CHAPTER 16
Training can’t prepare a man for his end. In that moment, his spirit rises, and more often than not, death is the first to see his true face.
—RAFE HARDY, CHIEF OF PRESIDENTIAL SECURITY
By the time the Coppers clear Edmund’s hovercar for departure, I’ve already called Charlotte three times. I grip the armrest of my seat tighter with each unanswered ring until I give up and text Dickie instead.
He replies instantly: “We’ve got Lady Charlotte.”
I sink into the seat, my head tipping back as I let the weight go.
My eyes close, opening only once we’re in motion.
The Speakeasy shrinks to a smear of amber light as it fades behind us.
The farther we drive, the easier it is to breathe.
The adrenaline that’s been coursing through me all night finally burns out, and for the first time, I allow myself to believe the danger is over.
Charlotte is safe. I’m safe in Edmund’s entourage.
But I don’t feel safe.
I feel something is deeply wrong.
Heat rises under my skin, sharp as a sparking fuse, then vanishes just as quickly, replaced by a wash of deadening cold.
Numbness prickles down my arms, stabbing through my hands until even my fingertips tingle with static.
My chest feels squeezed. Crushed. My heart beats too slowly, and the world around me is too loud and distant all at once.
I try to take a breath, but the air feels too thick in my throat.
That’s when Edmund turns his head toward me. His forehead creases, and his voice sounds muffled, as if he’s talking underwater. “You’re going into shock, Miss Waldsten.”
He dims the cabin lights and slides a hand around my waist, gently cupping my head to lower me onto the seat.
He unbuttons his suit jacket, reaches inside, and pulls a platinum pocket watch from a chain looped through his vest. The watch rattles as he leans over the seat and presses it into my hand. My fingers barely curl around it.
“Hold it tighter,” Edmund says. “Use it as an anchor.”
My body starts to shake, but I squeeze until the platinum’s coldness bites into my skin.
I focus on the watch’s midnight blue dial, where rhodium-plated indices gleam under the overhead lights, each set with a brilliant sapphire.
The subdials tick in perfect rhythm, tracking nine time zones across the Civilized World.
Altimor. I don’t recognize the brand, but the watch keeps me here, even if I feel only half-conscious.
In. Out. I focus on the second hand’s movement, the ridged bezel pressing against my thumb, and the fact that I’m still alive. I didn’t die. Someone else did. My grip on the watch loosens as I struggle to push away the memory of the student’s swinging corpse.
Then the world slips sideways.
And I black out.
A familiar scent draws me back: bergamot, orange blossom, and something bitter beneath. I can’t remember where I first smelled the scent, but I know I hate it. It punches into my skull like a blade, and I gag.
I jerk upright, and my forehead slams into something warm and hard.
I think I hear a bone crack. A loud grunt rings out, followed by an even louder curse.
I blink through my blurred vision until the shape across from me comes into focus.
Edmund is holding a cologne bottle in one hand and his nose in the other.
Bright blue blood streams over his fingers, dripping onto the seat.
“I-I’m sorry.” My voice slurs. “Your face was right above—”
“Shit, woman.”
I wince as guilt flares. He tips his head back and tries to slow the bleeding. “I said I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Why were you leaning over me like that?”
Edmund tosses the cologne bottle onto the carpet. “To bring you back before they stuck a toe tag on you.”
“You didn’t have to be close enough to steal my air.”
“Be grateful I bothered to make sure you had air to steal.”
The change in his language finally registers. “I am grateful,” I say. “For your help and for finally speaking to me like a normal person.”
“This is how I always talk.” Edmund pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, chin lifted as he scrubs the blood away.
“I was sure you kept your nose too high in the air for that.”
“Is that why you broke it?” He shoves the handkerchief into his jacket with a grunt. “You will maintain all the rules of formal speech, Miss Waldsten, even if I choose not to.”
I shrug, pretending I’m not irritated enough to duck and roll out of the moving hovercar. “That is not a problem, Mr. Prew.”
While Edmund works to stop the bleeding, I turn away and rub my throbbing temples, vaguely aware of shapes blurring outside.
The hovercar is still gliding over a cliffside road, so I was probably out for only a few minutes.
Cypress trees rush by, distorted by the salty ocean wind, their branches clawing at the dark.
