First published in the USA 2013 by Greenwillow Books,

a division of HarperCollins Publishers

First published in Great Britain 2013 by Electric Monkey,

an imprint of Egmont UK Limited, The Yellow Building,

1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2013 Josin L. McQuein

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

First e-book edition 2013

ISBN 978 1 4052 6394 8

e-book ISBN 978 1 7803 1182 1

www.egmont.co.uk

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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EGMONT

Our story began over a century ago, when seventeen-year-old Egmont Harald Petersen found a coin in the street. He was on his way to buy a flyswatter, a small hand-operated printing machine that he then set up in his tiny apartment.

The coin brought him such good luck that today Egmont has offices in over 30 countries around the world. And that lucky coin is still kept at the company’s head offices in Denmark.

Dedicated to Ms. Rob and Mrs. Soriano: teachers who took a kid who liked to write and taught her how to be an author, and who knew that dreaming isn’t a waste of time.

Consider this a promise kept.

A fearful hope was all the world contain’d;

Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour

They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks

Extinguish’d with a crash—and all was black.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Coming Soon

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Someone’s attention shouldn’t have physical weight, but it does. Hate’s a heavy burden; hope is worse. It’s a mix of the two that beats against my skin as my classmates condemn me, and I do what I always do—pretend not to notice the burn gathering at the base of my neck that says I’m being watched.

I focus on the front of the room, where Dr. Wolff’s wrapping up his presentation. Like the nine who spoke before him, he extols the virtues of his occupation in hope that someone listening will choose to follow his path.

“There’s no rush,” he says. “But please consider how few take up the caduceus. I fear that one day we’ll see a generation without healers, and regardless of what else comes, that will be our true end.”

I know he’s speaking to me, but I don’t want to hear him, or indulge his belief that I show promise. I don’t want to be a doctor.

By my less-than-scientific calculations, sixty percent of my memory is framed by white hospital walls and backed by an antiseptic sting so strong it lingers for days. Pain and injury are my past; they can’t be my future, too.

Besides, it’s hard to heal someone when everyone who comes near you cringes if you touch them.

Dr. Wolff steps aside to allow Mr. Pace his spot at the front, and an uncomfortable shift ripples through the room. Instead of his regular clothes, Mr. Pace wears fatigues and a dark green field vest with stitched stars on the pocket marking him as our acting security chief. Tonight, he’s speaking not as our teacher but as one of the Arclight’s protectors, standing in the place of the man I killed. This presentation should belong to Tobin’s father.

Somewhere behind me, I know Tobin’s there, being forced to bear another reminder of what he’s lost, but I don’t turn. This time, I leave him the peace of not having to see my face, and give myself respite from the rancor I’ve come to expect on his.

I keep staring straight ahead, past Mr. Pace to the patched crack in the writing board bolted to the front wall. Mr. Pace speaks of guard details and patrols, honor and responsibility, but none of those are for me either. Even if I wanted to join our security team, no one would allow it, so I let his words break around me and continue on to those more suited for them.

When he’s finished, the other presenters go back to their assignments, leaving me with a quandary. No offered trade or task feels right. Is it my destiny to always be the burden I became when Mr. Pace and the others dragged me, bleeding and unconscious, through the front gate? When I became proof that the Arclight isn’t the only human enclave left in the world?

Or at least that it hadn’t been.

Mr. Pace picks up his stylus and fills the board with a series of problems, as though this is any other night and he isn’t dressed for armed combat. His voice settles into its familiar drone, tempting me to close my eyes for a nap and claim a rare few minutes without pain. Five or four or even three without having to adjust my leg to stop its throbbing, or patting my inhaler on the end of its chain to make sure it’s there. I’d be grateful for anything.

But then the green light on the wall starts blinking blue.

I hate the color blue.

Everyone sits straighter in their seats. The stylus’s tip crushes against the board when Mr. Pace stops writing to check the alarm over the window. He takes a breath, erases his work, and starts over with something new as the glow from his bracelet lights up his skin.

This time everyone listens because his voice gives us something to think about other than the alarm reflecting off our desks a half-beat out of time with the pulse in my ears. It doesn’t matter that his words are artificially slow, or that our lesson no longer involves numbers or equations but reminders of the escape routes we’re supposed to know by heart.

“M-Mr. Pace?” Dante’s one of the bigger guys in class, someone others turn to when they’re scared, but there’s nothing sure about his voice now. “Shouldn’t you close the shutters?”

“If they need to close, they’ll close,” Mr. Pace says. He sketches a rough map of the halls, marks our room, and calls for a volunteer to join him at the board. “Dante?”

Dante shakes his head and presses himself deeper into his chair.

“Becca?”

But Becca, too, refuses to move.

Jove bites out a pointed “no way,” and anchors his feet. The caution light’s blinking; of course they’re cautious.

“Marina?”

I push back from my desk, using the short walk to shake the stiffness from my leg. I grasp at my inhaler to make sure it’s there, even though I never take it off. I could die without it.

I could die anyway.

“Primary route,” Mr. Pace says, and I draw a line representing our fastest way to safety.

He sets his stylus to another color and strikes through one of the halls, creating a blockade in the path I made.

“Alter the route,” he instructs.

I draw a new line, and count it a personal victory that I can remember where I’m supposed to go. Anything I can remember is a personal victory.

“Again,” he says, making another change.

Then the blue light turns violet and shatters the room’s strained calm.

I also hate the color purple.

Chairs scrape across the floor as people scoot toward their neighbors so they don’t have to face the moment alone. Someone tries to cover a whimper with a cough.

I turn to see my best, and only, friend, Anne-Marie, sitting at attention with her knuckles clenched around the edges of her desk. Sweat and tears roll down her nose, to where her bobbed curls stop on either side, while the personal alarm on her wrist blips in rhythm to her knee bouncing off the underside of her desk with a tiny thwack.

The sirens come a minute later, followed by the rattle of security shutters dropping into place. A hiss of air expels from the room as the door seals shut, and the ventilation system kicks over to a self-contained unit.

I jam my hands over my ears, ducking to the floor beside Mr. Pace and counting the seconds until the seal’s set. It’s an awful sound, too much like being shoved into a cage and having the door slam shut. Sure, the Fade can’t get in, but we can’t get out, either. The line between protected and entombed is much too thin.

In the far corner of the room, Tobin sits alone, choosing fury over fear. Hard, brown eyes narrow toward the door, as his hands bend his stylus nearly in half. His rage is no less terrifying when it isn’t directed at me.

The alarm changes one last time, reaching its peak color. The blinking bulbs above our door and window stop, and instead each side of the room begins to glow. Backlit panels pulse red, painting us all the color of fear. And when the others run for the safety point on the back wall, Tobin still doesn’t move.

We’re at Red-Wall; hiding under a table isn’t going to help anything.

In the weeks since I’ve been here, I’ve never seen an alarm go Red-Wall. It always stops on blue caution when the Fade are at the outer perimeter, or purple warning when they come close enough to test our defenses. Before now, the light’s always driven them back. Tonight something’s changed.

They’re inside.

CHAPTER TWO

Light is safety; light is life.

Blink.

Flash.

Blink.

Flash.

The room doesn’t look the same glowing red as it does in the pause between lights, and the surging bursts of color set me off balance.

“Everyone under, now!” Mr. Pace shouts.

Anne-Marie crawls over from her desk, tugging my hands away from my ears where I’ve covered them.

“Marina, come on,” she begs, as we scramble into the huddle at the back of the room.

We become a massive khaki tangle, with a single heartbeat and breath we all try to hold, like everyone but me holds hands. The Fade want me bad enough to risk death under the high beams, so tonight, my peers shrink from me more than usual.

And still Tobin sits, waiting. The stylus in his hand finally snaps, staining his hands and uniform. He catches me staring and looks away.

Mr. Pace uses the bracelet on his wrist to unlock a cabinet we aren’t allowed to touch and reaches for the high-powered rifle kept there. He checks the scope, palming a couple of clips to stash in the long pocket of his camo pants. He snaps one into the gun with a loud click before shouldering it with the sight trained on the door—our human fail-safe, in case the locks don’t hold. Not that a flesh-and-blood man will be much of a barricade if concrete and steel crumble, but if he’s willing to stand between us and death, we’re willing to pretend it’ll make a difference.

“Where are they?” someone on the other end of the tangle whispers.

“What’s going on?”

There are plenty of questions, but no answers. This can’t be all I get.

My time’s been spent adjusting to my wounded leg and figuring out how much medicine it takes to kill the pain without killing me. Weeks and weeks of fielding questions about my life before the Arclight, shrugging my shoulders when I get tired of saying “I don’t know what happened.”

I just got my life back; it’s too soon to lose it.

I know I’m supposed to be dead, and I know the others would be better off without me, but allowing the Fade to kill me won’t bring back the ones who died for me.

“Tobin, get under,” Mr. Pace orders, checking to see if we’re in position.

Tobin doesn’t say a word, but his posture screams defiance while the rest of us cower beneath our useless shelter.

No one survives the Fade.

I hear those words every night, but my survival tells me there’s a chance. Why should we accept defeat? Why not fight back? Why not live?

I rise to a crouch, with my weight on my good toe, ready to spring when the time comes, and try to fill in the blanks of my memory. All I need is a jolt to start me in the right direction.

Gunfire ignites in the hall outside our door, though I’m not sure anyone else recognizes the clustered pops for what they are. Practice hasn’t prepared my classmates for the terror of live ammo flying overhead; they don’t know the hot sting of a bullet ripping flesh and muscle, nearly breaking bone. To them, it’s a lesson—one I hope they’ve learned.

I tip forward until the weight of my body burns my fingertips, tilting my head to catch the sounds beyond our room and breathing deep to center my nerves. Gunfire’s a good thing, I tell myself—only humans use weapons, so there are still humans left.

“Tobin!” Mr. Pace tries again, but he doesn’t abandon his post. “We’re running out of—”

Everything goes pitch-black.

Time. We’re running out of time.

There’s a scream, just one, but it comes from everyone and everywhere at the same time. This is the worst part, even in practice. Humans can’t see in the dark, but the Fade can.

At least I can still hear. Our elders tell us the Dark is dead silent, and that my time there made my senses sharper. When I first came here, my eyes weren’t much better than a Fade’s for taking light, but they’ve adjusted. So far my hearing hasn’t, and I don’t want it to.

“Shades!”

Mr. Pace shouts over our panic, and the training sequences take over. We reach into our pockets for the tinted glasses kept there, so we’ll be prepared when the lights turn back on.

If the lights . . .

“Gloves!”

Mr. Pace turns this into a drill. Compliance is automatic.

“Hands!”

Everyone stands and we sort ourselves out in the dark. Jonah emerges from the jumble first, pulling himself hand to hand along the crowd until he’s at the door and calling out his name to say he’s in place. We’ve done this so often, I know how he fidgets, and the way he hunches to look smaller.

Another hand grabs mine as the next of us moves into place.

“Anne-Marie,” she yells back. If she’s keeping up, she’ll be sliding her right hand onto Jonah’s shoulder so she can follow him blind, and the routine continues. The only pause comes when Tobin doesn’t take his place.

“Marina,” I shout in turn, claiming my spot at the end of the line.

Silver’s tall enough that I have to stretch my arm up to grasp the loop on her uniform. There’s an expected twitch of her shoulders rolling under my hand as she ties her hair up so it won’t hit me in the face when we run.

“Tobin!”

The feel of his hand on my shoulder makes me jump, but I force a scream down. No one’s supposed to go behind me. And yet his hands are on my shoulders and his fingers are tugging at my jacket.

“Step,” Mr. Pace orders.

Everyone takes one measured step forward, closing the gaps between us.

“Can you march?”

Tobin’s voice comes as a breath beside my ear, his face pulled low and close. We’re not supposed to talk in step, so I don’t answer.

