Текст книги "Cress"

Автор книги: Marissa Meyer

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Her Majesty, the Queen, had gotten what she wanted. She was going to become empress.

Though Queen Levana herself would not be arriving until closer to the ceremony date, Thaumaturge Aimery Park, as one of her closest lackeys—er, advisers—was coming early as a show of “goodwill” to the people of the Commonwealth and planet Earth. That, and to ensure all wedding arrangements were being made to suit Her Majesty’s preferences, no doubt.

The shimmering white spaceship with its decorative runes had landed on the launchpad of New Beijing Palace fifteen minutes ago, and still showed no sign of opening. A journalist from the African Union was droning on and on in the background about trivial wedding and coronation details—how many diamonds were in the empress’s crown, the length of the aisle, the number of expected guests, and of course, yet another mention that Prime Minister Kamin herself had been selected as the ceremony’s officiant.

He was glad for one thing to result from this engagement, at least. All this ballyhoo had taken the media’s attention off Miss Cinder. He’d hoped that she would have had the sense to take this serendipitous distraction and come find him, quickly, but that had not yet happened. He was growing impatient and more than a little worried for the girl, but there was nothing he could do but wait patiently in this forsaken desert and continue with his research and plan for the day when all his hard work would finally come to fruition.

Growing bored of the broadcast, Dr. Erland removed his spectacles and spent a moment huffing on them and rubbing them down with his shirt.

It seemed that Earthens were quick to forget their prejudices when a royal wedding was involved, or perhaps they were simply terrified to speak openly about the Lunars and their tyranny, especially with the memory of the wolf-hybrid attacks so fresh in the collective memory. Plus, since the announcement of the royal engagement, at least two members of the worldwide media who had declared the alliance a royal mistake—a netgroup administrator from Bucharest-on-the-Sea and a newsfeed editor from Buenos Aires—had committed suicide.

Which Dr. Erland suspected was a diplomatic way of saying “murdered by Lunars, but who can prove it?”

Everyone was thinking the same thing, regardless of whether or not they would say it. Queen Levana was a murderer and a tyrant and this wedding was going to ruin them.

But all his anger was eschewed by the knowledge that he was a hypocrite.

Levana was a murderer?

Well, he had helped her become one.

It had been years—a lifetime, it seemed—since he was one of the leading scientists on Luna’s genetic engineering research team. He had spearheaded some of their greatest breakthroughs, back when Channary was still queen, before Levana took over, before his Crescent Moon was murdered, before Princess Selene was stolen away to Earth. He was the first to successfully integrate the genetics from an arctic wolf with those of a ten-year-old boy, giving him not only many of the physical abilities that they’d already perfected, but the brutal instincts of the beast as well.

Some nights he still dreamed of that boy’s howls in the darkness.

Erland shivered. Pulling the blanket over his legs, he turned back to the broadcast.

Finally, the spaceship door lifted. The world watched as the ramp hit the platform.

A gaggle of Lunar nobility arose from the ship first, bedecked in vibrant silks and flowing chiffons and veiled headdresses, always with the veiled headdresses. It had become quite the trend during Queen Channary’s rule, who, like her sister, refused to reveal her true face in public.

Erland found himself leaning closer toward the screen, wondering if he could identify any of his long-ago peers beneath their cloaks.

He had no luck. Too many years had passed, and there was a good chance that all those telling details he’d memorized were glamour created anyway. He, himself, had always given off the illusion of being much taller when he was surrounded by the narcissistic Lunar court.

The guards were next, followed by five third-tier thaumaturges, donning their embroidered black coats. They were all handsome without any glamours, as the queen preferred, though he suspected that few of them had been born with such natural good looks. Many of his coworkers on Luna had made lucrative side businesses offering plastic surgery, melatonin adjustments, and body reconstruction to thaumaturge and royal guard hopefuls.

In fact, he’d always been fond of the rumor that Sybil Mira’s cheekbones were made out of recycled plumbing pipes.

Thaumaturge Aimery came last, looking as relaxed and smug as ever in the rich crimson jacket that so well complimented his dark skin. He approached the waiting Emperor Kaito and his convoy of advisers and chairmen, and they shared a mutually respectful bow.

Dr. Erland shook his head. Poor young Emperor Kai. He had certainly been thrown to the lions during his short reign, hadn’t he?

A timid knock rattled the door, making Dr. Erland jump.

