He is nothing but a messenger right now. A puppet-weapon. It can’t be true—I refuse to believe my father is dead unless I am shown definitive proof. Every word out of Ava’s mouth has been a lie, so why should I start believing her now? The kingpins must have promised her the sky, and all the stars, too.
Strength sparks to flames inside me, more strength than I knew existed. I wrench out of Lonan’s grip, lunge at Phoenix. Careful has done nothing but fail me today. I dive hard at his weaker hand, the one holding the amber-serum syringe, turn it on him until it plunges deep into his stomach. I pry the deadly blue syringe from his other hand, his grip still ferociously tight even as he collapses. If I have it, Lonan doesn’t.
Which only makes him want it more. He backs me up into a corner, against the glass, slams me so hard I’m surprised nothing—skull, glass, the universe—shatters. It is a miracle the bloodlock hasn’t broken, but it’s only a matter of time, I’m sure. I am quick enough to slip away, over and over again. He is quick to force me back.
All his strength: it is against me.
All his fire: it ignites me.
All his vengeance: it is wrath upon me.
I keep the needle pointed as far from my skin, and his, as possible. I refuse to use it on him—this isn’t him. I refuse to kill his shell when I know his soul is still inside it.
This line in the sand will be the death of me.
I know it as he pries the syringe from my grip.
I know it as we fall to the floor, and I jerk away just in time to keep from cracking my head open.
I know it as he looms over me, as he flicks the syringe to make the sky-blue liquid settle.
I kick, I plead, I search for something—anything—in his eyes that remains of the Lonan I so deeply trust. But he is not there. His empty smile is the last thing I will ever see, I think, as he plunges the needle down, down, down—
And into the flash of ebony skin that forces its way between us. Lonan throws Pellegrin like he’s nothing, sends him crashing into the window, and it finally gives: a hairline crack spiderwebs from the impact. I twist away, momentarily freed by the sacrifice Pellegrin has made. How much strength did it take, in his condition, to do what he just did for me? I am still alive. I shouldn’t be.
The effects of Lonan’s syringe are immediate. I would not have thought Alexa dead before if I’d seen this: eyes glassy as marbles, lungs exhaling like the shriek of a miserable accordion, limbs as brittle as barren trees.
This syringe has become life to me, while Lonan may very well become my death.
Emergency waterlock activating in ten seconds, a voice says, entirely too calm. For your safety, keep clear of the yellow line.
Phoenix and Cass are on the safe side of the line, unconscious, but the waterlock will slice clean through me if I don’t move—and Pellegrin’s on the wrong side entirely.
It’s too late to save him, though. It’s too late.
Five, four, three, the voice counts. Beads of water seep through the spiderweb crack—the entire ocean presses for entrance, will overpower the window wall any second now. I make a break for the door, and Lonan follows. We barely make it out as the waterlock plunges down behind us, sealing Pellegrin and the bloodthirsty sea on the other side, forever.
EIGHTY-NINE
PELLEGRIN IS DEAD.
Pellegrin is dead.
I should be focusing on the transfer, mindlessly completing the demonstration, and yet I am running for my life because Lonan is still dead set on taking it.
I fly from the living quarters. I fly down onto the aquaponics platform. Leaves slap my face as I speed past, running as fast as I can, out. How tried and tested can that waterlock be, without ever suffering an incident like this? This entire chamber could flood in a matter of minutes if it fails.
Lonan chases me, and he is not far behind. I follow the yellow line back to the vestibule, up and around the steep curve, pray the iron doors open automatically and that I don’t impale myself on their delicate but deadly design.
The doors open, not nearly fast enough, but with enough space that I am able to squeeze through as soon as I reach them. Lonan is forced to wait, the only downside to being broad-shouldered and muscular.
I pick up speed, taking the stairs two at a time until I’m in Zhornov’s grand entry room. Only the piano greets me: of course the kingpin would keep himself and his esteemed guest as far removed from chaos as possible. I spin around, frantically looking for an easy way out, but there isn’t one. There are no doors in this room, only the mouth of the deep, dark maze of hallways. I’ll be dead in seconds if I attempt to navigate that on my own.
Lonan surfaces from the floor below, every bit as quick on the stairs as I was. Move, Eden—move or die. I scan the room for something to hide behind when I see it: a hexagon in the floor at the base of the enormous window wall that faces the long strip of island and the double row of palm trees. Pellegrin designed the security here—it makes sense that there wouldn’t be an obvious way to enter this room, not with the habitat’s entrance located right here.
If I fail, it will be a spectacular failure.
The hexagon gives me confidence. Three times now, I’ve seen Pellegrin’s trademark security feature veil truth in illusion. A row of light illuminates the base of the window wall directly in front of me, so subtle it could be sunlight—if the sun were shining the right way, which it isn’t. I hurtle headlong for the wall with so much force I will shatter it if I have to.
But I don’t have to.
A burst of saltwater air, warm and humid, rushes in at me amid the faint hum of an automatic door sliding to the side. It looks no different than before, even as I pass straight through it.
Lonan is fast, but I am faster. Not by much. I never considered speed one of my strengths, but then, I have never been this motivated to stay alive. My chest hurts from all the breathing; my legs burn so fiercely they’re practically numb. I run the perfectly paved strip that spans the length of this island, palm trees and sunset flowers blurring in both sides of my peripheral vision.
We come to the end of the paved path—it just ends, as if the island’s cutoff point caught the path-builder off guard.
The sand slows me down. That, and the fact that I am exhaustion embodied. Lonan is more accustomed to running in the sand—a girl doesn’t get much practice when her home beach is laced with explosives—and catches up to me easily.
I drop all my weight to the sand, make myself a flat and heavy burden to carry.
It is not difficult.
I am heavy for Birch. For Emma. For home.
For the years I spent as an orphan, blood and teeth and tattered pages the only family I had left.
For Pellegrin. For Pellegrin who died for me.
For Lonan. How much regret he will feel when this is all over, how much pain.
We have come too far for this to be the way it ends.
So I dig in and fight. He pries at my hips, I hug them to the ground. He pulls at my collarbone, I ram my elbow as hard as I can into his rib cage. I push with everything I have left, dig the balls of my feet into the sand and pull with my fingertips until I am certain I am ripping apart.
We run out of island.