Everything here is modern and crisp and clean except for an antique baby-grand piano sitting in the corner of the room. Its wood is worn and uneven in color; its keys are yellowed. There is not a speck of dust on it.
Zhornov drops his arm from around the doctor, finally. A band of sweat mars the otherwise perfect pink shirt. “Stay where you are.” He directs his command to no one in particular, but we all stop dead in our tracks, even Dr. Marieke. Zhornov makes no move to correct him, or invite him any farther. He simply walks the rest of the distance, alone, to his piano.
His back has been turned away from us the entire time, and yet this is the first time I don’t feel his eyes on me. My pulse quickens, my throat goes dry—but by the time I realize this is my chance, this might be my only chance, he’s turned to face us again.
Six notes ring out from the piano as he plays, slow and clear and haunting, a melody that lodges itself in my blood as soon as I hear it. I will never unhear it. It sounds like a songbird making peace with its own death.
The final tone, the lowest of the six, is still ringing from the walls when the floor opens. Not the entire floor—just a gaping hole where there wasn’t one before, with a wide staircase spilling deeper than I can see.
“Shall we?” Zhornov, for all his paranoia, could not look more genuinely thrilled. Of course he does. This meeting is one step closer to his future being secured, one step closer to earning the forever favor of the other four kingpins. “Lonan, take us under.”
Lonan starts for the stairs, not a heartbeat after the command, and I’m next—I follow.
I follow as if I don’t notice the glory in Zhornov’s eyes. The prized captain of the Resistance is at his beck and call, the prized captain of the Resistance is his now, the prized captain of the Resistance is no longer working against him! I follow, because he needs to believe these things for as long as possible. It will be so sweet to strip his glory away—theirs, really. The kingpins will fall, and so will every other Wolf, if the pieces crumble as planned.
I just need to kick off the crumbling. But time is thin, and we are running out of it.
EIGHTY-FIVE
MY BREATH CATCHES on instinct once we’re fully below: the ocean presses in on both sides of us for the entire length of this tunnel, kept at bay by walls so clear they’re practically invisible. The space is at least as tall as the room we just came from, and—by my best guess—as long as the entire island. Except for the row of black-diamond chandeliers that dots the ceiling, it’s as if we’re in a reverse aquarium. I imagine all manner of sea life swimming up to study us, sharks and jellyfish and other stinging, biting things, content to be on the side of the wall that’s safe from humanity.
Dr. Marieke cannot hide his awe. He breaks away from our group, places a palm against the glass. We aren’t so far below the surface of the ocean that it’s dark—between the sunlight from above and lights on the structure that stretches deep below us, the water outside these walls sparkles like a picture-perfect postcard.
“Impressive, no?” Zhornov barely spares a glance toward the school of bright yellow fish as it swims past. “If you decide to work with us, you’ll be entitled to one of the upper-level living suites near the coral reef Will’s team is cultivating. Now that’s a sight to wake up to.”
It takes all my focus to remain unflinching at the sound of my father’s name. I can only hope he’s faring well in the medical ward, hope he didn’t lose too much blood where Ava shot him. The vial of his blood burns a hole in my pocket. All of this would be so much easier if I could just stab Zhornov with one of the sedative syringes Pellegrin gave me, but that’s out of the question. This meeting needs to end with Zhornov at peak confidence—and nothing undermines trust like a needle to the neck.
“This way,” he says, herding us like mindless, obedient sheep to the underside of the stairs we just descended. He is careful to never turn his back. “Take a good look, Doctor—we’ll view the remainder of the demonstration from my sitting room.”
We dead-end at a striking set of double doors. They are deceptively delicate, hand-forged gates with bars like iron ribbons. Turquoise-blue light streams through the cracks.
My pulse pounds all the way up in my throat. Dr. Marieke is only four feet away from me, so close it’s almost laughable, the impossibility of all this. He’ll be gone soon, Zhornov is about to whisk him away—this may be my only chance, and I cannot fail, I can’t—
Zhornov turns. He has no choice, as there is a retina scanner on this entrance.
My fingers close around the bloodlock. I slip it out of my pocket, careful and quick. It’s never or it’s now: I reach toward Dr. Marieke, whose hands are at the ready behind his back. I start for the handoff—his fingers brush the neoprene sleeve—but Zhornov backs away from the scanner, moves like he’s about to turn.
The vial slips from the sleeve as both of us flinch—why did I not orient it to where the sleeve’s opening faced the ceiling? If it hits the stained-concrete floor, it’s all over, and it’s all over if I dive to save it. I’ve not been careful enough.
But reflex won’t let me stay still. I swipe blindly and pray for silence.
It is so silent as I lay hold of the vial, all I hear is the rushing inside my own head. Better than shattered glass and bloodstain, is all I can think. Better than secrets spilled.
I shove the vial, sleeveless and smooth, back into my pocket with no time to spare. Dr. Marieke crumples the neoprene until it’s invisible inside his fist, so smoothly even I doubt what I’ve seen. Zhornov turns just as the double doors open behind him. This isn’t the end, this cannot be the end. Tears creep along the rims of my eyes; I do my best to will them away. The sense-altered don’t cry.
“Hold them just inside these doors for the next four minutes,” he says to Pellegrin. “We’ll have the viewing screens ready to go by then.”
“I haven’t had the procedure—I’m not authorized to go as far down as they’ll be going.” Pellegrin was supposed to be in charge of the viewing screens, so he could control whose perspective is shown at any given time. Namely, not mine, as it isn’t an option and its absence will raise suspicion.
“Whose authority overrides mine?” Zhornov smiles, all blunt yellow teeth as he claps a hand on Pellegrin’s shoulder. “I want to send you down unaltered, must send you down—show the doctor just how far the project has come since we resurrected it.”
Dr. Marieke clears his throat. “It’s all right if that isn’t an option,” he says. “If it isn’t ready, don’t push things on my account. This is already an unprecedented feat of science—you’re not going to have to do much convincing to pull me on board.” He gives a calm, self-assured smile. I can see bits of my father in him, wonder who rubbed off on whom.
“Do let me try.” Zhornov’s eyes glitter like a gambler with a royal flush. It isn’t a question, it is the end of the discussion, and everyone knows it.
This is it. This is where our best chance at a better world is escorted far away from us.
This is where things get complicated.