mixture of happiness and grief.

But something else.

The memories feel so real…tangible—like they just happened and I realize the images were dreams—that I had a real dream.

My eyes widen as my gaze drops to my right wrist. A small incision is stitched there, marring the swirl of the number six.

“It’s gone,” Darian says.

Startled by his voice, I look up into Darian’s bright blue eyes. He’s standing over my cot. I must have been so deep in my thoughts that I didn’t hear him stir.

He kneels beside my bed, lifts my wrist, and kisses my palm. “They removed our sensors as soon as we arrived. You’ve been sleeping for over twenty-four hours now.”

I sit up, swing my legs around the side of the cot, and lean my back against the rock wall. Its cool surface feels great against the back of my head. “Well, that explains why I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus,” I say, laughing. Then, in a more serious tone, I add, “What are these people like…I mean, is it okay here?”

Darian nods. “It seems like it.” He shifts in-between my legs so that his hips lean against the frame of the cot. He places one hand on my knee and he rubs my cheek with the other. “Most importantly, we’re free.”

A small smile works its way across my cheeks. I like the sound of that word. “Free,” I repeat, trying it out on my tongue. “Hey! I think I had my first real dream.” I gaze over his shoulder. “It was nice, actually. I got to see my parents again.”

“That is nice. I dreamed about eating a huge steak,” he jokes.

“Darian…” I say. “Do you think real nightmares are as bad as the ones in the Terrorscape?” I chew the corner of my lip, inwardly worrying about seeing that crazy clown.

He scrunches his eyebrows and shakes his head. “I definitely doubt it, sunshine. But I plan on asking for a double-sized cot just in case.” His lips tilt up into a wicked smirk. “That way, if you have any sort of nightmare, I’ll wake you up with kisses that will make you forget all about it—trust me on that one.” He gives me a wolfish grin and leans in, dropping a quick kiss on my mouth before coaxing my lips apart with his tongue and pressing his lips more forcefully against mine. My skin crackles under his touch and my senses come alive. Heart fluttering, I sigh into him as the weight of the last few days sloughs off me.

He leans back and runs his hand over the top of his head…and my eyes fall to the smoky tattoo of the number one on his wrist. Although the incision that runs through it is evidence that his sensor has been taken out, the tattoo still bothers me.

“I think we should get our tattoos removed,” I say, running a finger over his number. “You’re not a One, and I’m not a Six. I want to forget all about the numbering law.” I tilt my head and quirk a brow. “We’ll die whenever it’s meant to be, right?”

He nods and grins. “When you’re old and decrepit and I’ve gotta hand-feed you?”

I sock him lightly in the arm. “Watch it. And hey, you don’t have to wait until I’m old to hand-feed me, you know. I like the sound of you hand-feeding me anytime.”

Darian laughs, then his face grows serious. “I’ve been thinking about the whole tattoo thing, too. Since they burned down the Dungeon, I think we should get these numbers removed, and get matching tattoos of our initials. You know…just like we had on the doorway of the tree house. It’ll be in memory of that place and of the times we spent there—and, well…” Darian smiles and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “It’ll be for us.”

I think of the engraving of the two entwined letter D’s that we painstakingly carved into the wood on the tree house door. “I love that idea,” I say, and I mean it. The thought of never having to see the numbered tattoos again is amazing. Even better is the idea of it being replaced with such a fond memory. “Let’s do it.”

“Awesome,” he says, then smirks. “Hopefully the kid who does the tats here won’t maim us.”

When he mentions the word kid, I instantly think about my sister and the other children like Jax that The Protectorate call the Unwanted.

I scoot around Darian and jump to my feet. “Did you ask about Sophia?”

Darian’s face turns solemn and he stands up, shaking his head, but says nothing.

“Darian?” Panic claws at my chest, terrified of what he’s going to say.

He sidesteps me and walks over to the door. He places an arm against the doorframe, and pauses with a sigh. “I’ll be right back, Rae…” He pushes aside the black blanket and leaves.

“Darian!” I shriek, left staring at the empty walls in shock. I rush to the doorway and just as I’m about to pull open the blanket and peer out, I hear giggling outside.

And, before I can process what’s happening, a little girl steps in. She has a bright smile and long, black hair—hair so black it almost looks blue. And it’s that hair that makes me recognize her. It’s the same hair that’s been flashing in my mind.

“Desiree!” her little voice squeals as she hurries over to me. She wraps her arms around my waist and leans back and gazes up into my face with a giant, toothy smile. Tears glisten in her green eyes.

I don’t tell her that I don’t really remember her. I don’t tell her that The Protectorate stole all of those memories from me about two years ago. I make up my mind that she can fill me in about all of those things over time.

And that her memories will become ours.

She searches my face for some response and I open my mouth to speak, but my throat burns. I look to Darian. He winks and his face lights up with a huge smile.

I shake my head, smiling, then drop my gaze back to the little girl standing in front of me.

I’m not alone after all.

I have Darian, who has become so much more than an amazing childhood friend, and who has grown into something much more than I can put into words. And now, I also have family—a sister—my sister who was long forgotten and out of reach…stolen.

But she’s alive.

I reach my hand out and run it over her beautiful dark hair, wait for my shock to lessen, then try to find my voice again.

“Sophia…I found you.”

She presses the side of her face against my stomach and squeezes her arms that are still entwined around me like a boa constrictor.

I look at Darian, bug-eyed, hardly believing Sophia is here. “H—how?”

“A band of The Awakened managed to hijack one of their transport vehicles and rescue a few of the Unwant—um, some of the kids,” he corrects himself.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Sophia says, thankfully not noticing, or purposefully ignoring, his mistake. But her next words make the relief of the moment disappear in a wave of nausea. “Desiree,” she says in a soft voice. She sniffles, a tiny sound like she’s trying to hide her fear and be brave. “They said you’ll stop them from taking Madison’s heart. She’s still back in their compound. You have to stop them, Desiree, you have to.” As she says it, her little face grows fierce with determination. “She’s not even sick. Not one bit. They just wanna kill her because she’s a match for Prime Minister Vega’s grandson.”

Horror clogs my throat as I stare up into Darian’s startled gaze. Apparently, Sophia’s bombshell about using the Unwanted as a spare-parts reservoir is news to him, too.

Darian and I barely managed to escape with our lives, but as I run shaky fingers through Sophia’s hair, I feel as if I’ve been socked in the stomach. We’ve only begun to lift the veil of The Protectorate. And it feels like we’re opening Pandora’s Box.

Acknowledgments

First of all, thank you to all of the readers and book bloggers. Without your love of books, none of this would be possible. Keep on being awesome!

A huge thank-you to my amazing editor, Liz Pelletier. Thank you for believing in this book before it was even finished and for helping to make my dreams come true. You’re truly special for everything you do. Also, thank you to everyone at Entangled, those who had eyes on this book, and everyone in general. It really is an incredible team of awesome.

Of course a massive thank-you goes out to my fabulous critique partners: Rachel Harris, Trisha Wolfe, and Brenda Drake. Your insights and eyes on my pages were invaluable. Our journey together over the years has been a wild ride. Love you guys.

To my family, I love you all. Thanks for putting up with my obsession with words and stories that dance through my head.

And to sunny skies, beaches, and popcorn…just because.

About the Author

Shannon Duffy is a middle grade and young adult author. Born and raised in the scenic province of Newfoundland, she currently lives in beautiful Ontario. She also spends as much time as possible in Florida, which is her home away from home. If she’s not hanging out with her family, she’s writing or reading, working out, shopping, or trolling a beach somewhere tropical. Visit her at www.shannonduffylit.com.

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