In the confined space of the truck, the sound of the huge rifle’s fire was deafening. At first nothing seemed to happen. But then, with my ears still plugged, I saw the truck begin to shudder, thick black smoke pouring from the sides and the bullet holes, with growing orange flames shooting from the bottom.
I watched in amazement as the truck came to a squealing halt and the shouting occupants quickly bailed out, moments before the small fire became a large one, burning for several seconds and then exploding hard enough for my hair to be blown back.
I looked at Ms. Dale from the center of the truck, and she gave me a tight smile. “That’s better,” she said, as she quickly ejected the spent magazine. On the other side of the truck, Henrik broke into a smile, his eyes lighting up as he looked at her.
Ms. Dale clearly also noticed the look. I couldn’t help but smile as her cheeks slowly grew red again. I moved toward the back of the cab and poked my head through the window.
“Jay and Quinn took off,” I shouted, and Viggo tore his gaze from the road long enough to give me a concerned look. “They’re going to meet us at Father’s Park,” I added, and he nodded.
“Was that the last of the pursuit?” he asked.
“Yes,” I told him. “There were only three vehicles.” Now we had left the tunnel behind, we were climbing a massive hill, the lights of the city below glittering in the night. Bright stars dotted the sky, but low, wispy clouds obscured most of them. I frowned at the pattern, wondering why it looked familiar.
“I don’t get it,” he said as he took a right turn. “Why aren’t there more of them after us?”
At that moment, far away, a series of massive bangs, like fireworks, rang out across the city. At the wheel, Viggo jumped and scanned the sky. “What the hell was that?”
“Violet!” came Tim’s shout, and I pulled my head back out of the cab, turning to him. His finger was pointed at a portion of the city that bordered the river, and my heart dropped as I saw the flickering orange brightness that meant fire lighting up an otherwise-darkened block. Even from this distance, the flame lit up the columns of smoke that were rising from the area, making them stand out, vibrant orange against the night sky.
“That wasn’t us, was it?” I asked, leaning toward it as though I could get a closer view.
Owen shook his head, concern dawning on his face as well. “I don’t think so. At least… it can’t be the tunnel or the vehicles. Too far away.”
“Quinn, Henrik, and I didn’t plant any bombs,” added Amber, in a tone that implied that maybe they should have.
Now that I looked, there were other sections of the city where no lights showed, as though the power had been taken out for blocks. Other flickering lines of fire were visible on the horizon. And the low, drifting clouds, tinted orange from the light below, drifted like smoke against the sky… I remembered that there had been a similar wispy smoke trail obscuring the stars on the night Lee and I had bombed the laboratory and flown away from Patrus.
I bit my lip, staring at the horizon, fearing to think about what this could mean. “Whatever it is, it’s probably what’s buying us time, as long as we don’t run into it. We’re going to have to deal with it later.”
Nobody argued, but our recent victory over the king’s guards no longer felt like a true escape. We rode in tense silence, broken only periodically by someone pointing out new smoke lines in the sky. A few more blasts rocked the night, some of them near, but most of them far away from us. Near the back of the truck, King Maxen groaned and mumbled in his unconscious state.
Soon enough, Viggo called back that we were nearing the park. I looked around, my nervousness about the city turning into downright fear: how were we going to find Quinn and Jay? What if they hadn’t made it?
We were slowing down, unsure of where to search, when a motorbike pulled up behind us and honked insistently. I would have suspected wardens if I hadn’t immediately recognized the riders—Quinn was driving, and Jay was holding on for dear life. Neither of them wore helmets; and before we could pull to a stop, Quinn said something to Jay, who stood up on the motorbike, grabbed Quinn under the armpits, and leapt into the back of the truck, throwing Quinn over the tailgate and tumbling over it himself.
I stared as the motorbike slid onto its side, coming to a skidding halt, wheels spinning furiously, as we drove away. Then I turned to where the two young men were dusting themselves off, not sure whether I wanted to hit them or throw my arms around them.
“Quinn! Jay! Are you guys okay?”
Jay pushed himself to his knees and looked up at me, a huge grin on his face. Quinn’s expression was pretty much the same. “We did it, Violet!” he said. “We got the handheld!”
I sighed, glad beyond measure that their stunt had ended well. “Why do you have to scare me like that?” I teased them, amused at the guilty look that slid across Quinn’s face for a moment. “I’m glad you made it, guys. Good job.”
Tim came up to congratulate the boys, grinning as hard as them. “Awesome!” He beamed at Jay.
