Swallowing thickly, I divert my eyes to the ground. “I’ve never been much of a fighter.”
Taylor abandons her whiskey bottle and heads to the roof access. “Now that is a bold-faced lie. You are tirelessly contrary.”
“You’re mean when you’re drunk,” I grumble as I follow her back down the stairwell.
“I am neither mean nor drunk. Just honest.”
“You can be all three, you know.”
7
Sunlight creeping across the floor of my room stirs me awake. Late, I muse as I eye the clock. We are usually up before the sun, but I’ve been permitted to sleep in. Hooray.
At the edge of my bed sits an unfamiliar, thicker outfit. It is not a gift, but a warning. Our next liaison is an official one—to Detroit, the heart of the MidCountry and the den of the MidCountry Region Leader, Thorne. Michigan definitely feels the chill, what with Thanksgiving in the rearview. At my house, Thanksgiving involved a big feast and the mansion’s halls would be festooned with autumnal decorations. Cider flowing, the scent of pumpkin pie wafting through the halls. It seems silly, but part of me yearns for it. I remind myself as much as possible that the life I lived no longer exists. Not to depress myself into a stupor, but to force myself to be more present. I’ll never survive into the future if I’m living in the past.
Taylor’s eyelids droop as she sips a massive protein shake in our quiet dining room. Claire insisted she drink it when Taylor refused a real breakfast, too bashful to admit she’s still inebriated from early this morning. In fact, she was so drunk she fell asleep on my shoulder in the helicopter on the way back anddidn’t make it to her room in the cabin. She passed out face-first on her couch, fully clothed.
Mason chews in silence, as he does most things, so naturally it’s up to me to point out how hungover my captor is. “How’s that whiskey treating you?” I inquire in bright tones, taking an exaggeratedly large bite of my pancake.
Her eyes burn into mine with as much heat as the poor thing can muster. “I am fine. I still ran.” I tilt my head and she relents. “I threw up halfway.”
“Now who’s the lightweight?”
Without a saucy comeback, she grumbles and resumes slurping her shake with a grimace. Her watch beeps in the specific rhythm I’ve come to associate with a Lady Leather meeting. Taylor groans and forces down the rest of her shake. “Instructions. Everyone.”
“I hope Lady Leather doesn’t sniff out you’ve been out drinking on the job,” I tease as we exit the room. “I don’t think she’d be too pleased.”
Instead of this jab instigating like I think it will, Taylor huffs out something vaguely laugh-like. “To say the least. She is not very fun.”
Mason opens the door to the outside and ushers us ahead of him. Chuckling at her frankness, I nod my head. “Fair and decisive, but not very fun. Are you sure you’re not related?” Taylor glares at me but lacks the energy to back it up as we plod across the frosted grass of early morning, Mason lagging behind. “Don’t worry, hero, I won’t tell on you. I can’t risk it, since my wicked charm isn’t working on her yet.”
Taylor manages a smirk. “No, not yet. But she didn’t kill you.”
“There’s always that.”
Upon reaching Theia’s office, Mason approaches the severe older woman with a friendly handshake. “Helios.” Theia’s voicerises several degrees warmer than I’ve heard thus far. “Are the ladies giving you any trouble?”
“Not any more than usual, ma’am,” he replies, and makes himself comfortable on a leather bonded couch propped near the bookcases.
Theia strides behind her desk and sits as Taylor and I take our seats in tandem. She notices this with half-hidden amusement. “Eos says your training went well, Miss Piccolo. She is not prone to hyperbole, so I hope for your sake it is true.” The heavily scrutinizing look on her face leads me to believe she isn’t convinced. “Now, current intelligence suggests Cornelius Thorne is home for the holidays.”
With a few flicks of her wrist, she summons a keypad from her desk. After pressing a deliberate series of buttons, a holographic, three-dimensional map materializes in the air between us. “His compound is a high-security, converted apartment building. He has both COs and local police, Dusters, on staff.”
Theia drones on about Dusters and assault rifles. I keep my eyes on hers, using a tried-and-true technique I honed with tutors—looking like you’re paying attention while you daydream. Instead of trying to understand the blueprint suspended in air in front of me, I try to imagine who this woman was twenty years ago. Younger, hungrier. Did she run the Order then? I imagine her scouring the woods on a routine patrol, rifle in hand, dressed in thick, olive-green sweaters and wind-deflecting black pants. Was winter in full bloom? Were the trees glistening with snow and frozen dew? Did she hear the insistent cry of a newborn? The primordial scream of the newly entered into this realm? Did she follow it to the source, only to come upon a blond baby with golden eyes, blue hands reaching upward, toothless gums chattering? Did it hurt her heart? It hurts mine.
“Luciana?” I blink back to attention, for real this time, and Theia raises both eyebrows. “You look distressed.”
On the screen is a projected tally of citizens slaughtered by Cornelius Thorne over the past forty years. “Papa said Thorne was the biggest bastard in the smallest suit, but I always figured he said that to make himself feel better. Either about being fat or being ruthless, I don’t know, but I guess he wasn’t lying.”
“Dusters execute their own people for minor infractions. Considering the steep drop in population in the regions following the Great Sickness, you can imagine how ruthless someone would have to be to voluntarily make that number fewer. They answer to no one but Cornelius Thorne, and he cares less about the people in his region than any of the other leaders.” She smirks. “Your father is a saint in comparison.”
Taylor clears her throat. “The compound?”
Theia pauses and bobs her head. “Yes, the compound.” Dusters dissipate and the three-dimensional map pops back up. “Converted apartment buildings made into one sprawling estate. The outskirts are mostly ruins, an occasional functional warehouse every other block. It should not be too difficult to get near the compound without detection, contingent upon securing an official Duster unit van. Eos uncovered one rather glaring flaw in Thorne’s security.” Twisting midair, the map zooms in to the side of the building, near an alleyway. “This alley is not routinely monitored, and the fire escape here leads to a bedroom. The late Mrs. Thorne’s. Untouched since her death, it is not outfitted with security alarms. The window is your access point.”
“No Trojan horse? No masked assassin waltzing into a ball? Just climbing in a window. It’s rather pedestrian.”
Theia raises an eyebrow. “Is this not glamorous enough for you, Miss Piccolo?”
