20
When I come to, I’m in what looks like a prison cell. I’m lying on a bed, fully clothed, staring up at a concrete ceiling. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where I am. The Tempestade.
The Extinguishers took me. The thing I spent my entire life fearing came to pass, and I did it intentionally.
I walked out in bright daylight and waved a white flag of surrender.
I remind myself this is all for a reason.
I have a purpose. But it’s hard to remember that when I have no idea what comes next.
I might never see Rook or my mom or any of my friends ever again.
I listen to my surroundings. All I hear is the whir of a fan somewhere in the distance.
My head throbs, and I reach up to touch a spot above my eyebrow, wincing at a tender bump where they knocked me out. I’m getting really sick of this.
I remember screaming. Shouting at Rook. Watching the Patrol descend on him. What happened? Is he okay?
He told me he loved me.
And I didn’t say it back.
I do love him. I’ve loved him since the moment he followed me out of the pledging ball and hugged me in a dark corner because he was angry on my behalf. I’ve loved him since he found me at the bottom of the stairs, carried me to the med wing, and stitched up my teddy bear.
I loved him when I watched him with his brother and sister.
When I saw the respect he commanded in the Veil.
When I understood he’d do anything for the people he loves.
When he sat under the stars playing music that spoke to the deepest layers of his soul.
I’ve loved him then and a thousand moments in between.
A loud bang in the distance has me flinching. It takes a moment to realize it’s just the ventilation system knocking. I’m surprised they’re even bothering.
I should get up. Examine my cage. Maybe devise an escape. Except I planned to be here. There would be no use in running now.
I lack the will to move, anyway.
My eyes drift shut as I picture Rook on the edge of the embankment, screaming for me.
The terror on his face.
I want you to know that I’ve fallen in love with you, Poet Graves.
The words resonate around me, fusing to my skin, imprinting themselves in the winding corridors of my mind.
A single tear slides down my temple. “I love you, too,” I whisper into the empty silence.
Will I ever get the chance to tell him?
The echo of footsteps in the distance has me inhaling a razored breath.
Someone is coming.
Still, I don’t move. I lie on my bed, my hands gripping a thin, scratchy blanket as I squeeze my eyes shut.
I don’t want to know what comes next. Maybe if I refuse to look straight at it, nothing can hurt me.
The footsteps draw closer, ricocheting off concrete, sharp and crisp, like a million cuts delivered with a dagger.
They stop in front of my cell, and then a soft voice: “Poet.”
Immediately, I’m alert, bolting upright, my vision spinning, head throbbing.
“Mom,” I gasp, stumbling out of the bed and tripping over to a set of iron bars where she stands gripping them in her fists.
She reaches for me, and I fall into her embrace, separated by a barrier of cold metal.
I’m sobbing, crying into her shoulder as she shakes and shakes. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“We were so worried,” she says at the same time. “We didn’t know where you’d gone.”
“I’m sorry. I had to run. I was so scared.”
We’re both babbling, our words melting together.
She pulls me closer as the bump on my head pulses, and I touch it, wincing.
A twin to the one I received from Calliope. Maybe there’s a certain poetic alignment in that.
I was knocked out when I left because they were worried I would see too much.
Then, I returned, and I was knocked out again, but now I see everything.
“Your head!” my mother says, eyes wide with concern. “Are you okay?”
It takes me a moment to register the sound of more steps approaching. I recognize them. That cadence. That gait. The way he eats up the floor with his long strides. My mother looks down the hall, and we wait as he approaches.
“Dad,” I whisper.
My mouth opens and then closes, but I don’t know what to say.
We stare at each other, and I realize that for the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m not afraid of him. Not the way I used to be. Sweaty palms, rapid breaths. I’m scared not because I’m afraid of what he’ll do, but because I know he’s hiding something.
“Poet,” he says, his voice clipped. “We’re glad you’re alive.”
It isn’t the warmest welcome, but it’s certainly on brand for the formidable Grady Graves.
“What happens next?” I ask.