Those who speak become prey.

“Can you?” Another warm puff tickles the inside of my ear. “With your leg?”

I nod; we’re close enough that he should feel it.

There’s comfort in having warmth behind me, an illusion of protection I’ve never had with my back exposed. My skin pimples up as an odd electric shock races down my arms, and I can almost convince myself he’s concerned about me rather than the likelihood I’ll trip and bring the whole line down.

“I’ll be f—”

Something huge and solid slams the window from outside, shaking the room. Another scream goes up as a horrible truth sets in—they didn’t come in from the front. The Fade always come in from the front during our drills, but this one came straight to me.

Mr. Pace spins, the toe of his boot sliding against the tile so he’s facing the window before the echo has a chance to die. Claws scrabble against a surface with no traction, trying to dig through, but the shutters hold behind a half-foot of bulletproof glass set into concrete.

This is really happening.

“I’ve got you,” Tobin says against my hair. His hand drops around my waist. He pulls me tight until I feel his chest at my back, shuffling forward so I won’t lose my grip on Silver. The surprise of unexpected contact sends my heart beating through my back so hard I’m sure he can count my pulse.

Pressure’s building at the back of my skull, creating sparks behind my eyes. This is too much like my snatches of before, all screams and terror and confusion. I grab for the disc on the chain around my neck and suck in, counting down the pattern for a dose, and welcoming the familiar queasiness that settles in my stomach from the medication.

“Hold!” Mr. Pace must have heard us move, and I think surely the thing outside did, too.

Any hope that the Fade believes our room is empty dies when the creature slams against the window again, and again, until I realize it isn’t just one of them out there. There are at least a dozen, each with its own tone and pitch when it strikes.

The room goes still, folded into another held breath until a new nightmare emerges with the sound of cracking glass that says they’re breaking through.

The Arclight’s falling.

“Stay with me, guys,” Mr. Pace pleads over a surge of muffled whimpers. “Just a little longer.”

As we wait for the signal that will release our door, I feel suddenly lighter, and this time it isn’t the inhaler putting a fog in my brain. Half my weight rises off my feet, so I barely feel the muscles burning in my leg.

“Just step with me,” Tobin says. “I’ve got you.”

And I have no idea what to say to that. Normally, when Tobin speaks, it’s a grunted one-syllable “yes” or “no.” But he hardly ever speaks, and never to me. For me, it’s a glare like ice dropped down my back. His father led the rescue party into the Grey. His father made the choice to save me over the others. His father didn’t return. Why should Tobin be kind?

There’s a knock from the hall, a set of very human knuckles rapping out a prearranged rhythm before Mr. Pace unlatches the door with his bracelet.

“Go,” he orders, touching each shoulder to count us as we pass.

“If we have to run, go limp,” Tobin says. “I can carry you faster than you can move on your own.”

Before I can protest that I don’t need to be carried, Tobin gasps, lurching forward as though someone’s shoved him. The force cascades through our chain of hands. Elbows and knees hit hard on the ground, and the yelps that come after are followed by frantic shushing.

“They’re through!” Mr. Pace shouts behind us.

At first I think he’s saying everyone’s out of the room, but when he empties a cartridge into thin air, I realize he isn’t speaking to us at all. The Fade have broken in.

We’re dead.

“Move! Move! Move!” Lt. Sykes’s high and nasal voice shouts somewhere in the blackout.

Everything goes to pieces. We’ve only ever marched in silence with no real sense of urgency or danger. Now we’re a hive mind with a massive case of brain freeze. All our drills mean nothing, especially for the youngest children who spill out of the rooms on either side of ours, calling for their parents and crying “Fade!” when they run into us because they can’t see to know we aren’t the enemy.

Their voices are swallowed up by louder sounds as the corridor erupts with gunfire and something that is in no way human. I ball up on the floor with my hands over my ears.

“That’s not what I meant by limp, Marina!”

Tobin pulls me up by one arm, and then he’s racing toward the shelter beyond the maze of hallways, dragging me along the glowing line that’s been painted on the floor to guide us there. I try to keep up, but my leg can’t take it.

Good to his promise, Tobin lifts me off my feet, and over his shoulder I watch Mr. Pace and Lt. Sykes appear and disappear with every ammunition flash. Three others I can’t name shoot at shadows in the dark, their bodies twisting from the impact of the rifles against their shoulders.

“Don’t hold so tight, you’ll pull us down,” Tobin gasps. At some point I clenched my arms around his neck and didn’t even notice.

“Sorry.”

“I won’t drop you,” he promises, tightening his grip as I loosen mine.

Pairs of our elders line the hallway, guarding our retreat as they spur us forward. A flare illuminates the face of Honoria Whit with the odd bald V scarred into her hairline.

Easily the oldest surviving citizen of the Arclight, Honoria grew up defending her home, and she’s not going to stop now. While the rest of us scatter, she stands sentry, repelling the enemy with the force of her determination, shouting orders I can’t hear over the gunfire.

Behind Honoria, through the door of our classroom, I finally match an image to the idea of the monsters from my past as the Fade appear. They’re ghosts made of shadows, with their faces covered in decaying grey cloth. Silvered eyes glitter under monochrome hoods, visible only in the barrel flashes from our elders’ weapons. A haze of dark robes flies in all directions, making it impossible to see where one ends and his brother begins. Bullets cut through cloth and air, emerging on the other side to embed in our own walls.

This is pointless—bullets won’t stop the Fade. How do you kill pure evil?

“Bring it down,” Honoria orders, closer now, as she and the others join our retreat. “Collapse the corridor!”

Chunks of ceiling break loose and crash to the ground, creating a new obstacle for the Fade to cross.

“Get away from the walls!”

“It’s coming,” I say, and straighten Tobin’s shades, unsure if he’s paying as much attention to Honoria as he is to the destruction. He pushes off the wall, prepared for another sprint.

The passageway begins to vibrate, growing hotter as the redirected power collecting behind the walls reaches capacity. Generators snap on with a hum, flooding the complex with lights as intense as a second sun. In their wake come the screams and howls missing from the battle, and I know we’ve finally hurt them.

Panels that blinked red only minutes earlier burn hot enough to turn my alarm into a branding iron when it knocks against the wall as we flee.

Our shades protect us, but the Fade recoil, burned by light their pale eyes can’t handle. Some crumple like they’ve hit a solid barrier, but Honoria stays put, ready for the next wave.

The people who are close enough pick up the smallest children and run with them. I focus on the sound of boots and voices because it’s easier to make out than the obscure outlines my shades provide, but the noise leaves me dizzy, disoriented by fractured memories dredged up with the sounds of screaming Fade. I tuck my head into Tobin’s shoulder as he sprints to the only refuge we have left. I don’t even realize we’ve reached the bunker until the door slams behind us. My feet find their way back to the floor as I slip my shades back into their pocket.

I turn to say thank you, but Tobin wanders off to a corner by himself.

He’s the ghost again, and it’s with a pang I’m reminded he has more reason to hate me than most. So why is he the one who saved me?

CHAPTER THREE

I’ve lived a short life, most of which I can’t remember, and it doesn’t take long for the rest to flash through my mind while I wonder if it’s already over.

The wait reminds me of stories we’ve read in class. Our teachers claim things like art and literature are as important to survival as food and water, and they’ve preserved all they could of things written in the world before the Fade, including those of a place called Purgatory. There’s no sense of time, and no beginning or end, only the torment of an uncertain outcome over which you have no control. I didn’t believe it was real, but now I know we’re there.

I try counting off seconds in my head, but lose track around six thousand, at the point people thaw out enough to risk talking. Most everyone’s in motion; nerves make settling down impossible.

“We should just give her to them.”

Hearing Jove make the suggestion isn’t as surprising as having him wait nearly two hours to do it.

“Shh!” Anne-Marie, feeling guilty for choosing a seat with the crowd, no doubt. She shouldn’t. Safety in numbers is the first rule of self-defense. “You’re scaring the babies.”

Jove has the sense to look ashamed when he realizes that several pairs of very small ears are listening, but it only lasts until his attention strays back to me.

“We were doing fine until she got here.”

His argument’s always the same. It was my scent the Fade caught when I ran through the Dark, and it was me they followed through the Grey to the Arclight’s boundary, so the attacks are my fault. I can’t even say he’s wrong. There hadn’t been a Red-Wall for years before I came.

“Shove it, Jove,” Anne-Marie snaps. The last time he went off on this tangent, she dunked him in the ice bin from the Common Hall. Twice.

She reaches for a terrified bundle of curls and tears, and totes the girl to a quieter part of the room. A small troop of others follows her.

“Sorry,” she mouths when they pass me.

Anne-Marie busies herself with soothing the babies by having them sing lesson songs from class. Other, older voices drift in, thankful for the distraction, and soon the danger of the night is set to verses about numbers and silly sounds.

Tobin finds a seat under a table full of supply boxes. He draws his knees up to his chest and buries his face against them, rocking to the tempo of the children’s voices, while matching their cadence with a bump against the wall.

“Hey, Fade-bait.” Jove’s boot toes the side of my bad leg.

I tell myself I will not answer.

Anne-Marie’s voice notches louder, attempting to drown out Jove’s with the days of the week.

“If we toss you out a window, would the Fade really choke on your blood?”

I will not answer . . . I will not. . . .

“That’s what happens, right? You’re poison to them?”

I will not . . . I will not. . . .

He drops to his haunches directly in front of me. Have his eyes always been this cold? Was he a different person before I came?

“What’s the matter, freak?” he asks. “Forget how to talk?”

I cut my eyes sideways, not seeking permission so much as encouragement. Anne-Marie nods; I snatch Jove’s hand, and lick the back of his wrist.

“You’re still breathing, so I can’t be that toxic,” I say when he sputters backward, tripping over his own feet and landing hard.

A round of snickers runs through the room. Jove spits on his hand to wash it off, and climbs back to his feet.

“How’s it feel to know so many of us died because of you ?” He shoves my shoulders, knocking me back when I try to stand and face him. “You do know it’s your fault, right? If you’re Fade-proof, they died for nothing.”

No, they died for the hope that a human coming through the Dark alive meant . . . something. I just wish I knew what. Then they’d stop asking me.

Jove grabs my inhaler, using the cord to hoist me off the ground.

“Do they really eat the bodies they can’t use? Keep them as pets? What? What’d they do with your bunch?”

I’d bite him if I wasn’t sure he’d leave a sour taste in my mouth.

“Jove, let her go.” Anne-Marie’s on her feet now, too.

“Did you watch it happen?” Our faces are barely an inch apart. “Did you hear them scream? Did they beg for mercy?”

I pull back, but so does he, digging the cord into my skin.

He’s not worth it, I tell myself.

“Jove! Knock it off.”

“Shut up, Annie.” Every emotion from anguish to hate to terror shows on his face. But his eyes are pure misery, locked on mine, as though staring will somehow transfer his pain to me so he can be rid of it. “How many of those things out there used to be our people? You think William Bryce is out there? Or Elaine Crowder? Colonel Lutrell?”

Jove’s mouth just outran his brain.

He could have antagonized me all night, and no one but Anne-Marie would have said a word, but he should have left Tobin’s father out of it. Jove slams sideways, hit full force by someone a lot bigger.

“Get off me,” Jove yells. Tobin pins him to the floor, sitting on his legs. “I didn’t mean it. Get off!”

I assume the broken nose means his apology isn’t accepted.

One punch comes, then another, until they blur so fast the impact sounds like perverse applause. Jove gets out one good scream before his mouth floods with blood, sending flecks of crimson to pepper the front of Tobin’s face and clothes.

“Stop it!” Anne-Marie cries, but her feet are still stuck to the ground. Dante and Silver hurry the babies away from the fight.

This is something else the drills never prepared us for. We’ve never been locked in long enough for friends to become enemies.

“Toby, don’t!” Anne-Marie tries again, but he doesn’t hear her.

