Page 7

A bed of silver spikes waits below, adorned with a skeletal collection from previous victims. Skulls and toe bones, teeth clinging to jaws and still chattering. It’s almost beautiful for that split second before my body smashes down, skewered in a dozen places. My blood splashes up, the warm liquid swallowing me.

My head breaks free. Water—not blood—frigid and sharp as glass against my skin.

“Look at those clothes. She’s—it’s one of them,” a voice says, then five fingers dig into my scalp, forcing my head back underwater before I can suck in a full breath. I’m overcome with stabbing pain, the cold penetrating my skin. I try to free myself, but my stubborn limbs won’t do as I say. Slow, defiant, stiff…until I can’t feel them anymore. My lungs ache for air. They plead for me to inhale, to drown myself and become friends with the death that haunts me.

The spikes…they would have been a better way to go.

I fight instinct, waiting for the dreaded moment when my body becomes my traitor, raking lethal water into my starved lungs. I’m near bursting when the hand gathers my hair into its fist and yanks my head above the surface. I draw in gulps of air.

Then I’m pulled from the water and dumped onto a slick floor, pain slinging through me, my clothes and boots heavy, cold air slicing over my skin. So cold. Shivering, my brain dethawing, I slide my hands over my throat. My pulse thumps—slowly, but it’s there. I’m alive. I force my eyes open to a squint.

There’s a crowd.

I don’t like crowds. Crowds mean people. People mean judging and staring and laughing and not caring.

People are much worse than drowning.

Dozens fill the courtyard around me, still and quiet, hatred poisoning their gazes. They’re incredibly tall, taller even than Kelter. They must all be related—some creepy, tall-gened family that’s been living outside the city for generations. Save for one woman in a plain violet dress that cinches at her waist and flows down in sheer layers, they all wear gray jumpsuits with collars and long sleeves, like mechanics. Though their clothes are drab and fashionless, their hair is unusually glossy and their skin flawless. No blue jeans and shirts and skirts. No wrinkles and frizzy hair. Only boring perfection.

Below the overhangs of the surrounding buildings, eyes watch over the scene—guards probably, with rigid bodies and black or cobalt blue jumpsuits.

I can’t find the energy to scream…or even cry. I manage a sidelong look at the owner of the hand that nearly killed me. Her olive face is young, and almost black hair sits above her shoulders. She’s not tall like the others, and instead of a gray jumpsuit, she wears a black one with excessive pockets. Her pointy nose twists with disgust when she catches me staring. Shesnags the back collar of my shirt and drags me a few feet over the slippery marble floor, closer to the woman in the dress.

“Can I kill her now?” she says to the woman and tugs at my collar.

I almost vomit. Stomach acid burns my throat. This isn’t quite the grand escape I had in mind. I look up at the stunning gray sky, crisscrossed with the tunnels above—where Kelter may still be hidden, either cowering or gloating to himself about being right.

At least I’ll die outside…encircled by majestic marble buildings with green on every surface, making up for the monotonous clothes and muted colors. My eyes follow the sprawling vines. They climb the curved walls and latch onto the arched tunnels, spilling down around the giant pillars supporting the overhangs.

A square-jawed man in a gray jumpsuit steps forward, a knife in one hand. “Iget to kill her.” He pulls me from the guard’s grasp, gathering me in one arm with the knife to my throat and stroking my wet hair with the other hand. “I’ve waited my whole life for this.”

“We all have,” the young guard argues.

I can no longer tell if I’m shaking from the cold or from fear. Trying to distance myself from the blade, I push my head back into his chest and scan the panorama, looking for the perfect last view before he takes my life.

Unsmiling faces. Black clubs occupy some hands, knives in others. And hate. So much hate. My eyes catch with one of the guards’—and lock. He’s off by himself, the other guards keeping their distance. His jumpsuit is blue, collar flipped up, and black curls fall around his light brown face. The nape of my neck prickles, and a chill kisses each bone of my spine. He looks at me as though he can see right into my broken mind—andthe damage he could do would be much worse. Somehow, I’ve revealed too much already.

“Not yet.” Our eyes unlock, and I crank my head to the side, following the source of the voice—the woman in the violet dress. A cloak of dark hair flows past her waist. She slinks closer as the knife scrapes my skin, then pounces. I twist in the man’s grasp in time to see her arm crooked around his neck and her hand splayed over the side of his face—and feel the slice across my throat.

He drops me, then the knife, casting loose a wail as though he’d been lit on fire. My kneecaps nearly crack on impact. I grab my neck, assessing the damage, my touch triggering the burn, the pain. And the blood. It’s not deep, but with the flow of red comes a sweet release, my inner pain diverted, trickling down my neck.

“Tell me, how did a Hollow manage to get into Sonnet?” The woman in the dress hisses into the man’s ear. “And what possessed one of your guards to put her in the old prison cell?” She looks up at the tunnel over the courtyard to the trapdoor dangling by its hinges. “Haven’t you told them it’s compromised? Anyone can escape if they’re in there long enough.”

He gurgles in response.

I inspect the blood on my hands as I take in her unusual words. Our abductor is one of them, but what’s a Hollow? And Sonnet? Caldera is the only realm, an expansive city spanning most of the land, surrounded by nothing but uninhabited nature on all sides. Or so they say, but no one has bothered to look. No one cares about knowing what’s beyond Caldera. Only me. I’m going to map the whole land—if I live.

I inch my fingers toward the knife a foot away, attempting to hide it from view. They slip along the wet marble, the handle almost within reach. Then a boot stomps on my hand, crushingmy fingers and smashing my knuckles. I cry out and try to pull away, but the guard in black twists her ankle and sinks her weight down.

“Send guards to check the tunnels and old prison for others,” the tall woman in violet adds, before letting the man fall to the floor by my side.

Others?Kelter.

“They already are,” he croaks, then retrieves his knife.

The guard grinds my hand once more before stepping away, leaving it heavy and throbbing. I crawl backward as the man rises and snarls at me. Forget the guards—he could be the madman. And I’m a dead woman.

“Stand up,” the woman says, sending her boot into my middle. Air whips out of me. Cramps strike my belly. I groan, curling into a ball, nausea sweeping over me.