Inside the building, at the foot of a wide, wooden staircase, a lobby bustles with people clad in identical olive-green shirts and pants eagerly doing the bidding of rebellion, whatever that is.
At the end of a darkened hallway, my captors share a look of apprehension before Taylor knocks seven times in a specific rhythm on a door. A muffled, “Enter” comes from inside, and Taylor takes me by the wrist, forcing me to cross the threshold with her.
Sitting behind an imperial oak desk is a prim, severe-looking Asian woman. Streaks of gray and jet-black hair are yanked back into a bun. That’s a recipe for balding early if I ever saw one. Taylor shoves me into the room and the man closes the door but remains outside.
Built-in bookshelves line the walls on both sides, filled with colorful, worn volumes. A massive modern oil portrait of an unknown man hangs on one side of the door behind us; on the other, a neoclassical painting of Prometheus holding a greattorch of fire. He’s less recognizable without an eagle pecking his liver out.
Taylor doesn’t speak, and she stands near the doorway with her hands behind her back. The woman tilts her head up, and reveals an unexpectedly genial smile. She’s staring so hard at Taylor I’m surprised the tractor-beam gaze doesn’t lift her off her feet.
“Eos.” My eyebrows furrow at the unfamiliar name. Of course her name is a lie too. “How did the mission go?”
I shiver again in spite of the heat in the room and the warmth of Taylor’s jacket. The woman’s voice is like a sheet of ice, cold and silky.
“Target Two did not emerge before I was detected.”
The woman’s unnerving stare does not relent but Taylor does not shrink back, shifting her weight almost imperceptibly from foot to foot.
“Ah.”
The woman rises from her desk and slinks around to the front, black leather pants and boots creaking as she perches on the edge of the wooden furniture. She crosses her arms over a tight black knit sweater with leather pads on the shoulders and elbows. For a woman her age, she is crazy fit.
“Hence the appearance of this.” She gestures a dismissive hand toward me. “In my office?”
“What? This”—I showcase myself and my several-thousand-dollar dress—“was not the reason you showed up at my ball?” I’m not sure why I’m offended. Indignant is the only emotion I’m capable of not rooted in my consuming terror. “I am the most valuable item you could’ve stolen.”
Taylor ignores me, but her boss tosses me a bemused glance. “We are not thieves, Miss Piccolo. Eos, please explain why she is here and why she and Leader Piccolo are somehow still alive.”
The self-righteous confidence I possessed walking in here rapidly evanesces, and an obvious, frightening reality seeps in. My enigmatic dancing partner is an assassin. Not any assassin, buttheassassin, the one who murdered Leader McGovern and his family. Without permission, I ease into one of the seats in front of the desk, suddenly light-headed and nauseated.
“Yes, ma’am. My presence was detected before I could infiltrate the side room Target Two had locked himself in. Luckily, Miss Piccolo was near and I escaped with her as collateral.”
So, we are not going to disclose the dancing she did instead of her supposed infiltration. Well, I’m no snitch, and I’m certainly not going to take sides between these two fearsome women.
“Luckily? You are better than luck, Eos.” The disapproving tone bows Taylor’s head like a scolded child. “Because there is no such thing as luck, is there?”
“No, ma’am.”
“If there were such a thing as luck, I would consider it bad luck to bring this girl into our home base and show her the entire operation, wouldn’t you?” Her words take a sharp edge to them and if it’s not slicing into Taylor, more power to her.
Taylor’s scratched-up fists ball and relax at her sides. “I did what I had to.”
“You should have killed her.”
“I’m sitting right here,” I grumble.
Taylor shoots me a withering look before placing her attention back on the woman. “If I killed Miss Piccolo and left Leader Piccolo alive, he would have the entire Force on the hunt, Theia. With her, we have leverage.”
By the expression on “Theia’s” face, she is surprised by Taylor’s seemingly insubordinate objection. “Is that right? Remind me, what was Plan B?”
“It was not a possibility,” she replies. “There were civilians.”
Theia blinks slowly. “How many non-Upperclass?”
“Eighty-two. Maids, servants, hired help.” Violet. Ruby. Jean.They have names, I want to scream at them. Maybe I don’t know their names, but they have them. “It was not worth losing that many lives when Miss Piccolo made herself available.”
“While true, it does not excuse your poor work tonight. This complicates our operation to a ridiculous degree. What am I supposed to do with her?”
Forgetting myself, I cross my arms over my chest. “Yeah, keep talking about me like I’m not in the room, that’s great.”