Up ahead, a formation of security drones hovers in a phalanx formation, guarding a massive stone door embedded in the cliff face.
The drones’ sensors scan us as we slip through the opening door and descend deep into a mountain tunnel.
I glance around the brightly lit shaft, confused.
The Grandmaster University map says the Speakeasy can be reached only by hovership, but that’s clearly false.
This road isn’t meant for students or even staff.
It’s a secret path reserved for Blues like Edmund, and probably the Coppers as well.
But if this road exists, how many more are out there?
How many passageways twist beneath the campus, whole arteries of status running parallel to ours, just out of sight?
Nausea hits me, and I let my head fall against the window. I barely notice the sudden weight in my palm until I look down. A tube of rejuvenation cream, left there by Edmund. His nose has stopped bleeding, with only a slight redness remaining.
“Thank you,” I murmur, unscrewing the cap and spreading the cool cream over my injuries. The sting fades as it’s absorbed into numbness.
Edmund nods, retrieves the Altimor pocket watch from the seat beside me, and clips it to his vest. Then he leans back far enough that his shoulders sink into the cushions.
He looks both relaxed and tense at the same time.
One moment, his forehead is smooth; the next, the skin appears stiff.
His mouth presses flat, then loosens. His fingers tighten on the armrest, grip it, then release, then grip again.
He looks like a horse that’s spotted a weakness in its pen, nudging it, testing it, ready to batter it down and bolt, but not quite convinced it’s the right time.
Still, his breathing slows, as if something is rolling off his chest in heavy pieces.
Heavy as an engagement, maybe. A marriage he never wanted.
But I don’t ask.
I crack open the window, hoping the cold air will wash away the cologne. That scent, still unnamed, clings to my lungs like a fingerprint. I want it gone. I breathe deeper, until each inhale hurts a little less than the last.
The night’s horror is finally receding, tucked inside my mind like something half-asleep, but I know it’s still there. It’ll return, probably later tonight, as soon as I’m alone.
“How are you feeling?” Edmund asks as he syncs his Bond with the overhead holographic TV screen. His left eye flashes electric blue as he flips through channels, but I know he’s watching me, too.
The strange part is that it’s not with his usual condescension, as if I’m beneath him. No. This look is new. It’s still calculating, but more polite, almost attentive.
It makes my skin crawl.
This can’t be kindness, not from him. Even I know Edmund Prew doesn’t change without a reason.
“I’m in your entourage, Mr. Prew, and it’s your duty to ensure nothing bad happens to me. I’d say I’m feeling perfect.”
A small, amused smile. “Glad I could help… again.”
He flips past The Civilized Voice.
“Wait.” I lurch forward, nearly dropping the tube of rejuvenation cream. “Please. I wish to know if there is any news about my father.”
Edmund hesitates, then switches it back.
Benjamin Bogart’s striking face fills the screen, framed by rose bushes in full bloom.
He stands outside the Golden Gate Manor, bathed in the amber glow of lampposts.
Rose petals dance on the evening breeze, swirling upward before drifting away.
The scene’s beauty is overshadowed by the cold gleam of his bulletproof purple suit.
“…that some are calling a miracle,” Bogart says, his voice edged with disbelief.
“President Theodore Reeve was rushed to Pembroke Hospital, but his injuries are minor. Thanks to a daring intervention by a courageous low-citizen, the president is expected to make a swift recovery. We will speak with the low-citizen shortly, but first, let us revisit the moment that shook the nation.”
The screen transitions to a sweeping aerial shot of the ballroom at the Golden Gate Manor.
Men and women in formal attire mingle and dance among gilded columns adorned with daisy bouquets.
It’s a sea of tuxedos and silk, with high-citizens and low-citizens eating, drinking, talking, and simply existing in a world vastly different from mine, where the struggle for political power flavors the very air they breathe.
At the center of it all is President Reeve. His blue suit cuts a mighty figure, and his poise is as solid as a mast in a storm. The crowd applauds as he mounts a marble stage to speak before the opening waltz.
Near the podium, his chief of security, Rafe Hardy, observes the crowd with gruff intensity.
He’s an enormous Green, with legs like tree trunks and a long scar across his dark-skinned cheek.
Dad says Rafe has protected Reeve long before he became president, but in all that time, he’s only ever heard Rafe speak a few words.