Look at him—wasting his time with Lunar processions and royal alliances that, with any luck, would never be realized. If only Linh Cinder would stop gallivanting about Earth and space and start following directions for once.

He stood and shut off the netscreen. All this worrying was going to give him an ulcer.

In the hallway was a squirrelly boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, with dark hair cut short and uneven. His shorts hung past his knees and were frayed at the hems and his sandaled feet were coated in the fine sand that covered everything in this town.

He was holding himself too tall, like he was trying to give the impression that he wasn’t at all nervous, not one little bit.

“I have a camel for sale. I heard you might be interested.” His voice trembled on the last word.

Dr. Erland dropped his spectacles to the end of his nose. The boy was scrawny, sure, but he didn’t appear malnourished. His dark skin looked healthy, his eyes bright and alert. Another year or so, and Erland suspected he’d be the taller of the two of them.

“One hump or two?” he asked.

“Two.” The boy took in a deep breath. “And it never spits.”

Erland tilted his head. He had had to be careful about who he told this code language to, but news seemed to be spreading quickly, even into neighboring oasis towns. It was becoming common knowledge that the crazy old doctor was looking for Lunars who would be willing to help him with some experimentation, and that he could pay them for their assistance.

Of course, the spreading knowledge of his semi-celebrity status, complete with Commonwealth want ads, hadn’t hurt either. He thought many people who came to knock on his door were merely curious about the Lunar who had infiltrated the staff of a real Earthen palace … and who had helped the true celebrity, Linh Cinder, escape from prison.

He would have preferred anonymity, but this did seem to be an effective method for gathering new test subjects, which he needed if he was ever going to copy the letumosis antidote the Lunar scientists had discovered.

“Come in,” he said, stepping back into the room. Without waiting to see if the boy followed, he opened the closet that he had transformed into his own mini laboratory. Vials, test tubes, petri dishes, syringes, scanners, an assortment of chemicals, all neatly labeled.

“I can’t pay you in univs,” he said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “Barter only. What do you need? Food, water, clothing, or if you’re willing to wait on payment for six consecutive samples, I can arrange one-way transportation into Europe, no documentation required.” He opened a drawer and removed a needle from the sterilizing fluid.

“What about medication?”

He glanced back. The boy had barely taken two steps into the room.

“Shut the door, before you let in all the flies,” he said. The boy did as he was told, but his focus was now caught on the needle. “Why do you want medicine? Are you sick?”

“For my brother.”

“Also Lunar?”

The boy’s eyes widened. They always did when Dr. Erland threw out the word so casually, but he never understood why. He only asked for Lunars. Only Lunars ever knocked on his door.

“Stop looking so skittish,” Dr. Erland grumbled. “You must know that I’m Lunar too.” He did a quick glamour to prove himself, an easy manipulation so that the boy perceived him as a younger version of himself, but only for an instant.

Though he’d been tampering with bioelectricity more freely since he’d arrived in Africa, he found that it drained him more and more. His mind simply wasn’t as strong as it used to be, and it had been years since he’d had any consistent practice.

Nevertheless, the glamour did its job. The boy’s stance relaxed, now that he was somewhat sure that Dr. Erland wouldn’t have him and his family sent to the moon for execution.

He still didn’t come any closer, though.

“Yes,” he said. “My brother is Lunar too. But he’s a shell.”

This time, it was Erland’s eyes that widened.

A shell.

Now that had true value. Though many Lunars came to Earth in order to protect their non-gifted children, tracking those children down had proven more difficult than Erland had expected. They blended in too well with Earthens, and they had no desire to give up their disguise. He wondered if half of them were even aware of their own ancestry.

“How old?” he said, setting the syringe down on the counter. “I would pay double for a sample from him.”

At Erland’s sudden eagerness, the boy took a step back. “Seven,” he said. “But he’s sick.”

“With what? I have pain killers, blood thinners, antibiotics—”

“He has the plague, sir. Do you have medicine for that?”

Dr. Erland frowned. “Letumosis? No, no. That isn’t possible. Tell me his symptoms. We’ll figure out what he really has.”

The boy looked annoyed at being told he was wrong, but not without a tinge of hope. “Yesterday afternoon he started getting a bad rash, with bruises all over his arms, like he’d been in a brawl. Except he hadn’t. When he woke up this morning he was hot to the touch, but he kept saying he was freezing, even in this heat. When our mother checked, the skin under his fingernails had gone bluish, just like the plague.”

