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All the good memories of him have been held hostage by the horror of his exit. Now the bars crack, the doors open, and they flood me. All I want is to say goodbye to him. To let him know he was mine and I was his. But sitting here, surrounded by the ruinous shit I’ve made, I still can’t feel anything but anger.

I look at Holiday and I don’t have anything to say. I can’t apologize. The words just won’t come out; just as she will never apologize for letting him die, not even to herself. But she sees the animal pain in me.

“He would have wanted you to fix this,” she says.

“I don’t know where they are,” I say.

Holiday’s more comfortable talking about the kidnapping than she is about Trigg. “Who was it?”

“Syndicate. My contact was the Duke of Hands.”

She already knew. “Could you identify him?”

“Yeah. But I doubt he’s in the census. He was a Rose. High, high end. Private stock of a loaded Gold. Start your search there. And there was an Obsidian named Gorgo, definitely military. Not fresh from the Ice.” She takes notes. “What’s your exposure, Holiday? What could they want?”

“You tell me. There’s been no proof of life. No demands.”

“They didn’t kill them,” I say. “The Duke said they were for the Queen.”

“Did you meet her?” Holiday asks.

“No. Word in the game is that she’s an Obsidian warlord from Earth. No one knows for sure.”

“Really?” Holiday frowns. “Republic Intelligence has been operating under the assumption that she’s a Red for more than a year now.”

“A Red?” Lyria whispers.

“You think Obsidians would follow a Red?” I laugh.

“There’s also a chance they’re working with the Society,” Holiday says.

“That seems unlikely.”

“Why?”

“The Duke was a slave. He loathes the slavers. If he’s working for the Ash Lord, he doesn’t know it. Is this about the Peace?”

“Maybe.” Holiday looks out the window nervously, or as nervous as a woman with a head like a cinder block can look.

“Expecting someone?”

“You should tell him,” Lyria says. “He’s got the right to know.”

“Know what?” I lean forward. “Know what?”

“We aren’t the only ones looking for the children….”

“Slag me.” I half stand from my seat. “He’s back? The Reaper?” I look out the window, feeling the color drain from my face. “Ares?”

“Worse,” Holiday says. “The Lady Julii is on the hunt. And she’s out for blood.”

“She’s eight months pregnant. Forgive me if I don’t shake in my boots.”

Holiday smiles. “She attacked an Augustan shuttle over Hyperion in full war armor because Lyria was inside.”

I stare at her. “I didn’t know they made maternity armor.”

“They do.”