“It matters because you’re not just my ally, and I know you’re good enough at reading me to know that.” That’s enough to open her eyes again, and I press on. “Tell me why he was hurting you, and I can keep you safe.”
She reaches for her beer, gulping down a long swallow and setting it down too hard on the floor. “I don’t know why. Just promise me you won’t tell him where I am. Promise me, Gideon.” She’s still gripping the bottle, knuckles white. Whatever’s going on has her terrified.
How can I possibly answer that? If I admit who I am, she’ll run. If I promise, I’m lying. But there’s nothing to do but nod. And something in her releases when I do.
“He’s hunting me,” she whispers. “For almost a year now he’s been following me. I’ve had to learn how to tell when he’s getting close. Alarms, digital trip wires, that sort of thing. He has flags on my accounts, records of my transport travel. Every time I think I’m safe, every time I think I’ve lost him this time, there he is. I only get a few weeks—a month or two at most—before he finds me. This, on Corinth, is the longest I’ve been able to stay in one place. But he’ll find me eventually. I’ve just never been this close to LaRoux, and if the Knave finds me before I can—” Her lips press hard together, and she doesn’t finish her sentence.
I feel like I’ve fallen ten stories. I know these tricks—hell, I invented most of the ways hackers like me track down individuals these days—but I would never use them to hurt someone like Sofia, an innocent. But someone out there’s been using my arsenal, the one I keep for people like LaRoux and Towers and everyone else who condones their crimes—and using it to terrorize people. All I can do is repeat her words like an idiot. “He’s hunting you?”
She nods.
I reach across to cover her hand with mine. “I promise you, whoever’s after you, you’re safe now. I know this game.”
“Whoever?” she echoes, brows drawing inward. “It’s the Knave, Gideon. I’m positive. Three different hackers have confirmed that, separately. He signs his work, the narcissist. Like an artist.” Then there’s a flicker of a wry, humorless smile. “Or a serial killer.”
I’m going to find out who’s been copycatting me, and make an afternoon with a serial killer look like a kid’s birthday party.
“We’ll keep you safe,” I say quietly. “I promise. Trust me with this.” I just need her to stick with me, and I can work this out. Maybe, when all of this is over, I won’t need the Knave anymore. But before I let him fade away, I’ll find whoever hurt her, and I’ll hurt them more.
Sofia steadies herself with a slow breath, turning her hand under mine until it’s palm-up, and she can twine our fingers together. A little more controlled, now. “It’s been a really, really long time since I wasn’t alone,” she whispers, and when I look across, our eyes meet. “I’ve missed that feeling.”
Her gaze goes straight to my heart. I’ve missed it too. And there’s something about this girl—so utterly strong, so vulnerable, so implacable in her purpose, but so alone—she brings all my best intentions undone.
She keeps her gaze on me as I set aside my meal, then take hers and her bottle, setting them aside as well. She swallows as I lean in to press my forehead to hers, curving my hand around the back of her neck, fingertips finding bare skin.
Everything between us—the ones we love who died, the way our hands linked together as we ran from Mae’s betrayal, the mad flight from LaRoux Headquarters, the taxi driver shouting after us, the tortured climb up the elevator shaft, that one perfect waltz—all those moments whirl through my head and coalesce into one instant of pure instinct.
All the things I should say—I’m the Knave, you don’t know who my allies are, I’m falling for you—are swept aside.
Her breath catches, and mine sticks in my throat, and then we’re surging together, rising to our knees so she can reach up to twine her arms around my neck, and I can duck my head to find her mouth, and I lose myself in her.
It’s hours later when Sofia stirs and murmurs in her sleep—that’s what wakes me. Our nest is lit only by the dim glow of my screen nearby, and I carefully ease up onto one elbow to check the time. Still a few hours until dawn.
When I look back, she’s curled up in a ball, her forehead lined, some dream causing her to push out a hand as though to defend herself. I’ve seen it over and over the last few days, but it strikes me anew. Even in her sleep, she doesn’t feel safe.
Carefully I lift the blanket, pulling it up over her where she’s pushed it off. It’s enough to settle her most times, and it works this time, too. “You’re going to wake up looking like a question mark,” I murmur, and she tucks herself up into a smaller ball, breath slowing. “A small, surprisingly beautiful que—I sound like an idiot. And I’m talking to myself.”
I’m smiling, too—also like an idiot. I have to get it together before she wakes up and sees me like this.