CHAPTER 5 #2
A middle-aged man sitting outside a cafe notices me first. He lowers his cigar and scrutinizes me with the hard-boiled precision of a journalist or an off-duty Copper.
Then a girl walking by, with a well-groomed spaniel on a leash, takes a photo with her Bond.
I catch a quick flash of electric blue in her left eye.
From there, the news spreads. Whispers ripple through the station as people on escalators stare down at me; others lean over the brass railings on the second and third floors, pointing and murmuring to each other.
Chairs scrape against the marble floor as people leave their tables in shops and bars, heels clicking in a growing frenzy.
“Do not turn around,” Harrison warns as he steps onto the escalator descending to our platform.
I follow, even though every part of me knows a narrow choke point like this is the last place I should be during a chase. But it’s the only way to reach the train.
“How many of them are students?” I ask, surprised at how steady my voice sounds. The loose scattering of people funnels onto the escalator behind us, closing in at the edges of my vision until the blur of bodies looks more like a mob than a crowd.
Harrison glances back and counts with brisk bobs of his chin. “Around half are students, but I am acquainted with only four.”
“You must confront them,” Charlotte says.
“What they are doing is not illegal, Miss Deering.”
“It is if we feel threatened, which I, for one, certainly do.” She pulls a cigarette from her purse, but it snaps in her fumbling hands.
“And if they refuse to cease their pursuit?” Harrison asks.
“Then you shall have grounds to file a report.”
“No,” I cut in. “Reporting will risk escalation we cannot afford.”
Charlotte scoffs and points her broken cigarette toward the mirrored escalator wall. The reflection shows an angry swarm of faces, all illuminated by the electric blue glow of their activated Bonds. “The situation has already escalated.”
“If it had,” Harrison replies, “you would be holding a saber, not a cigarette.” He glances back one last time, shoulders tense, then swallows hard and faces forward. “Perhaps it is best if we increase our pace.”
Charlotte grabs the hem of her gown and hurries down the escalator.
I follow, mirroring her graceful movements despite my unease.
Years of training have taught me to move this way, especially under pressure, but this is the first time I’ve had to stay composed while being stalked by an angry mob, many of whom would bash my skull against the escalator wall if they thought they could get away with it.
I tuck my hands into my coat pockets, focusing on Dad’s daffodil brooch pinned to my dress until we reach the departure platform. Steam rises in gentle plumes, curling through the air as lines of students board a gleaming black-and-gold train.
The Regal Express.
It looms over us like a titan, its body a fusion of black steel and gold, with geometric details and decorative wheels that use magnetic propulsion to hover above the tracks.
The train’s double-decker carriages stretch endlessly along the platform, their frosted glass panes refracting beams of light from the security drones patrolling overhead.
Though the train operates autonomously, a holographic engineer waves a flat-top cap from the engine cab. The holograph’s amplified voice booms across the platform: “Prepare for departure!”
Harrison, Charlotte and I hurry down the platform to the rear of the train.
There are twenty-five carriages, each marked with a yellow-gold plaque.
CARRIAGE ONE: FACULTY. CARRIAGE NINE: BLUE FOURTH-YEAR STUDENTS.
CARRIAGE FOURTEEN: PURPLE THIRD-YEAR STUDENTS.
CARRIAGE NINETEEN: ORANGE SECOND-YEAR STUDENTS.
And then, only a stone’s throw from the caboose, is Charlotte’s and my carriage, number twenty-four.
But there’s no way to enter.
At least a hundred students swarm the carriage, blocking the doors on both sides.
Some huddle in circles, while others are distracted by their Bonds, probably checking Quill for clues about my location.
A group of young men playing hacky sack at the edge of the crowd notices me first. One of them whistles to alert everyone.
I freeze, swinging toward the nearest exit, but the mob behind us collapses into a wall of bodies and traps me inside.
“Do not engage,” Harrison warns, shielding Charlotte and me with his arms.
“And if they engage?” I ask.
He nods toward the security drones circling overhead. All are equipped with electroshock tasers capable of hitting targets with pinpoint accuracy. “They will not.”
Charlotte flares her nostrils, then activates her Bond: “Harry’s wrong,” she messages me. “Half of these poor bastards are dopesick. Bliss withdrawals make people more aggressive than the drug itself.”
The crowd surges toward me—a flash flood of sweaty faces, dilated pupils, and necks bulging with angry veins.
I spin and scan for an opening to escape.
That’s when I spot the Greens from the hoverbus, riding an escalator down to the platform.