I don’t think Tobin even sees Jove anymore. He’s hitting his own agony, exorcising his own mourning.

He’s crying.

“Tobin, stop.”

I grab his arm on a backswing and go along for the ride when he pushes forward.

“Tobin!” I splay both of my hands on his shoulders as I duck my head into the space between his arms so we’re face-to-face. “He said he didn’t mean it,” I say, knowing Jove meant every hateful word. “Enough, he gets the point.”

Because of me, Jove lost his mother the same way Tobin lost his father, and he’s just as much an orphan. He doesn’t need a beating to understand that hurt.

So many here only have one parent; they’re not forgotten so much as never mentioned. Anne-Marie won’t discuss her father even when I ask. She says it’s not the sort of thing people talk about, but she can’t tell me why. If I had a family, I wouldn’t keep quiet about it.

Jove moans, unable to get away. Tobin’s still on his legs; I’m bent over his head, keeping myself in the line of fire.

“Get out of my way, Marina,” Tobin snarls, fist frozen at midswing.

“Look at him, Tobin. You’ll kill him. You cannot murder someone in the Safe Room, okay?”

It’s weird what arguments your brain comes up with at the worst possible moments.

“Move, or I’ll move you.” Tobin shifts his position for better leverage.

Desperation and lack of ideas make me stupid. I grab Tobin’s face with both hands, close my eyes, and kiss him on the mouth.

Anne-Marie says guys don’t think straight if you kiss them out of the blue; I guess she knows what she’s talking about. Tobin drops his fist. His body goes rigid; he even stops breathing. When I open my eyes, his are wide and bewildered.

That’s a good word for the whole room, because there’s nothing but silence until the babies start to sniffle and someone drags Jove out from under us.

In total, the kiss buys about ten seconds before Tobin snaps back to reality and pushes me away; we sit there for another five on our knees. He stands, wipes his mouth, and goes back to his corner without even glancing in Jove’s direction.

But he looks at me.

His eyes are clear and focused, without anger now, only loss and confusion. He collapses in on himself, so we’re back where we started. Me on my side, Tobin on his, both isolated in a crowd. This isn’t Purgatory. It’s Hell.

CHAPTER FOUR

It’s too hot in here, too close.

Anne-Marie sits with Jove’s unconscious body, trying to clean him off as best she can with her bare hands and shirttail. I unbutton my jacket and bunch it up under his head to help him breathe while she strokes his hand.

“Someone’s going to have to set his nose,” she says. “I don’t know how.”

“Doctor Wolff will fix it,” I answer. Besides the nose, Jove’s lost a couple of teeth. The rest of his face is swollen; he winces when I touch his side.

“But what if they lose Doctor Wolff?”

“They won’t.”

“I think I should get help,” she says. “Don’t you think I should get help? Someone needs to know what happened—or is happening—or could happen. I don’t think Toby meant it. Oh . . . how did this happen?”

She ends up gasping. Anne-Marie always seems to forget that she needs air.

“And how do you plan on getting out of here? The door’s locked.”

It’s the wrong question to ask.

She starts in on the horror of being locked in a small space—which she never thought was small until now—straying from one extreme to the other until she comes to the conclusion that we’re all going to run out of oxygen and collapse.

She’s abandoned her gloves, and the only two of her fingernails that managed to survive the run brush over Jove’s swollen eyes. She pats his hair down over his forehead, but all that does is leave it tacky against the drying blood.

“I should have made him stop,” she says. “Jove’s really not this bad . . . at least he didn’t used to be, but he lost his dad three years ago, and now his mom . . . I didn’t know he’d gotten so—I’m sorry.”

“It’s the Fade’s fault, not yours,” I say quietly, but her attention’s still on Jove.

“He’s bleeding on the floor.”

Untold years have left the cement surface cracked, and each spidered line acts as a thin channel for Jove’s blood to travel. Anne-Marie shakes her shoe to clear what’s pooled by her toe.

“I never thought he’d do something like this—Toby, I mean. He only ever hits walls, and I thought he’d stop that when the last one wrecked his knuckles.” She worries the edge of her sleeve with her teeth, leaving it with tiny holes along the cuff. “I should have stepped between them, not you. But I—”

“Anne-Marie, stop!” I cup my hand over her mouth. “Help me get Jove’s jacket off. He’s too big for me to maneuver on my own.”

Keeping her busy is the only way to stop her from talking, or at least change the subject.

“Are you sure?” she asks nervously. “We could make him worse. Marina, I don’t want to kill anybody. Please don’t make me.” Her hands are ice-cold and sweating over mine, trying to keep me from working his buttons.

“I want to make sure the blood’s only coming from his face. Otherwise, we need to stop it.”

“Yeah . . . okay. That makes sense.” Anne-Marie bites her cheeks to cut off whatever automatic protest she wants to make. I’d laugh at the effect if we were anywhere else.

“I can do this,” she chants as we roll Jove to one side and free his arm from his jacket. “I can— I can— I can’t— I can’t do this.”

Anne-Marie rocks back on her heels as soon as we lay him back down. It’s not fair that Jove caused the problem, Tobin did the damage, and we’re the ones with blood on our hands.

“Is he all right?” she asks, chewing on her sleeve again.

“We got lucky. Jove doesn’t know how to do laundry.”

It’s a black shirt day, but Jove’s wearing his khaki one. If he was hurt, the whole thing would be caked as red as his face. How can a person bleed so much from just his face?

“We should keep him still until Doctor Wolff can take him in the morning.”

Anne-Marie nods, shrugging her jacket off to drape over Jove’s body.

“We need to wash him off, and he needs water. See how much the dispenser will let you have.”

Anne-Marie hugs her arms around herself, grumbling about the lack of plumbing as she picks her way over to a tall black box in the corner. She holds her bracelet out to the sensor on the front, prompting a single canister to roll into her hand. No matter how many times she shakes her bracelet, that’s all the box gives her, and kicking it doesn’t change its mind.

Our bunkers aren’t meant to be lived in. They were storerooms initially, then converted to short-term shelters when the need arose. They’re nothing but a dash-away hole where we can hide until the Fade retreat into the Dark at dawn.

Cinder block and steel dampen our scents and voices, but if pipes ran through here, or power lines, the Fade could follow the sound of flowing water and humming cables. We have to make do with a night’s rations and a twelve-hour generator.

“It’s all I could get.” Anne-Marie returns with the one slim can of water, huffing from her assault on the dispenser. “Maybe we can use the babies’ bracelets for more.”

“Did you ask it for bandages?” I ask.

“I want a shower,” she sniffles. “And my own room. And my mom. And I really, really, really want Jove to not have so much gunk on his face I can’t see his skin. I can’t believe my stupid brother hasn’t even offered to help! I’m telling Mom exactly what he—” Her voice hitches as she scans the room. “Marina, have you seen Trey?”

“Maybe he fell behind and had to go in with the adults. Did you see him in the hall?”

“I don’t know,” she cries, searching for anyone the right shape or size to be Trey.

“He doubled back.”

I peer up at Tobin, smoothing away the white hair that falls in my eyes when I turn my head. I’m not sure if I should be angry with him for what he’s put us through or grateful for his help during the run.

“I saw him as we were coming in. Trey turned around as soon as you were inside, Annie.”

“Why didn’t you stop him?” Anne-Marie’s voice barely makes it out of her throat.

The only reason Trey would have gone back is to help on the line. That means he’s out there—with them. Anne-Marie heaves on the floor, but there’s nothing in her stomach to come up.

“Drink this,” Tobin says. “The adrenaline’s wiped out your blood sugar.”

He holds out two bottles of pale amber liquid, but she refuses them. She sets her jaw and glares like she wants to replay the fight with him in Jove’s place and her in Tobin’s.

“It’s apple juice,” he says, showing off three more in his other hand. “It’ll dry sticky, but you can wash your hands and face with it. The acid should help loosen the blood. Save the water for if Jove wakes up.”

“You’d better not be lying about this, Tobin Lutrell.” Anne-Marie snatches one of the bottles out of his hand.

“It’s just juice, Annie. I gave half of it to the ankle-biters.”

In their corner, the youngest children sit in a circle slurping drinks and wiping their noses with their sleeves. Somehow, in the last ten minutes, Dante’s been elected jungle gym and a couple try to climb on his back, bottles and all.

“Where’d you get it?” I ask. Glass bottles are used for the younger kids because they’re easy to sanitize and the tops screw on and off without needing a can opener, but they’re stored in the kitchen coolers, not down here.

“This place has a lot of secrets, you just have to know where to look.” Tobin sets the last bottles on the floor, taking a seat on Jove’s other side. “It’s the same kind of dispenser they use for snack time in the lower-year classes. Juice is provided in bulk, in response to whatever number of students the teacher puts in, but water’s rationed to one bottle per person. They switch out the machines for maintenance, but always overlook the juice bottles and cookies.”

He pulls off his jacket, biting a hole in it so he can rip the material. Within minutes, he’s got a pile of long khaki strips.

“Bandages,” he says. “You okay, Annie?”

“No. And I do not want to talk to you right now.” After downing the first bottle in one long gulp, she takes a handful of strips, pours some juice on one, and starts cleaning the dried blood away from Jove’s mouth.

He’s a mess. His bumps and bruises have gained definition, changing the lines of his face and darkening his skin in places. He barely looks human.

“At least he’s not awake to feel it,” I say as I wash off his knuckles.

“Careful,” Tobin warns. “Only clean his skin, not the wounds. The sugar could give him an infection.”

“Don’t you tell her to be careful, Toby,” Anne-Marie snaps, but she listens well enough to skirt the split on Jove’s eyebrow. “You should thank her for stopping you.”

She takes a long swipe down Jove’s cheek, accidentally snagging one of the cuts. Tobin presses a clean bandage against it to stop the bleeding.

“You know you didn’t have to hit him, or you could have just hit him once, but you didn’t. If Marina hadn’t made you stop, you could have killed him.”

Apple juice sloshes out of the bottle as she shakes it at another bandage to clean off Jove’s cracked lips.

“He’s burning hot, Toby. Feel his face.” Anne-Marie grabs Tobin’s hand, not giving him a choice. “When he wakes up you’re going to apologize or . . . well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but you’re not going to like it!”

Her voice dies down to half-mumbled threats. If Jove weren’t already unconscious, she’d talk him into a coma.

Tobin and I ease away once most of Jove’s injuries are checked, leaving Anne-Marie to take care of him.

“We need a clock in here,” Tobin says.

Or windows. Or a radio. Anything to tell us how close it is to dawn, and what might be happening outside.

I check my personal alarm, hoping I can figure out a way to coax information from it, but the face is still flooded with blinking red light. It’s a shock to see the burn from where I’d hit the wall during the run. I hadn’t really registered the pain until now.

That claustrophobic feeling that had Anne-Marie so keyed up settles in. It really is a small room once it’s packed full, and yet I somehow end up picking a spot close to Tobin rather than one where I’m alone. He doesn’t flinch away from me like the others would.

“You know what it is, don’t you?” Tobin’s voice is distant.

“What?”

“Why they’re afraid of you?” He nods to the room. Every once in a while, someone will glance my way, but they divert their attention as soon as they realize I can see them.

“They blame me,” I say.

He shakes his head. “It’s your ears.”

“My ears?” I grasp at them, confused. They feel normal.

“I don’t know what the stories are like where you came from, but here people who can hear the Fade and those who can see in the dark are bad omens. They’re the ones we lost first. You know, before.”

“But I can’t see in the Dark anymore.”

“You can still hear,” he says. “You try to hide it, but I’ve seen you with your head cocked to the side, like you’re counting off a rhythm that doesn’t exist. Honoria tells us stories, and . . . never mind. It’s not a time for stories.”

“No. I want to know. Her stories are about people who could hear?”

