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When the show is over and the smattering of applause finally dies down, the producer motions that the broadcast to the nation has ended.

“Thank God that’s over with.” Vince, standing just off-camera, has been on a hair trigger for the entire ceremony. “We should get inside.” He nods to the Secret Service positioned at the bottom of the stairs.

“Madame President.” He strides to Juno and offers his arm.

She takes it and they walk up the aisle, leading the way into the warmth of the Capitol Building. I try to remember if I go next or if I wait for the people across the aisle to go. Maybe the vice president goes next?Shit. But Valen isn’t moving. That must mean I’m up. I turn, my ankle almost giving as I try to maneuver along the red carpet. I rein it in and take a few more steps, emboldened by the fact I haven’t fallen yet.

The band suddenly goes squeaky and off-key, the sound crashing. Then I hear faint pops. I recognize it immediately. Gunfire. My stomach sinks, the world going bright and terrifying in a heartbeat.

“Juno!” I scream and look for her. She and Vince are on the stairs above me. He’s already dragged her in front of him and is pushing her to safety. Someone to my left falls, crumpling to the carpet with blood and bits of pink brain splattered onto their fur coat. Screams tear through the crystalline winter air, and the gunshots grow louder as people drop or run, some of them falling. Others crawling or ducking behind the folding chairs.

I take a few more steps before my ankle finally turns all the way and I fall. But I don’t hit the stone. Someone grabs me and yanks me up, then propels me forward. Stumbling over bodies and past screaming faces, I can’t stop, not with the force of the person at my back.

When we reach the stairs, I climb the first and second, and then I’m off my feet. Carried. I’m being carried.

I look up to see a sharp collar and pale skin. Valen. He’s bounding up the stairs with me against his hard chest as gunshots ricochet off the stairs beside us. More screams fill the air, and something nearby explodes, the huge flames so hot I feel them on the side of my face. The surprise of it pulls a scream from me.

He reaches the Capitol door and rushes in right as Vince leaps forward and slams it shut behind us.

“Go!” Vince yells.

Valen barrels ahead through another set of doors. With a jolt, he puts me on my feet, his scent of sandalwood, something smoky, and soap still in my nose. Then I’m almost tackled by someone else.

“Georgia!” Juno hugs me so tightly I lose my breath. “Oh my god, are you all right? Are you shot? Let me see.” She pulls open my coat and looks me over.

“Me? What about you?” I check her out simultaneously, looking for any wounds.

“I’m fine.” She grabs my hands. “I’m not hurt.”

We’re both shaking, both close to tears, and we hug again.

When we part, she calls over my shoulder. “Vince?”

“It’s over.” He presses a tiny wired speaker tighter into his ear. “The Service is sweeping through now. They’ve shot and killed four of them and taken two into custody.”

“Who was it? President Gray?” I ask.

“We don’t know yet. Could be his supporters, but we just don’t know.”

“Where are they taking the prisoners?” Valen steps forward, his tone calm and cold.

“There’s a holding cell near the vestibule where they?—”

Valen turns on his heel and strides away without so much as a glance in my direction. As if he didn’t just save my life. As if it was nothing to him.

Vince doesn’t seem bothered by Valen’s abruptness and presses the earpiece tighter again before peeking out the window onto the Capitol Grounds. “Ambulances are on the way, and we’ve got some stragglers coming up the stairs. Time to get you to the White House. We’ll take the tunnels.” He turns and hurries toward us. “Let’s go.”

I let him lead us away, though I look back for Valen. The man who carried me to safety is long gone, and now he’s an even bigger mystery than before.

6

“None of this seems real.” I plop onto a sofa in the Oval Office and tuck my socked feet beneath me. “Does it?”

Juno sits at the fabled desk as if she were born to it. “It’s what we worked for.”

Fatima hurries in with a tray in her hands, her big eyes warm as she looks down at me. “Coffee?” she asks.

“God, yes.” I groan as she hands me a cup. “Aww, you already sugared and creamed me? Thanks.” I take a sip. “It’s perfect.”