“Ariane?” Zane called after me, and I could hear the alarm in his voice, but I couldn’t stop to explain. Not now.
Even though we were outside, I could feel the walls closing in on us. Which was ridiculous. If I was right, I never ever had to worry about being captured again. I should have been far more worried about the faint, imaginary tickle of a target painted on my back.
I weaved my way through crowds rather than taking the clear, open space to run. And to my surprise, I reached my destination unharmed.
The Bean sat in a large, open plaza ahead of me with picnic tables lining one side.
I saw Carter first, his pale hair a bright spot in the sun.
Still wearing his Linwood Academy uniform, he was stretched out on one of the picnic benches, his arms crossed over his chest as if he were sleeping, taking a break from playing tourist and basking in the sun. But the only movement came from the wind ruffling his hair. Anyone who bothered to look and really see would be able to tell that something was different, not right. The spark that meant life was missing.
“Ariane,” Zane said breathlessly as he arrived at my side. “What—” He stopped, his attention arrested by the scene unfolding off to the right, about 100 yards away from Carter. No one else had noticed Carter yet. They were too preoccupied with a more obvious bit of drama playing out.
The woman whose screaming had led me here had finally subsided to a quieter hysterical sobbing, but a small crowd had gathered. And yet in the true way of it, no one was getting too close (though several were recording the whole thing on their phones), except one guy on his knees who was attempting CPR.
Zane stiffened suddenly, and I knew he’d seen it…him. “Oh my God, is that—”
I jerked my head in a nod. “He must have been hanging around, waiting for instructions after…after Carter.”
Through the gaps in the crowd, Adam was plainly visible on the ground, his face turned skyward, his immediately identifiable bright yellow shirt now stained an equally bright red, blood seeping out beneath him and spreading out like thin angel’s wings.
And yet, no one was panicking, no one was running away. His assassination had been subtle, handled with the utmost discretion. He would be seen as a victim of random violence in the park, not a target of any kind. Unless you happened to know better.
“We’re definitely in trouble,” I said.
ADAM WAS DEAD. SHOT, IT LOOKED LIKE. Or maybe stabbed. Oh Jesus.
There was so much blood. I could smell it from here on the breeze from the lake, that strong metallic scent that coated the back of my throat. I’d smelled it only once before…when I was dying. That scent brought back an instant and visceral flash of the fear and intense bone-quaking vulnerability I’d felt in that moment.
Had Adam felt the same thing? Had there been enough time for him to realize that all of the blood and confidence were draining out of him? He’d been so sure he was better than everyone else who was competing, better than me.
He was right in that, at least. He’d had more time, more practice, with his new skills. But it hadn’t saved him.
Adam was dead, and all of his strength and abilities had not saved him.
I blinked, feeling myself wobble as the realization ricocheted through me. Adam had behaved as though he were invincible—which I guess I thought meant maybe I would be too, once my treatment was finished—but Adam was wrong. There was always going to be someone who was faster, stronger, or smarter to defeat you. And in this case, that someone had found and soundly defeated Adam.
But who? Guns, or knives, weren’t Ford’s natural inclination. And they definitely weren’t sanctioned parts of the competition. Discretion was supposed to be key.
“Come on.” Ariane pulled hard on my sleeve. “We need to get out of here. Now.”
“But…” I looked back at Adam, alone in a crowd of strangers. I didn’t like him, but just leaving him there felt wrong.
Then, as I turned to face her, I caught a glimpse of white-blond hair and a too-still form on one of the picnic benches.
It was Carter, laid out like one of those statues on old tombs in England our Ancient History teacher had shown us in class, the ones of the really old knights or whatever.
“Ariane,” I said softly.
Her empty expression didn’t change. “Move with them.” She tipped her head toward a gaggle of elementary-school-aged kids, laughing and tripping as they passed about twenty feet away from us. They were running circles around their weary-looking adult chaperones, all of them oblivious to the death near them.
After a moment of hesitation, I hurried after them to catch up, one more adultish figure on the edges, and Ariane joined me.