Erland held up a hand. “You say he got the spots yesterday, and his fingers were already turning blue this morning?”

The boy nodded. “Also, right before I came here, all those spots were blistering up, like blood blisters.” He cringed.

Alarm stirred inside the doctor as his mind searched for an explanation. The first symptoms did sound like letumosis, but he’d never heard of it moving through its four stages so quickly. And the rash becoming blood blisters … he’d never seen that before.

He didn’t want to think of the possibility, and yet it was also something he’d been waiting for years to happen. Something he’d been expecting. Something he’d been dreading.

If what this boy said was true, if his brother did have letumosis, then it could mean that the disease was mutating.

And if even a Lunar was showing symptoms …

Erland grabbed his hat off the desk and pulled it on over his balding head. “Take me to him.”

Eight

Cress hardly felt the hot water beating on her head. Outside her washroom, a second-era opera blared from every screen. With the woman’s powerful voice in her ears, swooning over the incessant shower, Cress was the star, the damsel, the center of that universe. She sang along at full volume, pausing only to prepare herself for the crescendo.

She didn’t have the full translation memorized, but the emotions behind the words were clear.

Heartbreak. Tragedy. Love.

Chills covered her skin, sharply contrasted against the steam. She pressed a hand to her chest, drowning.

Pain. Loneliness. Love.

It always came back to love. More than freedom, more than acceptance—love. True love, like they sang about in the second era. The kind that filled up a person’s soul. The kind that lent itself to dramatic gestures and sacrifices. The kind that was irresistible and all-encompassing.

The woman’s voice rose in intensity with the violins and cellos, a climax sung up into the shower’s downpour. Cress held the note as long as she could, enjoying the way the song rolled over her, filling her with its power.

She ran out of breath first, suddenly dizzy. Panting, she fell against the shower wall.

The crescendo died down into a simple, longing finale, just as the water sputtered out. All of Cress’s showers were timed, to ensure her water reserves wouldn’t run out before Mistress Sybil’s next supply visit.

Cress sank down and wrapped her arms around her knees. Realizing there were tears on her cheeks, she covered her face and laughed.

She was being ridiculously melodramatic, but it was well deserved.

Because today was the day. She’d been following the Rampion’s path closely since they’d agreed to rescue her nearly fourteen hours before, and they had not deviated from their course. The Rampion would be crossing through her satellite’s trajectory in approximately one Earthen hour and fifteen minutes.

She would have freedom, and friendships, and purpose. And she would be with him.

In the next room, the operatic solo began again, quiet and slow and tinged with longing.

“Thank you,” Cress whispered to the imaginary audience that was going mad with applause. She imagined lifting a bouquet of red roses and smelling them, even though she had no idea what roses smelled like.

With that thought, the fantasy disintegrated.

Sighing, she picked herself off the shower floor before the tips of her hair could get sucked down the drain.

Her hair weighed heavy on her scalp. It was easy to ignore when she was caught up in such a powerful solo, but now the weight of it threatened to make her topple over, and a dull headache was already creeping up from the base of her skull.

This was not the day for headaches.

She held up the ends of her hair with one hand, taking some pressure off her head, and spent a few minutes ringing it out, handful by soaking handful. Emerging from the shower, she grabbed her towel, a ratty gray thing she’d had for years, worn to holes in the corners.

“Volume, down!” she yelled out to the main room. The opera faded into the background. A few last droplets from the showerhead dribbled onto the floor.

Cress heard a chime.

She pulled her hair through her fists again, gathering another handful of water and shaking it out in the shower before wrapping herself in the towel. The weight of her hair still tugged at her, but was feeling manageable again.

In the main room, all but the single D-COMM screen were showing the theater footage. The shot was a close-up of the woman’s face, thick with makeup and penciled eyebrows, a lion’s mane of fire-red hair topped with a gold crown.

The D-COMM screen held a new message.

FROM USER: MECHANIC. ETA 68 MINUTES.

Cress was buoyed by giddiness. It was happening. They were really coming to rescue her.

She dropped the towel to the floor and grabbed the wrinkled dress she’d been wearing before—the dress that was a little too small and a little too short because Sybil had brought it for Cress when she was only thirteen, but that was worn to the perfect softness. It was Cress’s favorite dress, not that it had a lot of competition.

She pulled it over her head, then rushed back into the bathroom to begin the long process of combing out her wet tangles. She wanted to look presentable, after all.

