Because I am the only underage wraith.
Wraiths are made. It consists of a medical procedure: ISD must stop the heart for about one minute—which is how long it takes a tattoo to deactivate. It’s risky; sometimes a life cannot be coaxed back.
The unspoken truth is that wraithswantto be wraiths. They make the decision to surrender their former lives, their old crimes, hoping for a second chance.
Only an adult can consent to the operation.
But the feds didn’t kill me. No, I managed that well enough on my own. That put me in a legal gray area—which was Prefect’s specialty. He finagled things so that they could recruit me as a federal asset.Hisasset.
I know him as well as anyone can. I know how he takes his coffee. I know his rotating assortment of ties and the way he carefully enunciates every word when his temper frays.
And the thing is, Prefect isn’t a terrible boss. He has dedicated the last three years of his life to working with me. And unlike some other wraith handlers, he treats me like a person. I enjoy working with him. His dry wit and attention to detail are a counterweight to my energy and impulsivity.
Not to mention, he saved my life.
Prefect studied the broken creature brought in by ambulance and saw her potential. He signed off on countless expensive surgeries and climbed a mountain of paperwork to save her.
But here is the stark truth. Prefect didn’t savethatgirl.
That girl who lived before? Her heart stopped in an ambulance, her clothes soaked with river water.
But from her bones, Prefect built Augusta Pine.
And I’m not sure if I can ever forgive him for it.
8
“Augusta, did you hear me?” Prefect’s voice cuts through my daze.
“I heard you,” I say. “Someone stole government property, stashed it here, and now a group of murderous criminals have arrived to take it. And I’m your only hope.”
“Succinct as always,” Prefect says. “You’ve got full immunity for as long as it takes to get this done. Your mission is to keep federal property out of the hands of criminals. And I have more information for you. I looked through security cameras near your apartment building and I think I can identify one of the criminals.”
“Oh, good,” I say. “It’s always nice to know who might kill me.”
“Her name is Hannah Vale,” says Prefect. “Born in San Diego and considered something of a prodigy. Designed her own coding language at nine, went to college at thirteen. She’s an expert in cybersecurity. However, the few traditional jobs she had didn’t go well; I found several references to ‘issues with authority.’” A pause. “Sound familiar?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say blandly.
“She worked freelance for a while, but then she wentoff the grid,” continues Prefect. “It was only a year ago that she returned, leading her little crew.”
“What’s she into? Grand larceny? A bit of murder on the side?”
“Terrorism,” he replies flatly.
“Oh,” I say, suddenly very glad that only I can hear him. “Shit.”
“She’s a cyberterrorist,” says Prefect, “who has been part of an organization responsible for over thirty civilian deaths. They hacked a citywide water system last year, causing a flood of the sewage tunnels.”
I snort. “Okay, when I said ‘shit’ I didn’t mean it literally. She hacked toilets?”
“The organization was redirecting water,” says Prefect, “from certain parts of the city to other neighborhoods. Vale also claimed responsibility for bringing down two energy grids and hacking a few rather important companies and then selling the CEOs’ personal information.” A sigh. “Her little group call themselves the Ratiocination.”
“Radio-nation?” I repeat.
“The Ratiocination,” says Prefect. He makes no attempt to disguise the contempt in his voice. “The reasoning. Their manifesto, because of course they have a manifesto, is all about solving the inequality of climate change by any means necessary, even if it means killing people.”
“What does she want here?” I ask.
