13. Jules #2
Camille rises without releasing my hand and faces the camera with an expression that almost passes for composed. “She needs to rest.”
“See?” I say. “Devotion.”
Kaia steps in before I can push further. “That’s our cue to end the stream. Thank you for making opening night incredible, Vegas.”
“We love you,” Mina adds, making a heart with her hands, though she’s still watching me instead of the camera.
Remy leans toward the lens. “And drink water, apparently.”
I lift the bottle in a weak toast. “Listen to Remy. She’s wise.”
The feed finally cuts.
The red light disappears, and every smile drops with it.
Camille’s gaze moves over my face, cataloguing every sign of distress. “Do you still hear it?”
“No.”
“Are your movements entirely voluntary?”
“As voluntary as anything is under capitalism,” I quip.
“Jules.”
“Yes. They’re mine.”
“Any missing time?”
“No.”
“Foreign thoughts?”
I hesitate.
Everyone notices.
Awesome.
“It wanted me to say something,” I admit. “Same as before. But the bond stopped it from getting all the way in.”
Mr. Bane looks up from the equipment. “It stopped full alignment.”
Camille’s jaw tightens. “The stream was warded.”
“It was,” Mr. Bane says.
“So it bypassed the system?”
“Not entirely. The wards remained sealed,” Bane says. “The breach did not originate inside the system. The audience response created a secondary conduit through the live feed.”
The word settles heavily across the room.
The bond works. It just isn’t enough to make me untouchable.
Blaire looks at Camille. “No more live content.”
“Agreed. For the time being.”
I force a grin. “Yeah, that was not my best livestream moment.”
Camille’s expression does not change, but something shifts through the bond. Relief, tightly contained and immediately suppressed.
I feel it anyway.
The rest is cleanup. Mr. Bane dismantles the compromised system. The Council is notified. Statements are drafted. We move on.
We always move on.
The ride back to the hotel is quieter than the one to the arena. Mina sits beside me, closer than before, our knees touching whenever the bus turns.
“You’re okay?” she asks.
“Thriving. Clearly.”
She doesn’t smile.
I nudge her shoulder.
Across from us, Remy studies me like I’m a problem she intends to solve before it gets another chance to hurt me. Kaia is speaking quietly to Evie on the phone, one hand pressed over her other ear.
Normal.
Almost.
Except now I know the bond can stop a Mouthpiece from taking me.
I also know a Mouthpiece can still reach me despite it.
And when it did, the thing that brought me back wasn’t a ward or a handler. It was Camille looking at me like disappearing was not an option.
Unfortunately, I don’t get much time to process that, since we’re traveling overnight.
By the time Mr. Bane finishes inspecting me, dismantling the livestream equipment, and giving the Council his preliminary report, we have barely enough time to shower and repack before the bus leaves for Seattle.
I rinse the stage sweat and lingering static from my skin, change into the softest clothes I own, and climb aboard with damp hair and no remaining interest in being entertaining.
Most of us disappear into the sleeping compartment almost immediately. The bunks are narrow, curtained little shelves built into the back of the bus. Mine has exactly enough space for me, a pillow, and several questionable decisions about how many blankets one person needs.
I curl onto my side and pull the curtain shut.
Somewhere toward the front, doors close and voices lower as the bus starts moving. I wonder briefly where Camille is sleeping. I didn’t see her claim a bunk, and the idea of her spending the entire drive upright in one of the lounge seats, tablet balanced on her knee, feels entirely too plausible.
She probably has a spreadsheet for spinal damage.
The bond hums quietly beneath my ribs.
She’s still awake.
Of course she is.
I tell myself I don’t care how she’s doing, roll over, and fall asleep before I can prove myself wrong.
By the time the bus reaches Seattle the following afternoon, exhaustion has settled into my bones despite sleeping through most of the drive. The sky outside is grey, rain streaking the windows, the city all glass and wet pavement after the relentless neon of Vegas.
The second the doors open, we’re Midnight Halo again.
Kaia steps out first, poised and smiling. Mina waves toward the fans gathered behind the barriers. Remy lifts one hand in greeting, which is apparently enough to make several people scream like she proposed marriage.
I follow with a grin already in place.
Nobody needs to know I’m functioning on bus sleep, residual demonic trauma, and the distant hope that coffee still exists in Washington.
The crowd shouts our names. Cameras flash. I blow a kiss, pose with the others, and lean into the familiar rhythm until security ushers us through the hotel entrance.
The moment the doors close behind us, my smile drops more than it should.
“I need caffeine,” I announce.
The Seattle hotel is nothing like Vegas. No gold. No mirrors. No honeymoon lighting conspiring against us. The lobby is all dark wood, slate, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking rain-slick streets. Elegant in a quiet, expensive way.
Camille probably loves it.
I scan the lobby for Kevin.
Nothing.
Where is that man when I need him?
Our rooms are ready, our luggage already delivered, and the floor has once again been warded so thoroughly that the lift gives off a faint golden pulse when the doors close.