No, she wanted to look irresistible, but there was no use dwelling on that. She had no makeup, no jewelry, no perfume, no properly fitting clothes, and only the most basic essentials for daily hygiene. She was as pale as the moon and her hair would dry frizzy no matter how she coddled it. After a moment of staring at herself in the mirror, she decided to braid it, her best hope for keeping it tamed.

She had just divided it into three sections at the nape of her neck when Little Cress’s voice squeaked. “Big Sister?”

Cress froze. She met her own wide-eyed gaze in the mirror. “Yes?”

“Mistress’s ship detected. Expected arrival in twenty-two seconds.”

“No, no, no, not today,” she hissed.

Releasing her wet strands of hair, she rushed out into the main room. For once, her few belongings weren’t strewn across the floor and tabletops, because they were all packed neatly inside a pulled-out drawer that sat on top of her bed. Dresses, socks, and undergarments neatly folded alongside hair combs and barrettes and what food packs she still had from Sybil’s last visit. She’d even nestled her favorite pillow and blanket on top.

All evidence that she was running away.

“Oh stars.” She swept forward and grabbed the drawer with both hands, pulling it off the bed. She tore out the blanket and pillow and tossed them onto the mattress, before dragging the heavy drawer over to the desk she’d taken it from.

00:14, 00:13, 00:12, sang Little Cress as she wrestled the drawer back into place. It wouldn’t shut.

Cress squatted beside it, eyeing the rails to either side of the drawer. It took seven more seconds of harried finagling before she managed to slam the drawer shut. Sweat, or water from her still-wet hair, dripped down the back of her neck.

Tugging out a lock of hair that had gotten caught in the drawer, she hastily straightened the bed as well as she could.

“Mistress has arrived. She is requesting an extension of the docking clamp.”

“I’m getting there,” Cress responded, darting toward the boarding ramp screen and entering the code. She turned back to the room as the clamp extended outside her walls, as Sybil’s ship attached, as oxygen filled the space.

The opera singer was still there, and Mistress would be annoyed at Cress’s waste of time, but at least it wasn’t—

She gasped, her eyes landing on the one screen that stood out from the rest, and the single bright green message on a field of black.

FROM USER: MECHANIC. ETA 68 MINUTES.

She heard Sybil’s steps approaching as she launched herself across the room. She shut down the screen just as the satellite door whistled open.

Heart in her throat, Cress spun around and smiled.

Sybil met her gaze from the doorway. She was already glaring, but Cress thought her eyes narrowed even more in that moment between seeing Cress and noting her brilliant grin.

“Mistress! What a surprise. I just got out of the shower. Was just … listening to some … opera.” She gulped, her mouth suddenly dry.

Sybil’s eyes darkened and she cast them around the room, at the screens still quietly transmitting the opera singer engrossed in her song. Sybil sneered. “Earthen music.”

Cress chewed on her lower lip. She knew there were musicians and plays and all sorts of entertainments for the Lunar court, but they were rarely recorded, and Cress didn’t have access to them. Lunars generally disliked having their true appearances transmitted for all the galaxy to see. They much preferred live performances where they could alter the audience’s perception of their skills.

“All screens, mute,” she murmured, trying to stop shaking.

In the wake of silence, Sybil stepped inside, allowing the door to shut behind her.

Cress gestured to the familiar metal box Sybil carried. “I don’t believe I’m in need of any supplies, Mistress. Is it time for another blood sample already?” she asked, knowing it wasn’t.

Sybil set the box on the bed, sparing a distasteful glance for the rumpled blankets. “I have a new assignment for you, Crescent. I trust you noticed that one of our primary feeds from New Beijing Palace was disabled last week.”

Cress willed herself to look natural. Collected and unworried. “Yes—the recorder from the emperor’s office.”

“Her Majesty found it to be one of the more lucrative feeds we’ve placed on Earth. She wants another programmed and installed immediately.” She opened the box, revealing a collection of chips and recording devices. “As before, the signal should be untraceable. We don’t want it drawing any attention to itself.”

Cress nodded, perhaps too enthusiastically. “Of course, Mistress. It won’t take long. I can have it finished tomorrow, I’m sure. Will it be disguised in a light fixture, like the last one?”

“No, we risked too much by brainwashing the maintenance attendant before. Make it so that it can be more easily hidden. Able to embed on a wall hanging, perhaps. One of the other thaumaturges will likely handle the installation themselves during our upcoming visit.”

