Like, for example, that Dad has known Dr. Reem Marieke for more than half of his life. He’s one of the colleagues from Dad’s university days, one of the three names written in the front of the field guide. It is true, according to Pellegrin, that he has skills where Dad’s are lacking. But the rest of it—that he’s accepted this meeting with Zhornov as a first step toward partnering with the Wolves; that Lonan and I, and the others, will be present solely to perform as test subjects who’ll go below the surface, in a demonstration of how safe and promising the habitat is—couldn’t be further from what’s actually going on.
In truth, he’s accepted this meeting with Zhornov because it’s the only way anyone on the outside would be allowed to breach this hemisphere. And it is necessary to make a connection with someone on the outside in order to transfer the bloodlock away from this hemisphere. Specifically, into the hands of one of Dad’s only trusted colleagues, who will then go on to work with Stéphane Monroe and the Allied Forces.
It is my job to get it into his hands. And all of us share the responsibility of making the transfer as seamless as possible: everyone stays alive, Zhornov included. If the other kingpins get wind of any of this, the Alliance will lose its advantage—and who knows what would happen to Dad, and Pellegrin, and all of us.
They’ll find out soon enough, after Dad locks them out and they can’t find the island again. That will be a sweeter misery than death, he says, for them to watch and wonder and weep.
I can’t say I disagree.
SEVENTY-SIX
WHEN WE LEAVE the lab, we become tech and procedural patient to anyone who might see us. There is no warmth between us, nothing to betray our secrets. The vial of blood rests securely in my pocket, padded by a slim neoprene sleeve, and the silver case full of syringes has replaced the field guide at my lower back: a sharper and more deadly way to protect myself.
“Stay with Lonan on the yacht,” he says. He leads me along the balcony in the grand entrance to a narrow, gilded staircase. We make our way up to the abbreviated third floor, en route to the holding cell. “As long as Ava is out, your father will be able to give directives to him, and the others—what to do, how to act.”
Something about this pokes uncomfortably at my conscience. “So he’ll still be controlling them?”
“Not exactly.” Though Pellegrin keeps his voice low, these hallways must not be as closely monitored as I thought. Or, if they are, it’s likely Dad who’s doing the monitoring now. “It needs to look like he’s controlling them, for when Gray and Ava wake up. But he’s planning to set your friends’ senses to autonomous, which means they’ll have the freedom to act, think, feel, and process their surroundings on their own.”
We arrive at the first non-glass door I’ve seen in this entire lodge—this door is a solid sheet of iron. It’s like the Wolves want to look like they live in glass houses and don’t throw stones, when really, they rule with iron fists.
Pellegrin presses three fingertips to the door and a circuit of blue lights blossoms into being—it reminds me of the map the boys activated back at the beach, on the enormous stone totem.
“Biosecurity,” he says simply. He traces the lines with his finger—it looks like he’s working a maze. “But back on the directives—it’s basically a simple means of being able to communicate with you from afar. We have some eyes on Zhornov’s island, so we’ll be able to warn you of things that might get in your way.”
“But I won’t be able to hear any of it.” I’m stating the obvious, but it’s best to be clear before I’m aboard a yacht headed toward Zhornov’s island with a bunch of HoloWolves, with so much at stake. Eden and a vial full of blood, versus the war, the history books will read.
I want them to have the right ending.
“Correct,” he says. “That’s the only downside to not activating you, but your father and I agree that the benefits of giving you the vaccine outweigh the risks of this particular handicap.” The blue lights have gradually transitioned to green, and there is a subtle click. He pushes the door open—there is no handle. “Also, your father’s been filling Lonan and the others in on the plan ever since Ava’s unfortunate incident, so there’s no need to discuss it out loud. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t discuss it at all.”
I am buzzing with nerves: there is so much that could go wrong, so much that hinges on everything working perfectly.
The other side of the door looks as bleak as it did on the screens in Dad’s office. It is just a windowless, blank room full of everyone I trekked here with—except for Hope, who I assume is still unconscious in the tunnel, like Ava said. Ava was strong enough to bring only one of them back on her own, I guess. The guys stand, determination on their faces. Alexa glances at them, confused, and slowly rises to her feet.
As soon as we enter, I am at the side of a different Pellegrin. Of course: we are surrounded by human spies. Even if Ava isn’t awake to see our live-action show, she will most definitely search the footage to make sure Pellegrin did his job.
And he does.
“What—”
Alexa falls to the ground, cut off by a swiftly drawn syringe to the skin just below her clavicle.
A trickle of sky-blue liquid drips down her chest.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
CASS IS THE first one on the ground, the first one to yell obscenities, the first to run his fingers through Alexa’s hair and wipe the oozy blood and blue liquid from her skin. Lonan checks for a pulse; Phoenix adjusts her clothes—they shifted when she fell, and now they’re not covering the things they should.
I am standing, shocked. Only I know how very dangerous the blue liquid is.
When Pellegrin turns and is facing just me, his mouth silently forms two words: Trust me.
And then he puts a finger to his earpiece. “Aries, activate the directive at once. Things are getting out of hand.” I see a glimmer of silver in his hip pocket: it is a twin to the silver case he gave me in his lab.
Almost immediately, the boys stop fussing over Alexa and stand at attention. Only Cass’s face betrays his hesitance to leave her side, and only for a split second—it is this that reassures me they are being informed, but not controlled.
This is all for show, I remind myself. It isn’t real, can’t be real.
It sure looks real. Alexa isn’t moving at all, and her breathing is weak. I don’t understand why Pellegrin would go out of his way to warn me about the blue-serum syringe, then turn around and inject my friend with it—trust me, he told me.
I try, do my very best to trust what I know, not what I see. I’m mostly convinced Pellegrin wouldn’t go so far as to actually kill Alexa—if anything, his science reassures me he’s the king of illusion. And if she’s not dead, there’s nothing to worry about. Right?
So I don’t ask questions. If I start asking questions that show I know too much, it could bring down our entire mission if Ava replays the footage. She is the sort who will replay it, I can tell. She’s too sharp to let anything slip.
“This way,” Pellegrin says.
We file out of the room, little ducks in a row, all of us but Alexa. She is silk hair and soft skin, long lashes and short shorts, fire tamed to embers.
We leave her slumped and unmoving on the cold concrete floor.
SEVENTY-EIGHT