Thirty-Seven
New York, New York
As New York’s gleaming cityscape came into view, the same words were playing in a loop through Nadiya’s mind.
Evadne was a plaything she could in no way fear.
It was hard for her to remember her childhood chronologically; it came back to her in bits and pieces. A flash of her new
bedroom, with a fluffy purple duvet. She was almost certain that she had moved into Dr. Iver’s house mere days after her parents’
murder. She had even returned to school. She remembered that first day back, her pencil tip breaking on the page as she muddled
her way through long division. The other children ran past her in a blur during recess. She remembered standing on the playground,
rain-darkened asphalt beneath her feet. And then all of a sudden she couldn’t breathe.
She remembered the series of doctors’ appointments, Dr. Iver holding her hand as the needle dug into the soft crook of her
elbow. Does that hurt? Can you feel it?
Nadiya remembered the move to Valeran. The ride up into the mountains had felt exhilarating, her stomach leaping each time
the car dipped and swerved. It was fall, and the trees shed their golden leaves into heaps that she could crunch through.
There was a self-timer on the track in the amphitheater and Nadiya loved seeing how quickly she could make the loop.
She remembered the first time Dr. Iver had slipped a gun into her hands. That same night, he had read aloud to her from The Magician’s Nephew.
I am the great scholar, the magician, the adept, who is doing the experiment. Of course I need subjects to do it on.
When she woke later in the darkness, sobbing and shaking, it was Dr. Iver who sat at her bedside.
“You’re safe, Nadiya,” he said. “I’m here.” But he never said I love you. At least, not that she could remember.
A plaything. He had dressed her in a uniform and made her a soldier. Now she was dressed in civilian attire, acting out her role as a
spy. Soon she would be a murderer. Nadiya knew, when they reached Satow, that she would be the one expected to pull the trigger.
The helicopter descended onto a rooftop, the sudden thud of its wheels against the landing pad making Nadiya jostle into Giselle.
Giselle was quick to take her arm and steady her. Her touch, brief and casual as it was, eased Nadiya’s racing pulse.
Within moments, Deckard was waving them out of the helicopter. Julian leaped down and offered Klaudia his hand. She took it,
and their fingers remained joined for a moment longer than necessary. If Nadiya noticed, she was sure that Deckard did, too.
“Time’s wasting,” Deckard said, raising his voice over the still-beating blades of the helicopter.
They were led through the door on a rooftop and down a dimly lit concrete stairwell. Nadiya was surprised to emerge into a
long corridor of white marble, veined in gold. Corinthian columns girded the walls and crystal chandeliers were massed on
the ceiling like hanging stalactites. It had the air of a dictator’s palace.
“The Plaza?” Julian laughed shortly. “Well, Deckard, there’s no accounting for taste.”
“The gala is in the ballroom downstairs, tomorrow night,” said Deckard. “Staying in the hotel is only sensible.”
Quietly, Nadiya agreed with Julian—it was a little much. Giselle, who had no delicate sensibilities to offend, was looking around, wide-eyed, at the oil paintings on the walls to the bouquets of fresh roses left as complimentary gifts outside each door.
“Tomorrow night?” Klaudia echoed. “And what are we supposed to do until then?”
“Eager to carouse, Ms. Shimonova?”
“Eager to be done with it,” she replied tonelessly.
Deckard glanced down at his watch. “Get yourselves settled,” he said, “and then join me back here in ten minutes.”
They were each given a key to one of four adjoining rooms. When Nadiya stepped into hers, she half expected to see a white
tiger pelt draped across the bed, maybe the head of an endangered species taxidermied on the wall. But she was greeted only
with more white marble and gold, a vase of roses on the table, and a porcelain tub that could have easily accommodated four,
if one were inclined to such debauchery. Maybe Julian—or whoever he had been before Valeran—would have found a use for it.
She walked to the window and pulled back the heavy velvet drapes. There was no balcony, only a sheer, straight drop to the
street below. No bars, but the glass was thick and impenetrable. For all its extravagance, the room was a gilded cage.
There were clothes in the drawers, shoes in the closet, and a garment bag hanging in the wardrobe. Nadiya peeked inside and
saw a flash of black silk. Grimacing, she zipped it back up again.
Giselle’s room was next door. Nadiya wondered if she could hear her through the wall. They hadn’t been alone since that night
in Traumstadt and Nadiya wanted to speak to her, to hold her—and, if she was honest, kiss her again. That desire almost erased
all the questions that nagged at her.