“Some of them.” He nods again without looking at me. “They walked into the Dark on their own. They said they heard voices calling them out . . . people they knew. . . . The next time they were seen, if they were ever seen, they were Fade. It hasn’t happened in years, but Honoria’s brother was one of the last. They grabbed him on a forage run or something. He was just a kid.”

“But I don’t hear voices,” I argue. “I hear real sounds.”

“It still scares them. My dad trained himself to do the same thing, but he doesn’t tell people. You have to hide it better.”

I don’t mean to stare at Tobin, and really I’m not, but he’s been so many different people in such a short time. He’s gone from the boy slinking into rooms after everyone else was in place, to my protector, to the hurt son defending his father’s memory with feral determination, to . . . whatever he is now. His posture changes, followed by his expression, but not quickly enough to spare me the expectation there, as though I hold all his answers.

“How much longer do you think we have to wait?” I ask, because I can’t figure out how to ask him anything else. “Will they turn the alert back to normal so we know it’s over?”

“Maybe.” He scratches at the bloodstains on his fingers. The bandages he’d worn earlier are gone, lost either in the run or the fight, exposing purplish-black bruises on his knuckles. “Or maybe we died and nobody bothered to tell us.”

“That’s not funny,” I say.

“I didn’t mean it to be,” he says. “We have no idea what dead feels like. Maybe we’re there. Death would be simpler. No more mourning, no more waiting.”

“You don’t really think that, do you?”

“I guess not.” He shrugs. “If we were dead, someone would have let us out by now.”

“You think that’s how it works?” I ask. “Easy as opening the door?”

“That’s what Dad told me when my mom died.” Another shrug, like his brain’s linked the motion to ending a sentence.

“I don’t even know how my mom died . . . if she’s dead . . . nothing.”

We’ve become not friends, exactly, but tolerable allies through the bond of common loss and lack of options.

Tobin shifts again, fixating on Anne-Marie and Jove in the middle of the room.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.” He slides to the floor, resting his hands on his knees.

“I know.” I slide down beside him, using the wall as an anchor for more than my posture.

“Do you ever wonder why Honoria and the others separate us like this?” he asks. “Why they stick us in a hole while they stand guard?”

“To protect us.” Obviously. The elders protect the young, like my parents did with me. I have to believe they drew off the Fade so I could reach the light. They did not throw me away; I refuse to be an outcast to two worlds.

“They didn’t think it through,” Tobin says. “What happens if they fall?”

“The locks open at dawn and we do the best we can,” I say.

“But if the Fade take them, we’re next. They’re gone, the defenses are shot, the ammo’s spent, and we get twelve hours to tick off what’s left of our lives before they come back to kill us. We’re penned in.”

He stops, like he hadn’t realized he was speaking out loud.

“Sorry, I’ve been around Annie too long,” he says. “I’m starting to babble.”

Anne-Marie’s oblivious to our staring, still sitting cross-legged with her mouth going ninety miles a minute, and using her teeth to even her fingernails in the pauses between words. She takes a marker from her pocket and starts coloring them in.

“Almost makes things feel normal, doesn’t she?” Tobin asks.

Absurd and normal, a perfect description of Anne-Marie.

A group of toddlers has Dante subdued, while Silver tries to pull them off. She has one upside down by the leg, which the kid finds hilarious. A boy named Jerome, a mid-year according to his gold name tag and sleeve patch, stuffs another up under his arm while threatening similar treatment for the next one who doesn’t behave.

“I guess we could sic the babies on them, if it came to a fight,” I offer.

It’s weird to realize this is the first time I’ve laughed, but it’s true. There’s not a lot of call for humor when you’re sandwiched between the probable massacre of one people and the possible extermination of another.

“Outfit them with flashlights and we might have a shot,” Tobin says. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh, too, but it doesn’t last long.

A rolling tumbler and the click of a lock stops everyone short.

We all stand, braced for whatever waits on the other side of our door. Anne-Marie leans over Jove’s body; the upper-years form a defensive line to guard the babies. Tobin angles himself in front of me, one arm out to hold me back and away from the unknown.

The door opens slowly, allowing a foreign scent to flood the room with a metallic bite that brings cool, fresh air behind it.

“Cordite,” Tobin says. “From fresh rounds. Stay back, we don’t know—”

“It’s not the Fade,” I say, tapping my ear. The Fade don’t wear boots like the ones marching through the hall outside.

Our personal alarms switch from blinking red back to blue—not safe, but not danger, either—and Tobin drops his arm.

“Looks like you were right. We’re not dead after all,” Tobin says with a tired smile.

No one survives the Fade, but I’ve done it twice.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Get a head count,” Lt. Sykes orders one of the men who entered with him. He looks terrible, with his hair plastered to his face like sandy mud. “Make sure they’re all here.”

That’s not as easy as it sounds. Parents rush the room, searching for their children; children run to their parents. No one stays still long enough to be counted. Those like me and Tobin hang back; we don’t have anyone to check on.

Mr. Pace shuffles through, kicking spent shells down the ramp. His face is drawn. The butt end of his rifle hits the ground with a hollow thunk when he spots Jove, and his whole frame slumps.

“Do I want to know what happened?” Mr. Pace asks, looking straight at me.

He kneels beside Jove, presses a hand to his throat, then passes it over Jove’s mouth and nose to make sure he’s still breathing. He snaps his fingers, and a man and woman in rumpled fatigues come to carry Jove to the hospital.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” Anne-Marie says. “We tried to clean him up—Marina, Toby, and me.” She makes a circular motion with her finger in our general direction. “But we didn’t have enough water and the dispenser wouldn’t give us bandages.”

What’s left of Tobin’s shredded jacket litters the floor beyond the rust-colored spatter left behind when Jove’s taken up.

“Don’t be mad, please.” Anne-Marie goes quiet, which tells him more than if she’d kept yammering. “He and Toby . . . It was an accident. Sort of. ”

Sure. Jove accidentally painted a bull’s-eye on his face.

Everyone still inside the bunker listens to hear if she’ll recount the whole story. No one has to tell me they’ll gladly let me take the blame if Anne-Marie turns on me.

“Tell me the truth, Annie.”

“He said something about Toby’s dad,” Anne-Marie says, gnawing on the fingernails she just fixed.

Tobin slips out from beside me, coming forward to answer for what he’s done, but doesn’t get the chance.

“Annie!”

Her mother runs toward her, with Trey right behind. She starts tugging at Anne-Marie’s uniform where it’s stained with Jove’s blood.

“Mom, stop it.” Anne-Marie swats at her hands.

Trey rescues her with a bear hug that has her off the ground and out of their mother’s reach.

“You look awful,” he says. “What’s all this blood?”

“It’s not mine.” Anne-Marie dissolves into tears, hugging him. “I thought I lost you.”

“Not a chance.”

Trey looks the perfect imitation of Mr. Pace, standing next to him with a rifle hung over his shoulder. The same posture and resolve in the set of his jaw; he’s even shaved his hair down the same way. A week ago, Trey was a kid like the rest of us; now he’s one of those determined to make sure we live long enough to call ourselves adults.

“You should have told me.” Anne-Marie punches him in the arm as she lets go of him.

“Are you okay?” her mother asks.

“Can we use the showers?” Anne-Marie asks in return.

“Honoria told us to switch over to our individual generators until noon, but the water should be warm in twenty minutes.”

“Then I’ll be fine in twenty minutes.”

The whole family heads off in a clump, while I’m left behind without anyone to take me home or worry if the blood on my face and hands is mine or not.

Halfway to the door, Anne-Marie shrieks “Mom!” as her mother resumes her attempt to strip her in public.

“Do you need any help?” Tobin asks Mr. Pace once they’re gone.

“I think you’ve done enough.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You never mean it, Tobin. But that doesn’t make the damage any less, and it doesn’t deal with what you refuse to. Deal with it! I’m tired of cleaning up what happens because you won’t.”

“Jove attacked her, and no one made a move to stop it, so I did.” Tobin meets our teacher’s accusation without flinching. This time he wins over the rage; his hands never quite make the transition into fists. He stomps up the ramp and out of sight.

“You, too,” Mr. Pace says to me. “Get out of here.” He twitches his head toward the exit.

“He wasn’t lying,” I say. “Jove snapped. He was about to choke me.”

Mr. Pace takes a quick look at my throat, drawing in a hiss when he touches the cord marks left from my inhaler. He inspects my arm where the burn’s spread from under my alarm band.

“Get yourself checked out before you turn in for the day.”

“It’s not bad,” I protest. “Doctor Wolff has his hands full without me taking up space.”

Mr. Pace straightens into his “lecture” posture. Then he sighs, and lets it go. He’s not in the mood for another argument, and he knows there’ll be one if he tries to force me into the hospital. I’d hate that place even if Jove wasn’t there to remind me of what happened last night.

“Go straight to your room, and don’t tell Honoria I did this.” He overrides the code on my wristband, unlocking it, before pulling a small tube out of one of the pockets on his vest and squeezing cold, blue gel onto my skin.

“It tingles.”

“Good. That means the burn didn’t damage your nerves.” He caps the tube and hands it to me. “Keep the alarm in reach, on the other wrist or in your pocket, but not over the burn. If it bleeds or goes numb, promise me you’ll get it looked at.”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now get out of here. I don’t want to see you again until twenty-one hundred, got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

When we entered the bunker, all I wanted was a way out and fresh air. But now my leg’s heavy and uncoordinated; it drags with an ache I thought I’d healed past having to feel again. One side of me wants to run, the other can hardly walk.

By the time I’m back to the domicile halls, following the green line on the floor toward my room, I’m pulling myself along the rails. I pass people at intervals, but most pretend they can’t see me. They certainly don’t offer to help.

I pause to rest against the sign listing the procedure for finding a broken light, and spare a quick glance to the station at the middle of the hall to make sure the emergency call’s still in one piece. It’s weird not to have my alarm on my wrist. The band isn’t heavy, but it’s always there. The steady bump of the bracelet in my pocket with each step becomes a talisman to keep me focused until I reach my door and lock myself inside.

I dispose of my blood-soaked clothes and wash off before digging out the blue pajama shirt and pants assigned to kids in my year. I fall into bed and close my eyes, but the individual generators are louder than the main power supply, causing slight vibrations through the wall.

My brain refuses to calm, jumping from one frantic thought to another. If the Fade can make it through the Arc at high power, what’s to stop them from coming in during the day while we’re all asleep? In the place I came from, did we live our lives at night the way we do here? Was I odd there, too? Did I have friends?

I lie awake counting holes in ceiling tiles, and wonder how old I am. Fifteen to seventeen is Dr. Wolff’s best guess. Two years isn’t a wide spread, but it seems wrong to not know.

Everything seems wrong.

I pull my blankets over my head and try to shut the world out, but it blocks the thrum of machinery within the walls, and I can’t stand the silence, so I kick the covers loose and climb out of bed in the dark.

The Arclight trains its children to fear the dark, but I can’t fear the familiar. Darkness is all I know, and the passing weeks don’t change that. I don’t remember a world before the fluke of my survival was deemed a miracle.

I don’t feel like a miracle. I feel like a scared and lost little girl who doesn’t remember how to find her way home.

It has to be a mistake—the Fade are too powerful. They rip down walls with their bare hands. I can’t be stronger than that. No one can.

I stare at myself in the mirror and don’t know what I’m looking at. A face, of course. Eyes for seeing, a mouth for talking, and nose and ears for all the rest. The parts I get, but not the whole. I’m a puzzle with the pieces still jumbled.

Everyone looks like someone here. Anne-Marie has dark skin like her mother and brother, with the same eyes and mouth. My yearmates share features common among themselves, but no one looks like me. Silver’s hair is blonde, but not the white of sun-bleached stone. Dante’s eyes are blue, but his are dark and wide; mine aren’t. Honoria and Lt. Sykes are fair, but at least they have freckles. A paleness clings to my skin, no matter how long I stay in the sun.

