2
When I wake up, I’m rolling across the ground, coming to a stop in the dirt with my head spinning. I stare up at a dusky sky as low conversation and moving bodies blur around me.
Someone kicks my foot. “Get up. We’re here.”
Here. Where?
Rook appears above me a moment later. “Poet,” he says, gently touching my forehead. I wince, remembering that Calliope knocked me out.
That witch.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I groan as my temple throbs with a dull ache. “What’s going on?”
He helps me sit up, and I scan the horizon. New Manhattan is gone. Someone must have carried me while I was unconscious.
My stomach pitches with an uncomfortable tangle of emotions. Fear. Confusion. Shock. I blink at Rook, remembering all the things he said during our escape.
The promises he made. The warnings.
That’s when a low humming buzz seizes my attention. I peer over my shoulder to find a shocking sight—a fence constructed of flickering, silvery light.
Not Spark. Just electricity, I think.
Beyond it, an array of buildings sprawls into the middle distance. They’re nothing like the towering monuments of a civilization where I’ve spent my life. But these structures are squat, sturdy, and permanent, made of metal and wood and glass.
I blink. There isn’t supposed to be anything out here. The Wastes are dead, empty land, filled with nothing.
Clearly, that isn’t true.
“Get her up,” says Calliope, approaching us.
Rook spreads his arms, shielding me. “Stay the fuck back.”
Calliope rolls her eyes and brushes past. The rest of her crew moves to follow, save August, who waits for Rook and me to stand. I’m unsteady on my feet, my head swimming through fog.
“Let’s go,” August says.
For a moment, I can’t.
My stomach dips like I’m teetering on the edge of a cliff.
Another step, and my old life will be gone forever.
“Now,” Calliope grits out, suffering no moment for my internal breakdown. I wonder if she senses how close I am to cracking. Maybe she wants to offer a little push for her own personal amusement.
I won’t give her the satisfaction.
Rook is moving carefully, still favoring his injury, but at least he doesn’t look like he’s about to fall over and die. I’ll call that an improvement.
We approach a tall metal gate buzzing with electricity. Two large men with short-cropped hair grip a set of those strange stunners as Calliope marches toward them without hesitation. She barely comes up to their chests, and they bend down as she exchanges a few quiet words that I can’t make out.
Their gazes find me first, then Rook.
Their eyes widen.
The one on the left bends at the waist in a gesture of respect.
What’s going on?
Rook stares straight ahead as I study his profile, confused about so many things. I thought he was just some guy who decided to attend Amery to find a better life, but I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been mistaken this entire time.
He told me he has superiors. People he reports to.
He told me The Shield was lying.
And now this man is bowing to him.
The questions crowd together, blending into one pulsing mass behind my eyes.
The man on the left reaches over, flips open a panel, and punches a few buttons. The energy buzzing across the gate winks out, leaving us a clear passage into the camp.
“Welcome home,” he says.
We file through in a single line, electricity sizzling against the vertical poles flanking the entrance.
Dozens of people swarm the compound, dressed in more of the same molded leather armor, paired with pieces of mismatched tactical gear I recognize from New Manhattan.
Calliope gestures for Rook and me to follow, while August dogs my heels like an annoying shadow.
“Where do you think I’m planning to go?” I ask, gesturing to the humming fences surrounding us.
He just grunts.
The rest of our escort scatters, disappearing into the lengthening shadows of the compound’s buildings, but several people stop to watch us pass. I wonder how often they welcome newcomers into their fold.
Although welcome is maybe a bit too strong a word.
My hands curl at my sides as I resist the urge to fidget, hoping to project an air of confidence, but I’m not sure how well I’m succeeding.
Solitudes.
My entire life, I’ve been told they’re barely human, living scattered across the Wastes, chasing down starving animals for sustenance. But then Rook arrived at Amery and began to dispel that notion, and now I’m faced with the certainty that nothing I’ve been told was the truth.
They’re organized. They’ve built something that looks like a city. And though it’s nothing like New Manhattan, it’s also not the wild, barren nothing I expected.
We pass buildings made of corrugated metal and brick. Food smells waft from the largest one, suggesting a cafeteria. Another boasts a red cross hanging out front—a hospital. On top of every building is a network of solar panels, all tipped toward the sky.
At first, I assumed we’d entered a temporary encampment, but the farther we walk, the more I’m convinced this is a home.
This isn’t temporary at all. This is something constant.
Calliope turns a corner, revealing an area filled with small round tents, each with a lantern hanging outside its door. Campfires burn between them, surrounded by chairs and people holding cups as they converse in low voices punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter.
It’s all so . . . cozy.
So simple and yet utterly profound.
All of it was a lie.
What if The Shield was just mistaken? What if things were different when General Sol lived in the Wastes? What if they don’t know about any of this?
But a kind of certainty roots through my heels, anchoring me to this present and this truth.
We were lied to. Told things about the Solitudes and the Wastes that weren’t really true. Taught to fear and shun anything beyond the perimeter of New Manhattan.