Harrison’s mustached friend leads the group, a pipe between his teeth, his face shadowed beneath a tweed flat cap.
I raise a hand to get his attention.
The moment the Green’s gaze locks onto me, recognition flashes. He nods curtly, then turns to say something to his friends before the whole group carves a path to the center of the mob. Oranges and Purples move aside as the Greens pass, eyes trailing their tall frames and muscle-chorded arms.
The man hands his pipe to one of his friends and bows to Harrison in greeting. “Mr. Somerset. Good day.”
Harrison scrubs a hand down his sweaty face, looking so relieved I half expect him to pull the man in for a kiss. “Good day, Mr. Lee,” he says. “Might I trouble you to escort my friends and me to our door?”
“It would be my pleasure.” Mr. Lee doffs his flat cap. “But first, I wish to formally request an introduction to Miss Waldsten.”
Harrison frowns. “For what purpose? What are your intentions?”
“I must admit, I feel inclined to ask you the same question. Why, Mr. Somerset, are you publicly associating yourself with such a controversial figure?”
At first, I’m not sure what the Mr. Lee is playing at.
If this is his idea of helping us, we’d be better off bodychecking our way to the door.
But then he takes off his flat cap, revealing how tightly his skin is stretched over his broad cheekbones.
His eyes, puffy and bloodshot, are ringed by dark, bruise-colored circles.
Shit.
“Miss Waldsten’s and my relationship is unrelated to politics,” Harrison replies.
“I see.” Mr. Lee smooths his mustache, his hand betraying a slight tremor. “Is it then safe to assume you oppose the Bliss ban?”
Harrison’s mouth pinches at the corners. His shoulders lift again, like an animal sensing danger in tall grass. “My personal beliefs are irrelevant.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Somerset, I am exceedingly curious about where your loyalties lie.” Mr. Lee gestures to the crowd, where people are filming with their Bonds. “We all are.”
Harrison’s face contorts as he realizes his friend has chosen a side. And it’s not ours. He turns to Mr. Lee, who watches us with a patient expression, as if it’s only a matter of time before he gets what he came for.
Traitor.
Anger courses through me. I clench my fists, tempted to call Mr. Lee a two-faced bastard, but I can’t. Aside from Coppers and Pinkies, it’s illegal to speak to strangers until a mutual acquaintance has formally introduced you.
“My loyalties lie with the law of the Civilized World,” Harrison replies. “Now, I must insist that you stand aside.”
“Introduce me to Miss Waldsten, and I shall.”
A buzzing sound fills my ears as a text appears on my Bond:
“What’s this asshole’s angle?” Charlotte writes.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “He can’t do anything with the security drones watching, can he?”
“Technically no, but…” Charlotte bites her lip, then swings her handbag higher on her arm.
“What’s wrong?” I text.
She pushes toward Harrison, who keeps speaking to Mr. Lee even as she yanks on his caped overcoat.
“Until you have revealed your intentions, I am under no obligation to fulfill your request,” Harrison says.
“My intentions shall remain between Miss Waldsten and me. However—” Mr. Lee presses a hand to his chest with an air of sincerity. “As a gentleman, I can assure you of an honorable exchange.”
“If that is the case, then—” Harrison glances down at Charlotte, who’s still tugging on his coat. She rises on her tiptoes and whispers something into his ear that makes his eyes widen. I move closer, trying to overhear, when someone whistles loudly from the back of the crowd.
D. F. A. D. The four notes haunt the air like a ghost, forming the intro to The Last Walk. The song is usually reserved for executions, but there’s a second, lesser-known occasion when it’s played: during death duels.
Mr. Lee whirls on the crowd with a heated glare.
As he searches for the source of the whistle, his coat flaps open, revealing the exquisitely carved hilt of a saber.
Etched into the metal is the letter B, one of the top competitive ratings.
Harrison is only a C, which puts Mr. Lee an entire tier above him.
The sweat on my skin turns cold.
“Well, Mr. Somerset?” Mr. Lee turns back to Harrison, his saber still in plain view. “Will you provide me with the introduction or not?”
Harrison flares his nostrils, frustration radiating off him. I can see the wheels turning in his mind, but it’s hard not to panic as I consider what I’m capable of. Can I manage flèches and parries? Can I grip a saber with these swollen fingers?
My eyes lock on Mr. Lee’s hands, waiting for the slightest movement toward his weapon. He’s wearing yellow wash-leather gloves, often used for driving sports cars, but they work just as well for dueling.