How far did I run to be so different?

I don’t know, and that’s terrifying.

My first memory is throwing up. Retching over the bed rail in what they later told me was the hospital. I sat up and looked around a room I didn’t know, saw the backs of people I couldn’t name. I couldn’t even name myself.

“Where was she found?” Honoria’s voice was the first sound I heard other than my own sickness.

“Klick and a half into the Grey, on the short side. She was hiding in the water.”

Honoria talked with others in a huddle off to the side. A fog around my brain made it impossible to think straight or understand what they were saying. It was only later that I was able to sort the words into real sentences.

Putrid water and black bile hemorrhaged out of my mouth, clearing the Dark from my body, and by the time the spasms calmed, I barely had the strength to wipe my face, so someone else did it for me. That was my introduction to Dr. Wolff.

“Easy there.” He peeled me off the bed rail, laying me back against a pillow, but I was convulsing too hard to lie still. “It’s the medicine, but it’ll get better. I promise.”

All I could see clearly was white clothes and a man with brown skin and no hair. Everything else was a blur of flat walls and the intrusion of shapes in front of them.

Where am I?

The words sounded right in my head, but when I tried to speak, it didn’t work. I knew what I wanted to say, but my tongue was too heavy to twist around the syllables.

Why am I here?

“Don’t try to talk, yet,” Dr. Wolff said. “Your vocal cords are raw.”

I didn’t know what that meant, and couldn’t ask, but I still tried.

Where are the others?

There had to be others. I couldn’t be the only one left.

A glass came close to my mouth, resting on my lips to give me a drink. Fresh water was a foreign thing after what I’d thrown up. I couldn’t get the bitter taste of the Dark out of my mouth, or the smell out of my nose.

Why am I alone?

My questions came with tears that did nothing to cool my cheeks. My leg burned where it was bandaged, my throat was seared from screaming questions, and my skin flared every time someone touched me. I was on fire.

“Calm down, sweetheart, no one wants to hurt you.”

Please . . . let me go . . .

“Do you remember me?” another voice asked. Now I know it was Mr. Pace, but then it was just more noise.

Someone took the glass away, and I was back on the pillow.

“You had us worried, kid. But you’re home now.” Lt. Sykes’s voice wasn’t as comforting as Dr. Wolff’s, and he lied. I wasn’t home. Home wasn’t that bed and that pain. Home didn’t hurt. There were no strangers who hid their faces or their voices from me. Home held no secrets.

I tried to scream what I wanted, but there was only volume and no words. I cried, stretching toward my wound as well as I could manage.

“I’ll give you something for the pain. It’ll help you sleep,” Dr. Wolff said.

Something jabbed into my arm before I could make them understand I wanted to stay awake and aware.

“You’re safe here, Marina. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

My whole body stopped, and my last thought before I lost consciousness was: Who’s Marina?

I’m still trying to answer that question.

The face in my mirror feels smooth and cold, without the contours my fingers find on my flesh. Stray thoughts and half-pictures fill my head, memories maybe, and I smack the glass, as if it’s my reflection’s fault for keeping secrets.

And then I scream.

It isn’t intentional, but I can’t stop it once the pain starts. I dig the fingers of one hand into my scalp, as I puff another breath from my inhaler to kill the sudden headache. Something hot stings my leg, and my calf snaps like an overstretched rubber band. Sharp, shooting fiery pains rage through the muscle even after I’m on the ground.

I reach for my inhaler again and resign myself to needing the hospital after all. I just don’t know how I’ll get there.

One . . . two . . . three . . . I count off the dosage as I breathe the medication in.

During a pause, low and softer than the machine hum in the walls, comes a click-clack—a sound that doesn’t belong in my room, or anywhere else within the Arclight. I turn my head from side to side, but I don’t see anything.

Click-clack. Click-clack.

When I stop, it stops.

Three . . . no, I already did that one . . . four . . .

Click-clack. Click-clack.

It’s a real sound, slithering its way through the echo of the security system, and filling the gaps between generator hums. I open my mouth to call for help, but all that comes out is a cloud of white vapor that leaves me hacking.

I slam my hand down to hit the alarm on my wrist, only to remember too late that I’m not wearing it; it’s still by my bed. Slapping raw skin is almost as painful as the original burn, but I swallow the scream.

“Thanks, Mr. Pace. Thanks a lot,” I whisper.

Sanity breaks through and tells me I’m imagining things. I’m exhausted and overloaded with adrenaline, like what Tobin told Anne-Marie. My blood sugar’s crashed, that’s all. . . .

Then my wall begins to move.

I see it first from the corner of my eye, just a hint of motion like a flickering candle. The wall’s surface melts to form an outline of something hanging between the wall and ceiling, clutching at it with clawed hands that clack against the surface when it moves.

There’s a Fade in my room.

It drops to the floor in a whoosh of flared robes, still wearing the wall’s texture. Boiling smoke churns around its legs as it advances through my space. The pattern on its skin and clothes transitions to match whatever it passes, and unless I catch it just right, the creature’s as invisible as our lessons say. My lamp takes a step, then turns into my bed; back into the wall as it reaches the middle of the room.

The only sounds are my skipping heart and hitching breath. Fear and life . . . I’m still alive, and it’s still moving.

Its hands, wrapped in tight cloth, turn dark. Its face is the same, covered so only a pair of burning eyes peek out—silver rimmed in red.

I want to shout that this can’t be real and drive the monster back to the shadows, but the dull ache in the back of my head says I’m wrong. My shaking hand raises my inhaler from habit, but the Fade takes hold of my wrist before I can reach my mouth.

“Do you understand?” There’s no volume or voice to the question, but I hear it in my head.

“L-l-let go.”

An odd, pervasive chill coats my arms everywhere but the one patch of skin on my wrist that sears like it’s being burned again.

“You’re hurting me,” I say, as though a monster can be moved by words.

“Do you understand?”

Each time it speaks, my wrist burns hotter. Much more and I’ll black out.

“Do you—”

“No, I don’t understand! What do you want from me?”

Stupid question. Stupid, stupid, stupid question.

Instinct takes over, and I’m wheeling, jerking, punching—anything to loosen the creature’s grip. I kick through it, hitting air where there should be a solid body. I scream, and don’t stop, raising my pitch until my voice threatens to mangle the inside of my throat, hoping to drive the monster away.

The red rims of its eyes bleed toward a silver center while what I assume are its eyebrows pull closer together. I throw all my weight behind one, hard kick, setting my aim for the very solid arm holding mine. But it lifts me off the ground by my wrist before I make contact.

“Let go,” I order through clenched teeth. My life won’t end like this. I didn’t survive the Dark to die in the light. “What do you want?”

“Help,” the Fade says finally, releasing me so I fall to the ground, where the world shatters into a thousand shards of light as I sit up in bed and pull my blankets from my face.

There’s no Fade. The room’s as bright as ever, with sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains, and my alarm’s right there on the side table. Under the covers, my leg’s fine, if a little sore from last night’s escape; my wrist is the only thing that really hurts.

I let my body crash back against the pillows wondering when the nightmares will finally end.

CHAPTER SIX

The world consists of three things: the Arclight, the Grey, and the Dark.

The Arclight is human territory, existing under the protection of perpetual day. A solid wall would create shade and shadows, so we have a barrier of light. Massive lamps embedded in the ground and mounted on posts and buildings shine through the night to keep us safe. We’re packed inside with buildings and gardens, a few pens for dwindling animal stock, and stories of the world that was. They say it takes more than a day to walk the perimeter, but I’ve never tested the theory.

The Grey is a wide expanse where our lights blend with the darkness beyond, a buffer zone created when those who came before set a ring of fire to clear the brush and flatten anything that could be used for cover. That was before we knew the Fade could fade, and we thought we’d see them coming.

The Dark is lost to us, filling the gaps on the map between areas of light. To get from one to another, you must first believe there’s somewhere to go. And should you be so stupid as to believe that, you still have to cross the Dark and pray the Fade can’t see you any better than you can see them. That was the mistake my people made, and now there’s nowhere left to run. Only the Arclight remains, and I’m its only immigrant.

A dozen men and women risked the Grey the night I ran out of the Dark. Nine of them never made it back, including Tobin’s father and Jove’s mother. They were all volunteers who had no way of knowing if the anomaly on the perimeter sensors was human or not. All they had was hope, and all they found was me. One stupid teenager who didn’t know where she was going, or why she was alone. I just saw light and ran toward it.

Light is safety; light is life.

The first rule of the Arclight.

The second rule is that things taken into the Dark don’t return. It’s not an official rule, and our elders have tried to make me an exception, but it’s not easy overriding programming that’s been in force for generations. Maybe if I knew what happened out there, I could make them understand that I’m no different than they are.

Mr. Pace said once that I should count my amnesia as a blessing, like the truth could be worse than what I imagine piecing together the fragments, but any past is better than the void, no matter how horrible the details.

After hours of attempting to force myself back to sleep, I give up. Inside doesn’t feel safe anymore, so I break the third rule and go outside alone.

Outside is beautiful. It’s alive and green in a way that doesn’t mean mold or mildew like it does inside. It’s warmer, without the taint of recycled chemicals in the air to make me choke, and sunlight replaces stark fluorescent glare from the halls, giving my skin a healthier glow.

I toe my shoes off and toss my socks with them, not wanting anything between me and the ground.

Trees, kept manicured in narrow shapes and planted far enough apart that they can’t make true shade, make up the Arclight’s orchard. It’s definitely meant for necessity rather than beauty, but here and there, something breaks ranks: a stray branch cuts out at a sharp angle or drags low enough that I can pull myself up for a better view.

Beyond the narrow orchard lies our garden, where rows of green stalks frame one side of the Common Hall and vines snake up its windowless face. Against the shed that houses our tools, there’s a pile of crates filled with liquid vitamins for the soil. No matter what Dr. Wolff thinks, out here’s where I belong. It’s my favorite place in what’s left of the world, and it conceals the evidence of another rule I’ve broken.

I drop out of the tree to make sure my secret’s still safe.

Camouflaged by an empty crate, a vibrant pink and white flower bush grows where it has no right to exist—like me. I don’t know where the seed came from, if it was dropped by a bird or if it already existed in the soil, but it thrives despite the measures required to keep it a secret. I’m relieved to see it’s still here, welcoming me back. If it’s found, it’ll be destroyed for fear that it came from beyond the light, but for now, it’s mine. Something about it has always struck me as familiar; I can’t help but think that in whatever place I came from, these flowers exist. Maybe I grew them there, too.

I sit with my back against the shed, turning the fragrant dirt in my bare hands, without the gloves we’re supposed to wear outside, and simply watch my flower bush exist. No secret scowls or eyes at my back to make me cringe. It’s a rare moment of freedom, so it’s a surprise to find that I have company.

Small, feathered company.

Stuck between a climbing cage and the tangle of berry vines threading through it, a bird the color of a thundercloud struggles to free itself. It shakes the cage and pulls up hard but can’t disentangle its feet and captured wing.

“Hello,” I say, as though the bird can understand me. “How’d you get in there?”

The bird cocks its head and flaps again—bird speak for “Would you help me?”

I wind my hand inside the cage and pull. Sensing freedom, the bird pecks at the last of the vines with its beak until it spills out of its tiny prison. Delicate and light, it perches in my hand, testing one wing and then the other, shaking itself with an explosion of down feathers.

“Tough little thing, aren’t you?”

It’s not a native bird, like our ducks and chickens or the bright things kept inside with their wings clipped so they can’t pass beyond our border, and the protocol is clear—I should kill it and hand its body over to one of my elders. But I can’t.

What sense is there in ending another life when we’re trying to keep the world from dying? I have to let it go, and that means breaking another rule by sneaking out to the Arc.