The question is why.
As we move deeper into the clearing, the jovial mood dims, and everyone falls silent. August and Calliope nod in greeting, but Rook and I have become the center of attention.
We approach a group standing in front of a larger tent that glows from within. Combined with the soft light from the flickering fence beyond, the scene is quietly beautiful in its own mysterious way.
The group shuffles aside, revealing a man with pale skin, sandy-brown hair, and bright blue eyes. He’s perhaps five years older than Rook, handsome in a hard-edged way, with a strong jaw and straight nose. He’s nearly as big as Rook, too. Tall and broad in black leather that molds to his form.
“Cal,” he says, almost as if he’s surprised to see her.
“Fisher,” she says, her voice a bit different from earlier. A little softer and higher. More deferent. Breathless.
Immediately, I wonder if she’s in love with him.
Fisher.
The same man who’s been mentioned a few times.
Commander Sterling.
“We found these two in the Wastes,” Calliope reports, her voice tuned to its more familiar snarl. “They used the east tunnel out of New Manhattan. It’s gone now.”
Everyone’s attention turns to us. From the pins and badges on their clothing, I can only assume this is a higher-level command group. They vary in age but share the same air of hardness. Of strength forged in the severity of their lives.
Commander Fisher Sterling cocks his head, his gaze finding me first. It slides over my face, my clothes, even my boots, before he looks up to meet my eyes.
“You found a Crust?” he asks, his tone less scathing than curious, like I’m an oddity to be puzzled out.
Calliope snorts. “Trust me, we were all shocked.”
Fisher’s attention shifts to my left and lands on Rook. He sighs, shaking his head. “Athira. Why doesn’t this surprise me at all? What the fuck are you doing here?”
It occurs to me that at least Rook told me his real name, and I derive way too much comfort from that.
Rook raises a brow and smiles. “You know how I just love dropping in.”
“You came from the city?” he asks.
Rook doesn’t answer, his jaw tight.
Fisher sighs. “Always with the secrets. Does your father know where you are?”
Rook just stands there, arms crossed, never breaking eye contact. It’s obvious he won’t answer. It seems I’m not the only one Rook keeps things from.
It’s pathetic, but that also makes me feel a little better.
“My business doesn’t concern you,” Rook answers after a long, awkward moment in which I swear no one around us breathes.
Fisher snorts, tucking his thumbs into his belt loops as he saunters closer. “Yet I find myself curious. That’s understandable, isn’t it?”
He stands toe-to-toe with Rook. Nearly matched in height and size, I notice other similarities around the eyes and mouth. In the shape of their noses. It isn’t immediately obvious due to their different coloring, but I’m sure I’m not imagining it.
Who are they to each other?
“Maybe I’ll torture the information out of you,” Fisher says casually, tipping his head. “Or maybe . . .” His gaze flicks to me. “I’ll squeeze it out of her? I bet she screams so nice.”
I’m too shocked to react.
A growl rumbles from Rook’s throat, and Fisher’s eyes widen before he bursts out laughing, slapping a hand across his chest.
“Oh, Rook,” he says, wiping a fake tear from the corner of his eye. “Did you fall for a Crust? What will the mighty High Commander Athira say about that?”
Who?
Rook exhales a long breath through his nostrils. These two clearly have a history, and it isn’t a pleasant one.
“Just let us go,” Rook says, teeth gritted. “We aren’t here to bother you.” He pauses, drops his arms to his sides, loosens his stance. “Besides, we both know you don’t have the guts to torture either of us, don’t we?”
The comment is intended to hurt. I see it in the mean glint flashing across Rook’s eyes. He’s been kind to me—minus the lying—but somewhere along the way, I forgot what he’s capable of.
What I don’t understand is why Rook is choosing to goad Fisher right now. We’re the ones at a disadvantage, but you’d never know it by Rook’s behavior.
Fisher’s casual manner evaporates in an instant, his eyes narrowing.
“You know I won’t let you go,” Fisher replies. “Not without some answers about what you were doing in the city and why you’re traveling with a Crust.”
This time, Fisher spits the word crust with such disdain that it makes me feel less than human, which is probably the point.
“And you know I can’t do that,” Rook says. “It’s classified.”
The corner of Fisher’s mouth curls up. “The high commander and his secrets.”
His gaze shifts my way, as though he’s wary of revealing anything in my presence.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Rook says. “But for now, you’re not getting anything until I can return home and report to senior command.”
The two men glare at each other.
“We need some food and a hot shower. Our bags, too,” Rook adds, his tone shifting into something I’ve never heard from him before. Imperious. Almost like he’s a prince and not the wandering Solitude I’ve clearly mistaken him for.
“Fine,” Fisher spits out. “Then I guess you’ll be spending the night as our guests.”
He turns away, literally spitting this time, a glob of saliva hitting the dirt to his left. He lifts a thumb over his shoulder, addressing a few of his people.
“Lock them up.”