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PROLOGUE
“SOME COWBOYS HAVE too much tumbleweed in their blood to settle down.”
—Ken Alstad
I stare at the grandfather clock and listen to the seconds tick by, and I am scared out of my mind.
Three days ago, Gran and Pa went for their usual monthly run into the city to get supplies. I stayed home, played the violin, and read old smut novels from the cardboard box in the basement. I hid when I heard spacecraft fly over, and then I did my chores as the sun sank behind the Dallas skyline.
I set the table like I normally would, and then I cooked dinner.Maybe they got stopped at a checkpoint, I thought to myself. Maybe there was traffic out of the city, or it was busier in the black market than usual.
I only started to worry when the clock chimed eight, and theystillhadn’t come home.
But I made dinner: veggies from the garden under grow lamps downstairs, cooked with rice and a single, precious chicken egg—the last of our stock from our last supply run. I made plates for the two of them, even though it was a waste of resources, and then I sat in my spot, Pa’s seat to my right at the head of the table, and Gran’s across from me.
The food got cold.
I started to cry.
At this point, my tears are all dried up, and my eyes are red as I stare andstareat the grandfather clock. At first, I watched it so closely because I was wondering where Gran and Pa had gone, and how late it would be reasonable to expect them to come home.
Now, I’m watching it because I’m trying to figure out how long they’ve been in captivity.
And how long they have left.
…and how longIhave left before I run out of food or am ultimately discovered.
I’ve done all the waiting I can, and now it’s time to go.
I stand on unsteady legs, humming to myself more out of an attempt to comfort myself than boredom. The tune is a jig that Gran likes—the Swallowtail, bouncing around on repeat in my head. My grandparents have been smart; they have a contingency plan for things like this.
That doesn’t make it any less terrifying to carry out.
I stride toward the front door, clenching my fists so tight that my fingernails bite into my palms. I can remember Pa’s instructions clearly, given how many times he’s drilled them into my head. If they disappear, I should go to the black market and seek passage to Austin, where I can connect with Resistance forces. Escape for three people is hard, but for one it should be easy; or at least, that’s what they’ve alwayssaid.And the Resistance will keep me safe from the Heavenly Host, while their forces stage a rescue.
I feel like I should save them myself, but I don’t even know where to look.
So I have to go to Austin.
First, I pin up my wild honey waves, making sure they’re secure against my head. My hair could be a weakness if someone tries to grab me—I know this from Gran telling me about the outside world.
Next, I throw on a white linen shirt over a black tank top, to keep pests off of my skin and to stay warm in the cool winter nights. On my legs, I wear a pair of jeans and a solid set of hiking boots.
I don’t look at my grandparents’ things as I pack. It’ll be no good to them if I mourn before they’re even dead.
I leave the food on the table, though…because I can’t bear to clear it away.
The last thing I grab is Gran’s violin, my fingers playing across the lovely, taut strings as I prepare to place it carefully in its leather case. I pluck the strings and squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself not to cry. Ihaveto do this for them—if at all possible, I have to make sure I survive and that they get free.
Once the violin is in its case, I hoist the pack over one shoulder and the fiddle over the other, staring at the door handle. The last rays of my third day alone in the house shine through the glass window, sparking on the shiny gold door handle. I reach for it tentatively, all that light staining my hand as well—and then I push the door open.
In all my twenty-three years, I’ve never been outside. Not since before I can remember, anyway—since my parents died and my grandparents took me in.
But I take that first step into the twilight…then another, and another. And then I’m walking away from the house and the life I’ve built there, and into the ruined suburbs of Garland, Texas.
South, to the city, where the Angels keep their base.
And beyond, to find the Resistance.
