23. AURORA
My scalp itches like fucking crazy. Butchéring my hair has left a thousand tiny, spiky strands that prick at my skin every time I move. That, plus the general stench of the Digger block, is making me desperate for a shower—but getting one involves making stupid de Vaux play nice.
Fucker.
Currently lounging on his cot, he’s reading a book.
A book. Where it came from, who the fuck knows—it’s probably a gift from a guard too afraid to say no.
It’s as if Francois has some magical hold over half of Quo.
Everyone is desperate to make him happy while simultaneously terrified he’ll stop being "civilized. "
But not me, buddy. Not me.
“I want a shower,” I tell him, standing at the bars. “Taliesin normally escorts me and keeps watch. He’s really good at keeping me safe.” I add that last part because I know it’s like twisting a knife in his ribs.
When he looks up, his dark eyes scan me with an infuriating, detached curiosity. “Well, hallelujah. I was beginning to think you’d fully embraced your new status as a half-shorn gutter rat.”
“Whatever. Are you going to get me a shower or not?”
With a martyred sigh, he stands. “I’ve been very disappointed with the facilities here, but we will have to persevere. Come, let us see if we can make this experience less hideous.”
Once the cage door slides open, I follow him down the hall. The air feels even more heavy and humid than usual. Every Digger we pass shrinks away, mumbling “Hello, Boss” under their breath.
Reaching the shower block, the usual mold-scented steam and the sound of distant shouts reach me. My stomach twists. This is the part I hate—the feeling of being a piece of meat in a room full of hungry eyes.
Francois steps into the doorway, and the noise dies instantly.
Then something extraordinary happens. The men scramble out of the stalls, some still covered in suds.
They grab their jumpsuits, keeping their eyes trained on the cracked floor tiles.
One man actually trips over a bench in his hurry to sprint past us, not even stopping to check if he’s bleeding. In thirty seconds, the room is empty.
“What the fuck? How? Why did the Guild split too?”
“If you carry yourself with authority, Aurora, the peons will bend.” He gestures to the rusted showerheads as if he’s offering me a private spa. “For the next twenty minutes, it’s just you and the water. I’ll be outside the door.”
He turns his back.
Hating my own gratitude, I step into the block. Gratitude makes me weak. What if I end up turning to Francois for help like I did Tally? Then I’m truly fucked.
I won’t let that happen.
Anyway, why would I be grateful? Thanks to him, I now have the hair of a little choir boy. Fucking glad there aren’t any mirrors in here.
Quickly stripping, I step under the spray.
The water is warm and rust-colored, but as I scrub the industrial soap into my short, choppy hair and sweaty skin, it feels better than any aromatic oils Father ever ordered from Paris.
Finally relaxing as the water cascades over my shoulders, I close my eyes.
But my heart doesn’t allow me any peace.
Wump-ppp.
I press my palm against my chest, right over my sternum. Even through the spray, I can feel it: the slight, irregular hitch in the rhythm. It’s probably the "jungle-fug" of the block.
But if I can dance pointe on broken toes, I can become a master of this fucked-up heart. I survived the fire, I survived my father, and I’m surviving Quo. I won’t let Francois de Vaux or my own body take me down.
Rinsing my hair one last time, I step out fifteen minutes later feeling almost human.
Francois offers a smug smirk. “Tell me, does the water taste sweeter now that I’ve personally ensured no filth can look at you? The failed leader you so dutifully tend could not provide this.”
The annoying thing about the statement is that it’s true. Ignoring him, I move on to a more important topic. “If you can make the men scramble out of a bathroom just by standing there, why don’t you do it regularly? Make it so all the women can shower safely.”
He studies me for a long beat, his dark eyes searching mine. “From the second claxon to the third, the showers belong to the women. I shall have Daniel post the notice immediately. Any man found within ten yards of the door during that time will regret his curiosity.”
Francois steps closer, his voice dropping into a low, smooth cadence. “But do not mistake this for charity, Aurora. A clever man always takes measures to ensure his assets are properly guarded.”
His eyes shift downward, lingering on the ring of dark purple bruises around my forearm. I hate that he can see how weak I am—hate that he’s looking at my bruises like a landlord checking his property for storm damage.
I quickly pull down my sleeve, tucking the marks out of sight. “Whatever, Francois. Just get it done.”
Wump-wump, wump-ppp.
As my heart does its stupid thing again, a weird fizz accompanies the sensation. I resist the urge to thump my chest with a fist.
I have bigger worries.
I.e. Francois.
I have a feeling the return he’ll want for his investment isn’t going to be through my body. Oh no.
It will be paid in the only other currency I have left: pieces of my soul.
As we walk back toward the Digger block, Jensen rounds a corner, his stooped shoulders looking even more weighed down than usual. “Boss.” His voice is dry and rough. “You wanted the temperature turned down. You have to understand the fallout—it’s just not worth it.”
Francois performs a supercilious eyebrow quirk. “If you are saying my comfort is not worth a little scuffle or two, then you’re mistaken. This block is sweltering. Aurora doesn’t like it. Turn it down at least ten degrees.”
“I can’t just turn it down,” Jensen insists, his eyes flicking to me, his voice rising in a desperate pitch. “The sub-level vents are tied into the entire system. If I drop the heat here, the Guild blocks will be fucking freezing by midnight. There’ll be war.”
“So be it,” Francois drawls. “This l’air étouffant is something I will no longer tolerate. A cold man makes mistakes, Jensen. I don’t see a problem; I see a strategic advantage. Fix it, or I’ll find someone who can—then I’ll feed you to your own incinerators to make room for them.”
Asshole.
“Don’t try to make this about my needs. It’s simply a dick move, Francois. But I guess empathy wasn’t on the curriculum at the Conclave.”
Jensen and I meet eyes, and I take note of the mutinous look on his face. This block needs to rebel and take Francois down. Tally has to get well enough to take over again. We need him.
“Fine,” Jensen grunts. “But my people need to hear it from you firsthand. They won’t obey me on something like this.”
“If the Guild finds themselves shivering, they will learn that their comfort is tied to mine. But, fine. I will come talk to the minions.” Francois ushers me into the cell, then locks the cage door.
“Hope someone stabs you in the kidney,” I yell as he disappears into the gloom with Jensen.
As soon as he’s gone, I go straight over and kneel by Taliesin. He looks gray in the dim light, his skin slick with cold sweat. I stroke his forehead. “Please wake up, Tally. Your replacement is a psychopath who’s about to start a war. I really, really need you.”
His fingers twitch against my hand.
“Tally?”
His eyelids flicker, then open. For a second, the gold in his eyes seems to swirl before they finally lock onto mine. My heart does a soaring flip of relief.
“Tally,” I breathe. “You’re back.”