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“Rae,” he says, low enough that the reporters can’t hear, “get in the car. I know where to find your brother.”
At that, everything stops.
The shouting fades to white noise. The camera flashes become distant stars. All I can see is Kir’s face, deadly serious, waiting for my answer.
Gideon.
Kir knows where he is.
How? Why? What?! The questions pile up in my throat until I feel like one of the nosy reporters, but none of that matters right now. What matters is that my brother is out there, alone and spiraling, and the man offering to help me is the only choice I have.
This is a trap. It has to be. But what are my other options?
I get in the car.
The door slams shut behind me and the chaos cuts off like someone hit mute on reality. The sudden silence is almost worse—it leaves too much room for my heartbeat to thunder in my ears.
It also leaves too much room for me to look around and realize what I’ve just done.
I’m in a car with Kir Lazarev. He’s not exactly a friend at the moment. “Mortal enemy” might be closer to the truth, given his role in landing me in this nightmare.
He doesn’t look like a nightmare villain, though. Mostly, he just looks exhausted. Determined, proud, defiant, but exhausted.
He wears it well. It’s the elegant fatigue of a prince who is learning just how heavy his father’s crown truly is. He settles back against the seat, crosses one ankle over his knee, and loosens his razor-thin black tie. The way he looks at me is mired halfway between triumph and pity. It says,I’ve got what I wanted… but at what cost?
“You okay?” he asks. When I shrug noncommittally, he nods. “Well, get ready. We have a long night ahead of us.”
The car pulls away from the curb, accelerating smoothly into the darkness. I glance backward. Through the tinted windows, I watch the flashing lights of the media horde and the police cruisers vanish from sight.
I have no idea where we’re going.
I have no idea what will happen next.
70
RAE
[HANDWRITTEN — Taped to envelope containing $12,000 cash.]
For Unit 16-C. Six months paid up front.
Don't say a word to anybody.
I don’t know where we’re going. We wind through streets I don’t recognize and take turns that seem designed to disorient.
Kir doesn’t speak and I don’t ask questions. I’m too wrung out for interrogation.
Eventually, we descend into an underground garage beneath an apartment tower I’ve never seen before. The car stops and Kir opens his door.
“Come on.”
I follow him out. My legs are stiff from the cold and the running and the crying, so I totter at first and I have to grab him to keep from falling. He catches me by the elbow and straightens me up, then, strangely, rips his hand away like he’s not allowed to be touching me.
Turning on his heel, he leads me toward a service elevator tucked into the far corner of the garage. He punches a code into a keypad and the doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss.
We ride up in silence. I’m so tired I can’t even hold my head up straight. The world has taken on an eerie, Technicolor kind of surreal tinge, and I have to keep pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.
When the doors open again, we’re in a long, windowless hallway painted the color of nothing. Beige carpet, beige walls, beige ceiling. It’s as if the place was intentionally designed to be forgotten. There’s not a single wreath or piece of decor on any of the doors. I start to wonder if anyone even lives here.