Cress’s head was still bobbing. “Yes, yes, of course. No problem.”

Sybil scowled. Perhaps Cress was being too agreeable. She stopped nodding, but it was difficult to focus as a clock ticked in her head. If Cinder and the others spotted the Lunar podship attached to her satellite, they would think Cress had led them into a trap.

But Mistress Sybil never stayed long. Surely she would be well gone before the hour was up. Surely.

“Is there anything else, Mistress?”

“Have you anything to report on the other Earthen feeds?”

Cress strained to think about any news she may have heard in the past few days. Her skills in cyber espionage went beyond research and hacking into Earthen feeds and databases, or programming spy equipment to be strategically installed in various homes and offices of high-ranking officials. It was also one of her responsibilities to monitor those feeds and report anything interesting back to Sybil and Her Majesty.

It was the most voyeuristic part of her job, which she hated. But at least if Sybil was asking her about it now, it meant that she and the queen hadn’t had time lately to monitor the feeds themselves.

“Everyone’s focused on the wedding,” Cress said. “Lots of talk of travel arrangements and scheduling diplomatic meetings while so many representatives are together in New Beijing.” She hesitated before continuing, “A lot of the Earthens are questioning Emperor Kaito’s decision to enter into the alliance and whether or not it will really signal an end to the attacks. The European Federation recently placed a large order from a weapons manufacturer. It seems they’re preparing for war. I … I could find the specifics of that order if you want.”

“Don’t waste your time. We know what they’re capable of. Anything else?”

Cress searched her memory. She considered telling Mistress Sybil that one UK representative, a Mr. Bristol something, was trying to make a political statement by rejecting his invitation to the royal wedding, but she determined that his decision might still change. Knowing Her Majesty, she would want to set the man up as an example, and Cress didn’t want to think what she would do to him. Or his family.

“No, Mistress. That’s all.”

“And what about the cyborg? Any progress there?”

She had told the lie so many times, it was effortless on her tongue. “I’m sorry, Mistress. I haven’t found anything new.”

“Do you suppose, Crescent, that her ability to go without detection is due to a similar technique we use to disguise our ships?”

Cress pulled her damp hair away from her neck. “Perhaps. I understand she’s a talented mechanic. Her skills may include software jamming.”

“And if that’s the case, would you be able to detect it?”

Cress opened her mouth, but hesitated. She most likely could, but telling Sybil that would be a mistake. She would only wonder why Cress hadn’t thought of doing it sooner. “I-I don’t think so, Mistress, but I’ll try. I’ll see what I can find.”

“See that you do. I’m sick of making excuses for you.”

Cress tried to look regretful, but her fingers were tingling with relief. Sybil always said some variation of this line when she was preparing to leave. “Of course, Mistress. Thank you for bringing me this new work, Mistress.”

A chime sang through the room.

Cress recoiled, but instantly attempted to morph her expression into nonchalance. Just another chime. Just another non-suspicious alert for one of Cress’s non-suspicious hobbies. Sybil had no reason to question it.

But Sybil’s attention had swerved to the single black screen that had awoken with the alert.

A new message had appeared.

MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM MECHANIC: ETA 41 MINUTES. NEED FINAL COORDINATES.

The satellite tilted beneath Cress—but, no, it was her own balance leaving her.

“What is this?” Sybil said, nearing the screen.

“It’s—it’s a game. I’ve been playing it with the computer.” Her voice squeaked. Her face was warming, cooled only where her damp hair clung to her cheeks.

There was a long silence.

Cress tried to feign indifference. “Just a silly game, imagining the computer is a real person … you know how my imagination can be, when I get lonely. Sometimes it’s nice to have someone to talk to, even if they’re not—”

Sybil grabbed Cress’s jaw, shoving her against a window that overlooked the blue planet.

“Is it her?” Sybil hissed. “Have you been lying to me?”

Cress couldn’t speak, her tongue heavy with terror, as if she were pinned by a glamour. But this was not magic. This was only a woman strong enough and angry enough to tear Cress’s arms from their sockets, to break her skull against the corner of the desk.

“You had better not even think to lie to me, Crescent. How long have you been communicating with her?”

Her lips trembled. “S-since yesterday,” she half sobbed. “I was trying to earn her trust. I thought if I could get close enough, I could tell you and—”

A slap sent the world spinning and Cress hit the floor. Her cheek burned and her brain took a moment to stop rattling inside her skull.

