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The house’s surroundings are hidden behind hedges. I peek through the front gate and notice a security guard with dark gray hair walking past a fountain; not going that way. Brighton dashes up the block, and we all keep to the shadows as we run after him. He returns with the good news that the south entrance doesn’t have any visible guard, so we rush there. Prudencia telekinetically pushes open the gate, slowing down when it creaks, and we all slide through before the doors close. The lights are off in the backyard, and I’m so nervous we’re going to set off sensors like I know some rich people have.
I freeze, as the same security guard from before rounds the corner. His eyes glow as he begins raising his hands, but Prudencia locks his arms at his side and clasps his jaw shut all in one move; all that time she spent practicing her power back at the cottage is already paying off. The guard struggles to break free, and Brighton dashes over and knocks him out with three punches.
“MVP so far,” Maribelle says, patting Prudencia’s shoulder.
Brighton removes the guard’s handcuffs from his belt and binds his arms behind his back in case he wakes up. We drag him behind a bush too, hoping this buys us even an extra minute if someone else is here.
Prudencia telekinetically opens the door and no alarm goes off. We’re all immediately in some sort of telepathic agreement to no longer speak as we step inside. We’re in a sunroom with blossoming plants and white wicker benches. I’m so nervous about this hardwood floor giving us away if someone else is here. Tala leads Maribelle and Prudencia through a dining room and away from us, and Prudencia and Brighton exchange a concerned look; I’m going to make sure they get back to each other.
I slowly make my way up the steps, and when one begins creaking I pull off my foot. We all skip it and find ourselves on the second floor with portraits outside an office. Brighton peeks inside and comes right back out. If this is one of those houses that has secret hideaways triggered by twisting some old high school trophy on a dusty shelf, we’re not going to have much luck tonight. The master bedroom and two bedrooms are empty, leaving one more room down the hall.
I open the door and find what has got to be Ness’s room. The green curtains are drawn, and he’s got this really interesting wall with black diamonds. He’s definitely alive, judging from the way this place has been lived in, with its empty glasses, potato chip wrappers, clothes thrown around. I always thought when someone I liked brought me home that they would actually be bringing me home—not dropping clues during a national debate for me to break in and rescue them. And not with my brother and some other guy who I’m catching feelings for at my side.
“He’s alive,” I whisper.
“And not in here,” Brighton says.
I can’t help myself as I go over to his bed. If Ness and I were normal, we could hang out here, play games, talk about books, keep getting to know each other. Maybe even throw back some kisses and fall asleep holding each other like I’ve gotten to do with Wyatt at the Sanctuary.
There’s a paperback about Sunstar on his pillow. I can’t believe we figured all of this out, all thanks to him giving me that one clue during the debate.
A phone rings from within our group, and Brighton quickly silences it with the guiltiest look on his face. “It’s Wesley calling,” he whispers.
Wyatt rolls his eyes. “Did you seriously not consider putting your phone on silent before breaking into a politician’s home? Quite frankly, I’d advise that for any future break-in of yours.”
“Shut up.”
“Is it too late for me to join the other team?” Wyatt asks.
“Bright, we’ll call Wesley back, but for now—”
There are footsteps, and for a second I dare to dream that it might be Ness, but when we all turn to the door, we see a bodyguard with glowing eyes and electricity crackling around his fists.
Fifty-Five
The Void
BRIGHTON
The bodyguard wastes no time hurling lightning at us.
I dash-tackle Emil and Wyatt out of harm’s way, and the desk behind us explodes. Celestials using their powers so aggressively for a candidate who hates them are among the dumbest people I know. From the floor, I throw a fire-bolt at the bodyguard and lay him out in the doorway.
I help up Emil while the bodyguard groans. “No point sneaking around anymore, so I’m going to run around the house. You two stay close.”
“Be careful,” Emil says.
I dash out of the room, feeling the bodyguard’s nose crunch under my foot, and I pay no mind to his anguished cries as I go up the next flight of steps and toward the attic. The door is locked—this could be where Ma is being held. I blow it open with a fire-bolt. No one is in here. It’s a massive attic that I would’ve loved for a bedroom if I’d been wealthy enough to grow up in a house like this, but the space only has a camera on a tripod, chairs, and a desk. Maybe for the Silver Star Slayer interviews?
I go to the desk, hoping to find some proof of Emil’s big theory in case we can’t find our people. There’s definitely been campaign work happening up here, with some Iron-Bishop pamphlets, tax statements, and rally receipts. I open a binder and find transcripts of a couple anti-gleam videos that were released recently. Right as I’m about to close it, I notice some of the pages have edits in red.
These aren’t transcripts. They’re actual scripts.
Iron’s team must have Ness putting out propaganda too.
For the first time in my life, I’m truly terrified of Iron. If this is all true, then we’re up against someone more dangerous than Luna and the Blood Casters.
I hold the binder close, turning to find that security guard with dark hair I triple-decked outside. “That wasn’t personal. Neither is this.”