On this side of the compound, our boundary is a stone path where everything green and good ends at the mouth of the Grey. In the first days, there were bonfires here, lit and tended around the clock, but they were too easy to put out, and every rainstorm meant calamity. Over the years, the stones were laid so electric lights could be permanently set into the ground, and the fires drifted into memory. The Arc of Light became the Arclight.

Here, lampposts replace brown tree trunks. The bulbs are on standby, in these last moments before night falls, charging for another marathon burn, and leaving the Arc cold, but a faultless guardian to keep the gloom of the Grey from encroaching.

“Get somewhere safe,” I say, opening my hands.

The bird looks at me with intelligent, sharp eyes. Its feathers, sleek now, bear a pattern of steel and white with swirls of black along its head and tail. It lifts off with a smooth beat of its wings and slips above the Arc, but it doesn’t turn the way I expect. It shoots across the Grey, making straight for the Dark.

“Not that way!”

The bird’s gone, and far too high, but trying to stop it comes automatically. My hand slices the space between the lights to disturb the churning, waist-high fog beyond. I stumble back, landing hard in the rocky soil, and stare at the horizon past the Grey.

The Dark doesn’t look like much, out there on the edge of the world, just a smudge in the distance where light goes to die. Shadows shift with the movement of the sun, growing longer and racing away as though they want no more to do with this place than the Arclight wants with them. Hopefully my little bird has the sense not to go so far.

I don’t want to be here anymore, or think that something I saved threw itself into the abyss for no reason. So I stand and turn away, surprised by the sudden appearance of a red glow hovering beyond the compound’s main building. Something’s burning.

Embers float along, dying as they fall, until I have to push through them to find their source. They settle solid on my arms and face, the warmer air becoming thick with smoke the nearer I come to a tramped-down hedgerow that’s ablaze, tended by Honoria and a group wearing security uniforms. This is why no one was patrolling the halls to stop me when I left alone; they’re all out here, guarding the breach until it can be reinforced.

Something beyond the boundary catches her attention, and Honoria’s hand goes to the silver pistol she keeps tucked against her back. Whatever it is, it passes quickly or isn’t worth her attention. Her hand goes slack on the gun’s handle, and she throws another bundle of cut brush into the fire.

Thankfully, no one sees me.

The air turns dry and brittle, filled with ash that stings my lungs. I hold my breath to stop the smell from entering my nose and the grit from sticking on my tongue, but that makes it worse. Each time I run out of air, I end up swallowing heat, until I’m forced to flee back the way I came.

I think of Tobin and his stories of the world before. People who walked out into the night because they heard the voices no one else could hear, calling them to a home that never existed. If someone sees me out here, skirting the Grey, they’ll think the same of me.

I follow the curve of the Arc away from the fire, and again, I find I’m not alone. Tobin approaches the boundary cautiously, pausing to scan the area every few feet, and I duck behind the switch box for the external alarm. It’s barely wide enough to hide me, but I doubt he sees me. It’s not people he’s looking for. Not out here so close to night.

Fear flits across his face, followed by an uncertainty he doesn’t know anyone can see as he rubs the back of his neck. He shakes his head and talks to himself, though his words die in the din of the fire and the churlish wind beyond the Arc.

The closer he comes to the boundary, the more frequent his glances to the side, toward the fire. There’s no way he can get to the breach point unnoticed. And there’s no explanation for being caught at the Arc, other than a desire to cross it. No one’s going to admit to that—not even Tobin. Not even for his father.

He starts pacing, venting his frustration through his feet.

Maybe, like me, he wants to watch the world change hands, and see the sun set, if only to prove life doesn’t end at moonrise. More likely, he’s hoping for a glimpse of something familiar. A figure in the distance, headed home. Walking, staggering, or carried by others, it won’t matter, so long as it’s recognizable as James Lutrell. If I knew what my parents looked like, I’d be searching, too.

Tobin’s hands run up his arms and through his hair. He bends to inspect a large rock wedged between two lamps at the divide between Light and Grey. It looks the same on both sides, which seems strange to me. What good is a barrier if nothing changes once you cross it?

He kicks at the rock until he works it loose, then picks it up, testing its heft in his hand. I hold my breath as he draws back for a throw, but he loses his nerve. It isn’t wise to disturb the silence beyond. This rule he’s not willing to break.

The rock drops with a heavy thud.

A sudden chill curls around the lamps, drawing fog into the perimeter. Tobin waves the misty trails away, frantically; I try blowing on them, hoping my breath will scatter them back to nothing.

The shadows shift again, stretching out, and when they reach their farthest point and join the Dark at the horizon, the Arc’s lamps come on in succession, early enough to change the bulbs or do repairs if one stops working. The lamps below our feet send columns of light into the sky, threading their beams into the horizontal lines cast by lamps on the poles. The ones atop our buildings create a canopy to cover the rest. Together they create a perfect weave, tight enough to beat back even the smallest creatures that might try to drag the Dark across our boundary on their feet and fur.

Anne-Marie says once a raccoon had the misfortune of crossing the Arc as it ignited. There was only a singe line left, and the scent of burnt hair. It’s absurd, but she swears her brother told the story when she was little.

Everything snaps back into view: grass and trees and animals like owls and Anne-Marie’s raccoon who’ve forgotten what it’s like to be nocturnal. A soft white glow bounces back from the building’s walls to match the polished shine of poured walkways set with crushed glass and reflective minerals. Somewhere, the night is black, but not here. Bugs from both sides hit the bulbs and incinerate, sparking and popping as they fall.

This is the time the world is divided, with no Grey in between. This is when it’s dangerous. The lines no longer blur and everything I lost is still out there, almost in sight, but beyond my reach. I rest my hand against the smooth metal of the nearest pole as Tobin leans his head against another. Power hums beneath my fingers and feet. The invisible wall between us falls away, and Tobin finally acknowledges that he’s not alone. His eyes, when they meet mine, have that distant look again, as though they’re not focused on the here or now. They grow stormy, then he turns toward the main building without a word.

A persistent plea of “Go” rattles around my brain, but there’s no answer when I ask it where I’m supposed to go to. Nothing lives beyond the Arc but death. There’s no way back to wherever I came from.

“I thought we had a deal.”

I cringe, knowing exactly who that voice belongs to. I’m an idiot. I’m not the one Tobin ran from.

Mr. Pace stands behind me, arms crossed. Trailing him, Honoria approaches with half of her patrolmen from the fire, ready pick up the slack of our weakened perimeter. They’re going back to their assigned places for the night, still wearing the exhaustion that comes from working through the day.

“You were supposed to stay in your room until first meal,” Mr. Pace says. “Not wander out to the boundary and set off the proximity alarms.”

I’m going to kill Tobin for picking up that stone; he must have tripped a sensor.

“I promised I’d stay out of sight, not in my room,” I say weakly.

“What’s she doing out here?” Honoria asks, ignoring me, as though I can’t answer for myself.

Hateful and hard, she snaps her fingers toward Mr. Pace and draws him away, pointing to me and then to the switchbox I’d used to hide from Tobin.

She thinks I was going to run; I can see it in her face.

She’ll turn me out to die in the Dark, or lock me up so the others can forget I ever disturbed their routine. If she’s decided that those lost to the Fade really did die in vain because of me. . . .

I bob from one foot to the other, giving the Arc a long glance and struggling not to give in to the voice telling me to leave and never look back. If I run, no one would follow.

No! Such thoughts are madness. Whatever Honoria decides, it’s not worth venturing into certain death to escape.

Finally, it ends. She jabs the air with an insistent finger, sending Mr. Pace back toward me.

“Sorry,” I whisper to my teacher. “I wasn’t running. I don’t hear voices like the people before.”

Honoria hasn’t taken her eyes off me, so I shift my attention to my feet.

“Is she going to make me leave?”

Mr. Pace steps sideways, turning his body into a blockade. “Marina, even if you did hear voices, that wouldn’t happen. Those who left in the first days weren’t tossed aside; the people here tried to keep them. Why were you at the switchbox?”

“I wanted to see what was burning, but then the sun started to go down and . . . I got scared, so I hid.” It sounds better than the truth.

“The fire’s nothing to worry about,” he says, and tries to smile.

“People only say that when they mean the opposite.”

“Not me.”

“It’s where they broke through, isn’t it?”

Mr. Pace hesitates, checking over his shoulder to see what Honoria’s doing. Once he’s sure she’s occupied with inspecting the switchbox, he answers.

“Yes.”

“How’d they get so close?” If Tobin and I were enough to trigger a sensor, they should have, too.

“Most people think of the Arclight and Dark as rings, with the Grey between them.” He drops to the ground and draws three concentric circles in the dirt. “But there are places where the Dark comes so close that the Grey’s almost gone.”

He nods in the direction my little bird disappeared and wipes the drawing away to make another. A tiny circle in the center, with an amorphous blob surrounding it. The band that separates the two grows wide on one side, and nonexistent on the other.

“Our territory is shrinking, while the Dark is always growing wider, consuming the terrain around it. Another decade, and we may not have the luxury of going outside at all.”

With his finger, he drags the blob’s line closer until it touches the rim of the Arclight’s circle.

“That’s why the boundaries are forbidden for you and the others who are too young to appreciate the danger.”

Danger isn’t something to be appreciated; it’s something to be avoided. And if he thinks I don’t understand that, then he’s not half as smart as I give him credit for.

“So long as the lights are on, the Fade can get close, but not cross over,” he says.

“But last night—”

“We pulled too much power too fast,” he says. “They hit the barrier from three sides, overloading the system by tripping all the main sensors simultaneously. Most of the lights dimmed, but the ones at the fire point shut off completely.”

“You mean they just walked through?”

He nods.

“It was a worst-case scenario. Circuits for the Arc are supposed to be isolated, but if things happen in a certain order, the base grid defaults to its original programming, glitches included. The system couldn’t tell the security lights from the room lights.”

“Do you think—”

I can’t bring myself to ask him if it was someone taken during my rescue who told the Fade how to get past our security.

“I think they got lucky,” he says. Mr. Pace puts a hand on my shoulder, but removes it when I flinch. “They’ve always tested us. It was only a matter of time before they found a way in.”

“That’s the difference between us, Pace.” Honoria invites herself into our conversation. “I don’t expect the Fade to find weakness. What I expect is that the people who live here will stick to their assigned places.” She turns her temper on me. “Keep away from the power boxes, they can kill you.”

“I didn’t touch the box,” I say. “I was only hiding behind it.”

“From what?” she demands. “Did you see something?”

“The lights startled me. It was the closest thing to hide behind.”

“Well at least you kept your head. . . .” She never finishes the halfway compliment. Instead, she snatches my burnt wrist up to eye level. “Where’s your bracelet?”

“She got burned in the run,” Mr. Pace says. “I told her to put it on her other arm until she healed.”

I hold up my left arm so Honoria can see the alarm’s really there. Thankfully, she doesn’t test the latch.

“You should have gone to the hospital.”

“I gave her some salve, and told her to keep an eye on it,” Mr. Pace says. “Doc had his hands full. He’d have done the same thing.”

“Why are you out here?” Honoria’s fingers are rough on my ragged skin as she prods the burn and new scrapes.

“It started to bother me, so I put some cold water on it. Then I couldn’t go back to sleep. I smelled the fire, and—”

“From inside?”

I stare back, hoping my expression is as blank as everyone claims. I don’t know what to say, and thinking quickly usually ends with me tripping over my own tongue.

“Her room’s on that side of the building, Honoria,” Mr. Pace says.

“Get that wrist treated before it gets infected,” she says. “And have her window resealed. I won’t tolerate another weak point on this facility, especially not on a priority target.”

Priority target . . . no way is that a good thing.

“And next time you take a stroll outside, wear your gloves. You’ll have a harder time scraping your hands.”

I dig my bare toes into the dirt, thankful she doesn’t look at my feet.