“You hoped she was going to rescue you,” said Sybil.

“No. No, Mistress.”

“After all I’ve done for you. Saved your life when your parents meant to have you slaughtered.”

“I know, Mistress. I was going to bring her to you, Mistress. I was trying to help.”

“I even allowed you net access to watch those disgusting Earthen feeds, and this is how you repay me?” Sybil eyed the screen, where the message still lingered. “But at least you’ve finally done something useful.”

Cress shuddered. Her brain began to cloud with the instinctual need to run, to escape. She shoved herself off the floor, but tripped on her hair and landed hard against the closed doors. Her fingers sought out the keypad, punching in the command. The doors zipped open. She did not wait to see Sybil’s reaction. “Close door!”

Cress flew down the corridor, lungs burning. She couldn’t breathe. She was hyperventilating. She had to get out.

Another door loomed before her, an identical switch beside it. She barreled into it. “Open!”

It did.

She stumbled forward and her abdomen smacked into a railing. She grunted from the collision, bracing herself before she could topple over it and straight into the cockpit.

She stood, panting and staring wide-eyed at the interior of a small podship. Lights and flashing panels and screens glowed all around her. The windows formed a wall of glass separating her from a sea of stars.

And there was a man.

His hair was the color of golden straw and his body strong and broad in his royal uniform. He looked like he could be threatening, but at that moment he seemed only astonished.

He raised himself from the pilot seat. They gawked at each other as Cress struggled to find words amid her tumbling thoughts.

Sybil did not come alone. Sybil had a pilot that brought her here.

Another human being knew that Cress existed.

No—another Lunar knew that Cress existed.

“Help me,” she tried to whisper, gulping when the words couldn’t form. “Please. Please help me.”

He shut his mouth. Cress’s hands twitched on the bar. “Please?” Her voice broke.

The man flexed his fingers and she thought—was it only her imagination?—his eyes seemed to soften. To sympathize.

Or to calculate.

His hand shifted toward the controls. The command to shut the door? To disengage from the satellite? To fly her far away from this prison?

“I don’t suppose you killed her?” he said.

The words seemed like they came from a different language altogether. He said them emotionlessly—a simple question. Expecting a simple answer.

Killed her? Killed her?

Before she could form a response, the guard’s eyes sped past her.

Sybil grabbed a fistful of Cress’s hair and yanked her back toward the corridor. Cress screamed and collapsed onto the ground.

“Jacin, we are about to have company,” said Sybil, ignoring Cress’s sobs. “Separate yourself from this satellite, but stay close enough to have good visual without drawing suspicion. When an Earthen ship draws close, they will likely release one podship—wait until the pilot has boarded this satellite and then rejoin us using the opposite entry hatch. I will ensure the clamp is pre-extended.”

Cress trembled, nonsense words falling from her in hopeless pleas.

The man’s sympathy and astonishment were gone, vanished as if they’d never been there. Perhaps they never had.

He jerked his head in a nod. No question. No thought to disobey.

Though Cress screamed and kicked, Sybil managed to drag her all the way back to the satellite’s main room, tossing her like a bag of broken android parts on the floor.

The door shut behind them, dividing her from the exit, from her freedom, and with its familiar clang she knew.

She would never be free. Sybil was going to kill her, as she was going to kill Linh Cinder and Carswell Thorne.

When Cress pushed back her mess of hair, a sob shook her to the bones.

Sybil was smiling.

“I suppose I should thank you. Linh Cinder is going to come to me, and our queen will be so pleased.” Bending down, Sybil grasped Cress’s chin in a claw-like grip. “Unfortunately, I don’t think you’ll survive long enough to receive your reward.”

Nine

Cinder groaned, the impact of her most recent landing still reverberating through her spine. The cargo bay’s ceiling spun and wobbled in her vision. “Was that necessary?”

Wolf and Scarlet appeared above her.

“I’m sorry,” said Wolf. “I thought you had control. Are you all right?”

“Frustrated and sore, but, yes, I’m fine.” She forced herself to take Wolf’s outstretched hand. He and Scarlet both helped her to her feet. “You’re right. I lost focus. I felt your energy snap out of my hold, like a rubber band.” That was moments before Wolf completed the maneuver she’d managed to halt for six whole seconds—grasping her arm and tossing her over his shoulder. She rubbed her hip. “I need a moment.”