How had she done it? How had she made those men vanish, as if they had never been there at all? Nadiya was certain they were holograms, despite their strange solidity. They had
to be.
She told herself it could’ve been some sort of glitch. Maybe it was the system failing, as Deckard had intimated. Maybe Giselle
hadn’t done anything.
Putting away the thoughts, Nadiya went into the bathroom to splash water on her face. She caught a glimpse of her reflection
in the mirror above the sink.
The days in Traumstadt showed themselves plainly. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin had a sallow cast—like Crispin’s, she thought grimly. Her hair was still loose, and she didn’t have anything to tie it back with. She looked not like a soldier
but like an ordinary girl, tired and wan.
Abruptly Nadiya stepped out of the bathroom, switching off the light behind her.
Deckard was waiting in the corridor, Giselle, Klaudia, and Julian already gathered there with him. Minus Deckard, they looked
as weary as Nadiya felt. Giselle glanced up when Nadiya approached, a soft look of fondness in her eyes. Nadiya clenched her
fists at her sides, as if it might suppress the urge she had to reach out for Giselle’s hand.
“Time for your meeting,” Deckard said vaguely, and led them down the hall. The door at the very end had a biometric scanner
instead of a keyhole. He pressed his thumb to it and the lock clicked open.
For all the extra security measures, inside, the room looked identical to Nadiya’s own. The only difference was that the television
was on, its screen gray and flickering with static.
“What, the CEO couldn’t even be bothered to be here in person?” Julian asked.
“This isn’t the CEO,” said Deckard. The static hummed for another moment, and then a face materialized on the screen.
A familiar face: slightly lined, especially around the eyes, which were an indiscernible shade of blue, and a thick shock of white hair. Dr. Iver.
“What a privilege to see you all again,” he said. “I’m told that you successfully completed your mission in Traumstadt.”
Klaudia’s gaze was sharp. “By some metric.”
“Excellent work, the four of you.” Through the blips of static, which distorted both his face and his voice, it was difficult
to tell who Dr. Iver was looking at when he spoke. “I’m proud that Valeran’s students have made such a good showing, and have
been selected for such a vital and prestigious opportunity. You will go down in history as brave patriots.”
“Prestigious,” Julian echoed. “Interesting way to describe extrajudicial murder.”
“I can’t believe you want us to kill somebody,” Giselle put in tremulously.
“Never has a war been won without spilled blood,” Dr. Iver said. “Moritz Satow is a danger to the entire world, not just to
America and its allies. If he is allowed to continue his work, life as you know it is over. His death is a necessary evil.
One of the many sordid moments in the course of this lamentable conflict.” The suddenly portentous tone struck Nadiya as both
absurd and rage-inducing.
“Then why don’t you sully your own hands,” Julian said, “instead of getting teenagers to do your dirty work?”
The static warped Dr. Iver’s face almost beyond recognition for a moment.
“I have my own mission, which is essential to the war effort,” he said. “My life’s work has been in service of the cause.
I have sacrificed much myself. Not that it matters. This is not an offer to accept or reject. This is an order. You promised
your loyalty to Valeran when you signed your academy contract.”
Nadiya had signed no contract. She wasn’t even officially enrolled as a student. There was nothing legal or technical that mandated her compliance. And yet—she had never refused an order from him before.
Her stomach felt as heavy as lead. None of them spoke.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Dr. Iver said. “And thank you for performing this additional service, with Auric. It is
crucial to the mission as well. You will be fully briefed on everything when you return.”
Nadiya jolted. “We’re coming back? To Valeran?”
“Of course. You are still my students, after all. Valeran will be the first step of your journey. Think of it as a . . . metaphorical
launchpad. A graduation ceremony.” He smiled, that same enigmatic smile Nadiya had come to know so well. “I will see you again
very soon.”
He was speaking to Nadiya directly now; she could tell even through the distortion of the static. She tried to feel comfort,
or anything close to love. But all she heard were the words patriot and student and soldier. Not daughter. Never daughter.
All of a sudden Nadiya couldn’t hear anything over the rush of blood in her ears. She couldn’t speak. In another moment, Dr.
Iver’s face vanished from the screen. Only the gray haze of static remained.
When the call ended, Deckard took out his cell phone and examined it. “It’s your lucky day,” he said. “The CEO has agreed
to meet now.”
“Great,” said Julian. “I feel like I’ve won the lottery.”
“I’d put your snarky attitude away,” said Deckard. “You’re asking the CEO for a favor.”