Honoria stalks past us. Mr. Pace gives a heavy sigh.

“You didn’t smell the smoke inside, did you?”

“I could have,” I offer lamely.

“The burn’s been going for hours. If it had bothered you inside . . . please tell me you haven’t been out here for hours.”

Yes, I’m definitely going to kill Tobin. This should be his lecture, too.

“Marina, I know it’s technically safe inside the Arc, and the sun’s only just set, but after last night—”

“Nowhere’s safe.”

“That’s not what I meant.” His hand falls heavy on my shoulder, but this time he doesn’t move it. “The Arclight is safe. Last night was an aberration, but it still happened.”

“Will it happen again?”

“We’re doing what we can to make sure it doesn’t, but we’ve stagnated on drills so long that we forgot the Fade aren’t simply monsters in some children’s story, easily overcome because they’re on the wrong side. They don’t move in the ways most convenient to us. They’re intelligent, and they can plan. Last night, their plans proved superior to ours. Next time we’ll have to be better. And that will be easier if you stay where you’re supposed to be.”

This wasn’t what I had in mind when I left my room. All I wanted was air and open space, not to cause more trouble for people who’ve already given too much to protect me.

“Where’d I come from?” I ask, nudging the edge of his dirt diagram with my toe. “Which side?”

“The short side,” he says. “We found you hiding in the Grey.”

“In the water?”

“Yeah,” he says. “There’s an old boat platform out there. You’d gotten into the water behind the pier supports. We almost missed you.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. We weren’t the only ones who couldn’t find you.”

He heads toward the main building, stopping when I pause to collect my shoes and socks. It’s a harder decision to follow him than it should be. There shouldn’t be anything out here daring me to stay, but there is. An itch I can’t quite reach kicks in every time I turn away from the horizon.

I wonder if this is what it was like for those who came before, if that itch is the first hint of hearing the call to join the Dark.

But I won’t. Not ever.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I’ll have to scrape it before I can bandage it,” Dr. Wolff says after examining my arm.

Mr. Pace abandoned me promptly upon delivering me to the hospital. I suspect his quick exit had something to do with Dr. Wolff’s dirty looks and muttered promises of unspecified pain for those who thought they were better equipped to treat his patients.

“Hold still” is the only warning he gives, and when he’s done, tiny dots of blood glisten on my skin where he scraped away more than one layer of flesh. But unlike Honoria, Dr. Wolff tries for gentle. “That wasn’t too bad, I hope.”

I grit my teeth, determined not to let the tears show.

“How’s your inhaler?”

“Why won’t it work on anything but my headaches?”

“What else would you need it for?”

“My leg,” I say, kicking it for emphasis.

“You pushed it too hard last night, didn’t you?” he asks.

I shrug. Dr. Wolff isn’t intimidating in the least when he’s not armed with medical instruments, but my throat threatens to close up every time I come here.

“Does it hurt now?” he asks.

“It’s a little sore,” I lie. The echo of pain from my nightmare has plagued me since I woke up.

“You didn’t break the wound open?”

“No,” I say quickly, afraid he’ll decide he needs to examine it again, which will only lead to more questions and a longer stay.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dr. Wolff eyes me suspiciously for the too-polite answer, but I imagine he’s seen plenty of people acting strange since last night.

“How’s Jove?” I ask, redirecting him.

Several beds are curtained off, so I assume he’s behind one of the partitions, but I’d sort of like to know that what Anne-Marie and I did last night made a difference. It would be nice to be the answer to a problem for once, rather than the cause.

“He’ll be all right,” Dr. Wolff says. “I understand he has you to thank for that.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“Not many people would have made the choice you did.” My face must show my confusion because he explains. “You and Annie kept him from going to into shock. It takes a great deal of compassion to offer aid after someone’s hurt you.”

Somehow I don’t think he’d appreciate my saying I was more concerned with keeping Anne-Marie from losing it than keeping Jove comfortable.

“Jove was scared,” I say. “He thought . . . you know . . . that his mom was one of them. He thought she’d come with the Fade to take him back to the Dark.”

“And he blamed you?”

“He always has.”

“Do you think his opinions have changed?”

“I doubt he can tell me. I’m pretty sure his jaw was broken.”

“Dislocated and fractured,” Dr. Wolff corrects. “But it should heal good as new.”

He picks up an empty syringe. I’d hoped we could skip the blood sample this visit, but the man is nothing if not consistent. I roll up my sleeve and give him my arm, watching the tube in his hand as it fills.

“Have you given any consideration to where you’d like to focus your studies once you age up?” he asks.

“It sort of slipped my mind.”

Along with everything else that wasn’t “run for your life or die trying.”

“Well, should it happen to slip back in, I hope you’ll consider what I’ve said. There are some things a person’s born to, whether they want to believe it or not,” he says. He removes the needle and taps me on the head with my hospital file while I bend my elbow to stop the bleeding.

“You might as well let me refill your inhaler while you’re here. If you’ve been using it for your leg, you’ve probably depleted it. I’m surprised you haven’t overdosed.”

I pull the cord over my head and hand it to him without mentioning that most of my inhaler usage was in a dream.

“It’ll be a minute or two; the new batch isn’t mixed.”

Dr. Wolff disappears into the back room where he keeps his supplies locked up, leaving me to wait alone. He wasn’t exaggerating the need for healers when he spoke in class. In all the time I’ve spent in this room, I’ve seen maybe a dozen people wearing patches that denote medical service, and none are here consistently. They only come when called to assist.

I close my eyes again, straining for sounds to give the moment depth. Pinging machines, or the whoosh of air from the overhead vent, even my own heartbeat. Often, finding that faint layer beneath the usual clamor or quiet is the only way I can function. Absolute silence terrifies me.

I’m counting the ticks of a wall clock when I hear footsteps approach from the door on the opposite side of the hospital, stopping behind the curtain next to my bed.

“I’m sorry, man.” It’s Tobin, talking to Jove. “I know you can’t hear me, but I’m sorry.”

I should tell him I’m here, but I already know I won’t. I can be very still when I want, and right now, I’m grateful for it. He’d never talk like this if he knew I could hear him.

“And don’t think I’m only apologizing because Annie threatened unspecified yet terrifying retribution if I didn’t.”

He pauses every few words, but no matter how hard I listen, there’s never a response. He must be filling in Jove’s half of the conversation with his own imagined answers.

I do that—imagine conversations with Tobin. I apologize for his father’s death and he accepts, or I apologize and he curses me; it depends on my mood. I don’t have to pretend with Jove or the others, because I know where I stand with them, but Tobin won’t even acknowledge that his dad’s dead. Somehow my offense seems greater with him, like it’s worse because his father was the one who made the call to save me over the rest.

“And Mr. Pace didn’t make me come, either. I just wanted to apologize. I’ll do it again when you’re awake, okay?”

Tobin’s words may be friendly and familiar, but his voice comes thin and hurried, punctuated by bouts of swallowing.

“I’m probably rambling you into a deeper coma, but I haven’t slept, so it’s not my fault. I doubt anyone slept after last night. Well, maybe Annie.”

He laughs; I put my hand over my mouth so I can’t. Anne-Marie can sleep anywhere. I’ve even seen her do it standing up when we were in formation too long. She dropped her forehead onto Jonah’s back and started snoring.

“And, when you wake up, we’re going to talk about Marina. You have to step off. You can’t keep—”

The door on the other side of the room slides open again. This time someone enters with the sound of heavy boots rather than student shoes.

Can’t keep what? I want to shout.

“I’ll go,” Tobin says. “I just wanted to check on him.”

“Why were you at the perimeter?” Mr. Pace’s voice comes through the curtain. “How’d you get out there?”

“Doors are usually the easiest way.”

“And I’ve got yours monitored.”

“You can’t do that. You’re not my father.”

“I keep tabs on all my kids, Tobin. And I’m trying to help you.”

Adults’ alarms can be set to track their children, so they know if anyone goes across the Arc. I didn’t know teachers could do the same for their students.

“I don’t need help,” Tobin snaps.

“Tell that to Jove.”

“I’ve already told him everything I came to say.”

My stomach flips again. I search for something to hide behind in case Tobin comes my way rather than passing Mr. Pace, but everything large enough is bolted to the floor and walls.

“You cannot keep walking away from your problems like that’s the solution to them, Tobin,” Mr. Pace says. “If you keep running away, I’ll just keep following until you talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk about my dad.”

“Fine, then you can tell me what’s happening with you and Marina.”

I lean forward to make sure Dr. Wolff isn’t on his way back yet. The way my luck runs, he’ll show up before Tobin can answer.

“Marina?” Tobin asks.

“Normally you two won’t even look at each other. I saw you pick her up during the run.”

“She couldn’t make it on her own, so I helped. End of story.”

“Middle of story,” Mr. Pace corrects with the infernal, maddening calm that always marks his temper. “Jove’s got two broken ribs, a busted nose, and bruises that say it’s nowhere near the end. I’ve got Annie telling me you plastered him because he insulted your father, and I’ve got Marina’s version telling me you did it to protect her. Which is it?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I want to know why she’s covering for you,” Mr. Pace says. “The truth. No threats of punishment. No teacher. No student. Just the guy who’s known you since you were born and needs to know why you were outside with Marina, at sunset, by the Arc.”

“I didn’t know she was there,” Tobin says.

“Fair enough,” Mr. Pace says. “But she knew you were, and she didn’t tell anyone, not even when Honoria cornered her.”

“You can’t expect me to understand what goes on inside her head.”

“Do you even understand what’s going on inside yours?”

Silent defiance is his only answer.

“You’re not your father, Tobin. You don’t have to be, and you don’t have to bear his burdens.” He pauses. “I know you’re not going to want to hear this, but are you sure you want to stay in the apartment by yourself? Dominique’s offered—”

“You’re not taking my house away from me!’

“It’s not good for you to be wandering around a space that big with nothing to do but sit and wallow.”

“When my dad gets back—”

“Tobin . . .”

“Mr. Pace, please—”

“What’s all this noise?” Dr. Wolff rushes past me.

My luck’s worse than I thought. It’s when Tobin is at his lowest, begging, that Dr. Wolff returns and yanks the curtain open. On the other side, Tobin stands with his back to Mr. Pace, which means he was facing the curtain. With it gone, he’s facing me.

A rush of heat floods my cheeks. Tobin’s face goes the other way, losing his tan to bleached-out ash.

“Sorry, Doc,” Mr. Pace says.

“This is a hospital, Elias. You can’t bang around like you’re on maneuvers.”

“Let’s go, Tobin. We’ll finish this later.”

But Tobin doesn’t move. Neither he nor I have blinked since the curtain was pulled away. He stands; I sit. We stare without a word—one accusing, one apologizing—until that same, stubborn piece of hair falls forward. I tuck it behind my ear, but with the connection between us severed, he wastes no time leaving.

“Tobin, wait,” I call after him. “I’m—”

He pushes past Dr. Wolff, close enough to my bed to bump it sideways.

“—sorry,” I finish, too late.

“That could have gone better,” Mr. Pace says.

I nod, scooting off the hospital bed as Dr. Wolff hands me my inhaler. The ring feels heavy and cold against my skin when I tuck it in, not comforting at all.

“If I’d known you were still here, I would have waited,” Mr. Pace says.

“S’okay,” I mumble. It’s not like he ruined a friendship; he only pushed the wedge a little wider. “Can I leave?” I ask.

“Go on,” Dr. Wolff says. “Honoria’s arranged something special for you kids at first meal. You don’t want to miss the surprise.”

Yes I do.

Unexpected variables rarely prove to be good for me. They lead to running and screaming and things that can kill me, so talk of something mysterious waiting in the Common Hall isn’t an incentive to get there any faster.

I hesitate near the door, balanced between two bad decisions. At least with the hospital, I know what kind of misery to expect. I’ve pretty much lost my appetite anyway.