“You’ll stand trial,” he says. “The members of The Shield will be present, as will your accuser. You’ll be asked to prove your innocence.”
“How do I do that?”
“To start, you’ll undergo their blood test,” he says.
He fixes me with a penetrating look.
General Sol confirmed he knows what I am. He’s complicit in the lies we’re about to tell. Questions bounce around the inside of my skull. Why is he doing this? What does he hope to gain?
“Right,” I say. “The blood test.”
I passed it once. Can I do it again?
My father doesn’t look away. He stares at me, almost as if he’s willing me to understand.
Then . . . the slightest nod.
So barely there, I would have missed it if I hadn’t been looking for it.
I study my father, suddenly wondering if I ever understood who he is at all.
He’s committing treason. They could lose everything.
“It will be fine, honey,” my mom says in a rush, and I wonder again if she’s in on this, too. “Nyxia will speak on your behalf, as will your instructors. We all know you aren’t infected. I never liked that girl. She was always jealous of you, Poet.”
Trinity.
My former best friend and the person I must now pretend to like again.
How much of the larger plan are my parents privy to? Clearly, they’ve spoken with the general, but what did she reveal?
“When?” I ask. “How long do I have to stay here?”
“I’m not sure,” my father says. “But until then, you’ll remain locked up. I tried to get you out, but . . .”
He trails off. Even his influence isn’t enough in this case.
“Can I see you again?”
He shakes his head. “I already had to pull a thousand strings to secure this meeting. You’ll see us at the trial.”
“What about Rook?” I ask. “Is he okay? Does the Patrol have him?”
At that, my parents exchange a look.
“The Solitude?” my mother asks, the color draining from her face. “Poet, he took you.”
“He will be dealt with,” my father says.
“Don’t you dare threaten him. He saved me. He protected me. I would be dead if he hadn’t taken me out of the city that night.”
My words burn with fury that he’s been taken from me. Anger that I wasted a single minute believing things about him that were never true.
My parents recoil at the vehemence in my voice.
“Make sure he’s okay,” I say to my father. “That he’s safe. I swear I will never speak to either of you again if you let anything happen to him.”
My hands wrap around the bars, squeezing them so hard my fingers ache. I mean it. I might not live past my trial, but I vow to keep this promise if I’m ever allowed to return to my normal life.
My father pauses, searches my face.
He must decide I’m serious, because he dips his head. “Very well. I’ll ensure the boy is . . . protected.”
“Good,” I say. “I know you don’t understand, and I know it must hurt because of Aunt Soren, but he’s only been kind to me. He’s given me more than I ever deserved. Nothing they’ve told us about the Tiera Fr—”
“Poet,” my father barks, startling me, cutting off whatever I was about to say next. His gaze flicks to the steady red light embedded in the ceiling, reminding me that someone is listening, preventing me from saying anything else about what I saw beyond New Manhattan.
I realize this is another thing I’ll probably have to lie about.
“I will do what I can. Okay?” he says.
I wish we could have a moment to talk without prying eyes. I wish I understood a single thing. I swallow down my words. They taste bitter. Coated with confusion and half-truths.
“Thank you,” I say.
He checks the time on his wrist. “We have to go, Sariah.”
My mother nods and reaches for me again, tugging me into another long hug. I squeeze her back, and she kisses my forehead before pulling away.
“We’ll see you soon,” she says, tears tracking down her cheeks. “Be careful.”
Then she turns and walks away as though she can’t bear to look at me for another second longer. The rapid echo of her footsteps feels like a barrage of shots to my chest.
My father lingers. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his gray slacks as we share a long look. We have things to say to each other. I don’t entirely understand what or why, but something has shifted. We are no longer father and daughter, but something else.
Coconspirators?
“Dad,” I whisper.
I feel like I’m eight years old again.
Before I knew the true depths of his fury.
Before I understood what he was truly capable of.
I feel like the small child who still believed in the power of her father’s love.
But he doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t acknowledge it.
After one more drawn-out look, he turns and walks away.
The worst part is knowing I may never learn the truth.