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“Would Beaulah, in particular, leave anything that big to chance?”

Yani gazes around the room, her hands moving to her mouth. Beaulah prefers control in her hands. That’s why she’s tried to fill the brotherhood ranks with so many from her own inner circle. She intends to use these descendants to do something to the Sphere to save herself. Somehow that is her plan.

I order everyone to stay put until I’ve come up with what should happen next. Then I pull Yani into the hall.

“Did you know about this?” I ask her.

“No, I swear.”

“You had no inclination that Beaulah was raiding on her own, exploiting these people to steal secure information, using Draguns from the brotherhood to barter for children, and storing her evidence here to incriminate them, if found?”

“Jordan, you and your high horse. She is just like anyone else, taking what she can to get what she wants.”

I flinch. “You…admire her.”

“You should try it.”

“You disgust me.”

“Not entirely.” Her teeth pull at her lip and I regret ever looking at her any other way than I do now. I leave her there. Stryker, the little boy we took on the museum raid. That eager gleam in his eyes. He earnestly listened to my counsel. He seemed so innocent. Beaulah stole him and is blackmailing these people to plot treason. While carefully keeping her hands clean.

If Quell is a monster in the making for binding with toushana, for hunting the Sphere, what does that make Beaulah?

Quell.

The weight of her name ricochets through me like a bullet in search of a target.

“Oh my god.”

If Beaulah is collecting Darkbearer descendants, she would want Quell most of all.

“I know where Quell is.”

I thought I was hunting the greatest living threat to the Sphere.

I was wrong.

Thirty-Four

Quell

“Quell!” Her brows kiss as she takes in the ruined room. “I’ve been looking for you!” Adola is covered in scrapes and bruises, but two shiny pins gleam on her collar. She scans me up and down. “I’ve been so worried. Are you alright?”

I search for the words but everything that comes to mind feels impossible to say out loud. All I can manage is to hold out the nearly shredded pink handbag.

She eyes it in confusion.

“My mother’s things,” I choke. “The wolves.”

She gasps, then grabs my hand. “We have to get out of here before Charlie gets back.”

The trip through the forest is a blur. In the distance, the commotion of loud revelry rattles beneath a tent strung with lights. But, given what I know, they may as well be floodlights on a graveyard. Once we’re inside Hartsboro, Adola leads me upstairs to her room. She checks that we haven’t been followed before closing us inside and turning the door’s dead bolt. I pull out the note from the guesthouse and study the handwriting again. I’m going to find out who wrote this.

“What happened?” She examines what’s left of the pink bag, which I’ve dropped on the ground. Her mouth moves, but I don’t hear what she says. Then somehow I’m sitting down.

“Quell, please talk.” She hugs around herself, eyeing the bruises on my hands. “I want to help.”

“She’s dead. Ripped apart by—” The words lodge in my throat. “I think someone sent her to be killed.” I show her the note.