“Doctor Wolff,” I begin. It isn’t easy convincing my mouth to explain my nightmares and endure whatever reactions he has to them. I anticipate a lot of needles.

“Yes?” He inclines his head, not looking at me while he sterilizes the scraper with an open flame.

My hesitation costs me the chance to answer.

The door on the far side of the room slams open. Lt. Sykes and another guard hurry in, shuffling to manage a third person between them—Anne-Marie’s brother, Trey.

Burned and bloodied.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Trey holds his arm against his chest. His jacket and shirt are burned through, the skin beneath them melted, as though someone roasted it over an open flame. It’s going to take more than a dab of cold blue gel to fix that.

“What happened?” Dr. Wolff asks.

“Briar bush at the burn site,” the man I don’t know says.

“It had gone black,” Lt. Sykes adds.

Lt. Sykes is young, barely older than Trey, and strangely pretty for a guy. There’s something off about him, like he’s always marching a half-step out of time with everyone else. And he certainly doesn’t act like someone who’s only recently aged out. He isn’t treated like it either.

“She burned me.” Trey gags on his own words, shaking as the others hold him up. Dr. Wolff extends Trey’s arm further, and Trey vomits onto the floor.

I step toward him automatically, but Mr. Pace seizes my injured wrist, only loosening his grip when I yelp. He doesn’t even apologize.

“Don’t touch him.”

“But . . .”

This is Anne-Marie’s brother. How can I not help?

“Get to the Common Hall.” Mr. Pace tows me toward the exit, still by the wrist.

“Was he attacked?” I ask.

It’s barely dark. If Trey was attacked, that means the Fade have moved faster than they did last night, or that they were closer. Either way, we’re in trouble. We should be at Red-Wall.

“Is he okay?” I try to get a clear view of Trey, but Mr. Pace keeps his body in the way.

“Go!” He dismisses me, then doubles back.

I position myself in the hall outside the door where I can watch from the side. If I tell Anne-Marie I saw Trey delivered to the hospital, she’ll drive everyone crazy until she gets details. Staying to eavesdrop is a mission of mercy, really. It’s not just to satisfy my own curiosity, at all. . . .

“What were you thinking, taking him out there?” Mr. Pace snarls at Lt. Sykes—actually snarls. His face twists into something grotesque. “He hasn’t even aged out.”

“He showed up on his own, same as last night.”

“What happened to his gloves?”

“He said they made it too hard to work.”

“You let him take them off?”

“He’s about as reasonable as his old man.”

I’ve never heard Lt. Sykes speak back at Mr. Pace before.

“Stop!” Dr. Wolff splits them apart when it seems Mr. Pace is going to do more than yell. “Elias, you can exact your pound of flesh once I’m sure I won’t have to do the same with our young patient. I need details. Are you sure the bush was infested?”

“The kid tore it up before we could warn him not to,” the man I don’t know says. “Confirmed punctures. His skin started to halo around the wounds.”

“How long?’

Lt. Sykes checks his alarm for the time. “Less than three minutes.”

“What’d she use, a blowtorch?” Mr. Pace touches Trey’s abused arm with the tips of his fingers, and Trey winces.

“There was no time for neat,” Lt. Sykes says. “Honoria held his arm over the flame until it flaked.”

Honoria?

She couldn’t have. She wouldn’t harm one of the Arclight’s own—not on purpose.

“Get him downstairs,” Dr. Wolff orders. “We need him contained so I can do a proper assessment.”

But Trey goes berserk before they can go anywhere.

“Make them stop,” he cries, trying to raise his hands to cover his ears. “They won’t shut up. Make them stop.”

Trey claws at his wounded arm, jerking against the men holding him.

“Get them off! They’re everywhere! I can feel them!”

“We’re losing him,” Lt. Sykes says. He wraps his arms completely around Trey in an attempt to steady him. He and Mr. Pace pull Trey to the floor to brace his body.

“I need morphine,” Dr. Wolff says, kneeling down to press Trey’s head against the floor. He swipes his free hand toward the cabinets, and the guard I don’t know starts opening drawers. “Third, left. Orange lettering on the package.”

“Got it.”

The guard tosses a plastic wrapper. Mr. Pace catches it and holds a syringe out to Dr. Wolff, who slides the needle into Trey’s upper arm.

“Relax, son,” he says softly. “I know that’s easier for me to say than it is for you to do, but the medicine should kick in soon.”

“He won’t make the trip downstairs,” Mr. Pace says in a rough voice. “Honoria sees him like this and—”

“Get him into a bed,” Dr. Wolff says, nodding. “I’ll do what I can. Hopefully he’ll be in the clear before Honoria ever sees him.”

Mr. Pace closes the curtain between Jove’s bed and the one I had used, and once Jove’s sequestered, they deposit Trey on my bed. The short drop when they lower him down is too much for his stomach. He throws up again.

“She overdid it,” Mr. Pace says.

Trey’s out of it, thrashing with the sheets tangled around his feet. Sweat explodes from his skin as he tries to speak, but no real words come out.

“She saved his life, Elias.” Dr. Wolff becomes the voice of reason in the room. “There’s a chance to stop them before they trench in. If we’re lucky, he’ll keep his arm.”

“Don’t lecture me on that sort of luck, Doc. I’m more than familiar with the concept.”

Another few seconds pass with Mr. Pace trying to get a response from Trey, but Trey’s gone—hopefully to the morphine rather than his injuries. His eyes roll up into his head and close. Even after he’s out, he shakes so much that Lt. Sykes and the other guard have to hold him down.

Dr. Wolff cuts the sleeve away from Trey’s mangled skin before reaching for the same scraper he’d used on me. I have a feeling that the next emptied stomach will be mine if I watch, so I hide my face against the wall, grateful for Trey’s sake that he isn’t conscious.

I keep my eyes closed until I hear the scraper hit a metal bowl. Trey’s arm now sports a shallow trench in the muscle where Dr. Wolff cut deep. Flecks of black ash fall to the floor, and both of the men who carried him in back away from it. Mr. Pace sweeps it into a bin, adding Trey’s ruined shirt and the bloody bandages to the pile. Torn pieces of the green patch declaring his status as a final-year student land on top.

“Clothes,” Mr. Pace orders.

Both men shuck their jackets and remove their gloves.

“You need these, Doc?”

“They’re active.” Dr. Wolff bites the words, bitter like a sour lemon. “Use the incinerator downstairs.”

Down? The only stairs I’ve ever seen take workmen to the roof so they can replace lightbulbs. All that’s under the Arclight is dirt.

Mr. Pace sprints toward the medicine room with the bin held at arm’s length.

Dr. Wolff turns the light over Trey’s bed on so high it bounces back off his skin with a pale violet glow, then snaps a breathing mask over his nose and mouth and turns on the pump beside his bed so it fills with medical smoke.

“Portman, your hand,” Lt. Sykes says. Surprise makes the nasal whine to his voice worse. “You’re cut.”

The other man, Portman, glances down at the hand he was using to steady Trey’s arm, raising it toward the light. A scrape stretches across his palm, below the thumb. The skin’s red and irritated in the center, but nothing serious. Around the scrape, a sooty black halo traces the shape.

“You must’ve ripped a glove,” Lt. Sykes says.

“Secondary transfer,” Portman argues, trying to wipe the halo away, but the stain sticks fast. “Doc . . .”

“They’re not in the tissue, yet.” Dr. Wolff rounds Trey’s bed.

“Do something!” Portman screams, grating his skin with his fingernails.

“Don’t!” Dr. Wolff grabs his hand and holds on tight. “Speed your heart and you’ll spread them faster. I need a tourniquet.”

Lt. Sykes rips off his belt, one-handed.

“Keep your other hand clear, or we’ll end up with cross-contamination,” Dr. Wolff warns as he ties off Portman’s hand at the wrist.

They’ve completely forgotten about Trey. None of them are watching when foam starts forming under his breather and the convulsions start again.

I’m out of my hiding place and beside the bed, and I don’t even remember moving.

“Doctor Wolff!” I don’t decide to shout either, but that’s how it happens. “Trey . . . calm down.” I try patting his shoulder, but he seizes up off the bed with the slightest touch. “Trey!”

“Elias, we need you!” Dr. Wolff leaves Portman to Lt. Sykes and returns to Trey’s bedside. Mr. Pace finally reappears from the back room—he’s not happy to see me.

“You can yell at me later, Mr. Pace. Trey’s dying!”

All I can think about is how Anne-Marie will look when she finds out her brother’s dead because of me, too. She’ll hate me; I won’t have anyone left.

“He’s not dying,” Dr. Wolff argues. “The Fade carry a contagion. It was on the bush that cut him. His body’s fighting it.”

He slides his hand beneath the mattress of Trey’s bed, retrieving a cuff he uses to strap Trey’s leg down. Mr. Pace does the same on the other side. They bind Trey’s hands, careful of his forearm.

Trey’s burn begins to weep a slow-moving ooze. Dr. Wolff reaches for a metal bowl off the counter, positioning Trey’s arm over it to catch the runoff. By the time it’s done, there’s about an inch-deep puddle of murky glop mixed with blood in the tray. Dr. Wolff lights a wooden dowel on fire and tosses it into the . . . whatever it is that came out of Trey’s body. It burns quicker than paper, igniting in a brilliant emerald flash that leaves only fine black powder and the scent of decay.

“He’ll be fine,” Dr. Wolff says. “Once it’s burned out, it becomes inert.”

I turn my head back to where Lt. Sykes is still holding on to Portman’s translucent, bloodless hand. If feelings have colors, I’ve just turned chartreuse.

“Stay clear,” Dr. Wolff says to me.

While I watch, he heats a long, flat blade. When it’s glowing, Lt. Sykes and Mr. Pace hold Portman tightly by his shoulders, forcing him down into a chair. Portman wraps his feet around the chair’s legs. He bites down on the towel they put in his mouth, so when he screams, it comes out muffled. All the fingers on the hand with no tourniquet flex, bending back against their joints from the agony of being branded. His feet pound in place along the slick tile, gaining just enough traction to tip his chair. The tendons in his neck pull taut; his eyes pop. And he keeps on screaming.

Dr. Wolff watches the clock with one hand in the air, counting down, and drops it when he says, “That’s enough, let him go.”

Portman slumps, shaking, in the chair. Dr. Wolff pulls the blade away, takes the towel from Portman’s mouth, and uses it to brush new black ash from his hand into another tray.

“Only skin contact,” he says. “It didn’t go deep.”

They all relax like they didn’t just sear a man’s palm with a knife. Lt. Sykes helps Portman to a bed, fitting him with his own mask and light, while Dr. Wolff carts both bins of black ash to the back room. Mr. Pace comes for me.

“I’m sorry,” I say automatically. “I was worried about Trey. Anne-Marie—”

“Does not need to know about this.”

“But—”

“Marina, we don’t tell you not to do things and not to go places because we’re horrible. We’re trying to keep you safe, so what you saw doesn’t become a necessity for more people. If you constantly do the opposite of what you’re told, it’s harder for us to do that. Go to first meal and let us handle this. There’s no need to mention the Fade at all. It would just worry people.”

“But what about Anne-Marie and her mom?”

“I’m going to tell Dominique myself. Annie can wait, but I promise she’ll be told.”

“Thanks, Mr. Pace,” I say. “And I really am sorry.”

“Stop apologizing and start paying attention.” He taps my forehead with his finger. “Now get out of here before I decide to tell Honoria you were prowling around where you weren’t supposed to be, again.”

That’s all the motivation I need. One run in with Honoria’s enough for the day. I leave Trey to our teacher, and start the walk down the brown line to the Common Hall. Halfway there, I remember that Trey’s catastrophe wasn’t the only one I’d witnessed in the hospital. Not only do I have to get through first meal with Anne-Marie, but I have to face Tobin, too.

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