All the energy of adrenaline inside me gave way to relief—and exhaustion. My right hand felt like a painful, swollen, useless club.
I wanted Viggo.
With some effort I managed to squeeze my aching body through the small window into the cab of the truck. When I slid awkwardly down and leaned against Viggo’s still-bare shoulder, he reached around and stroked the back of my neck, driving with one hand for a bit.
“The boys got back safe?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I said. “As crazy as it sounds.”
“I knew they’d make it,” Viggo said.
I sighed. I wished I could stop the discomfort that was still twisting my stomach into knots, despite the fact that they had returned safely. I knew that Quinn and Jay—and my brother, for that matter—wanted to help, but I hated that the boys had put themselves in such danger. I also hated my sneaking suspicion that they would have to do it again—and there wasn’t much I could do about it. Samuel laid a sympathetic head on my lap, and I scratched his ear in silent gratitude.
13
Violet
It was completely surreal to be sitting in Viggo’s cabin, the place where we’d shared our first kiss. Of course, at that time, I had been recovering from a concussion and feeling emotionally battered after being kidnapped by the Porteque gang. Still, I had never expected to see this place again after Lee and I had fled Patrus.
Viggo sat beside me at the round little kitchen table, across from a very irate King Maxen, negotiating with him for a deal that would secure Maxen’s participation in what was rapidly turning into our rebellion… or at least for him to get out of our way. The king of Patrus had a nasty purple bruise spreading across the lower portion of his face, and he was still in cuffs, having lost his privileges after a pathetic escape attempt shortly after breakfast (for which he had conveniently stayed put). I could see Jay and Tim outside through the window, throwing sticks for Samuel to chase, the dog’s furry brown body a blur as he scrambled over the pine-needle covered dirt surrounding the cabin. It seemed strangely idyllic.
Owen stood in the hallway with Amber and Quinn, presumably explaining everything that had happened over the last three or four days. Quinn had taken our story of Desmond’s betrayal silently, his normally chipper face tightening into a frown; though he didn’t ask questions or make objections, I couldn’t tell whether he believed us or not.
Even now, the morning after our escape, Amber remained sullen—her body stiff as a steel rod and her arms crossed over her chest. She was arguing with Owen, who seemed to take it in his stride, his body language more relaxed and confident. I wasn’t sure whether Amber could be swayed, but Owen was doing his best.
It had taken us a little more than two hours to get up here from the corner of the city where we’d kidnapped the king, avoiding the major highways in case there were wardens about… or, worse, in case the bridges had collapsed or been blocked by burning rubble. In my half-asleep, ac
hing state, afraid for the city and everybody in it, I’d almost come to believe that there would be nothing left of this place, either, until Viggo pulled into the familiar drive and carried me from the truck.
My first true glimpse of Viggo’s small, cozy bedroom had been anticlimactic—in that Viggo, ever the gentleman, had insisted that my injury meant I needed the single bed to myself, then stuffed me with painkillers, tucked me in, and spent the night dozing in the armchair by the fire. He had wanted to check my wound, but I felt too worn down to cope with the trauma of unraveling it before I’d gotten some sleep. The rest of the group had simply sprawled anywhere they could find in the small cabin. When I awoke, it was to the sight of my brother curled up in a tight ball, snoring lightly, in the space between Viggo’s bed and the window.
Everybody else was already up—they’d let me sleep in. As the smell of cooking food suffused the house from the kitchen—the most eclectic food was left over in Viggo’s cabin after he’d been gone for months, but somehow, he and Henrik had made do—I’d stumbled into the bathroom and washed myself as best I could. I’d started to undo the electrical tape binding the piece of Viggo’s shirt to my hand, then stopped as a wave of nausea sent me reeling back against the sink. I would find a first aid kit and deal with it later, I promised myself.
During breakfast, Owen had updated us on what he knew. He’d gotten ahold of Thomas last night on the secure handheld, managed to convey our spiraling situation, and been on the receiving end of a frantic rant about the bombings. Thomas had confirmed that Desmond had sent out multiple teams yesterday after he’d told us about Amber’s team’s mission, and that she’d instructed all of them to leave him out of the loop—it was highly likely that she suspected he’d followed Owen in defecting. Owen had, with infinite patience, instructed him to start looking at evacuation routes to get himself and Solomon out of his hideout in the sewers. Thomas had been sure that there was less than a twenty-one percent chance of success if he included Solomon in the escape, but to my relief, Owen had firmly insisted, and now we were waiting for Thomas to call back as soon as he came up with a plan.
On the drive next to the yard where the boys played with Samuel, Ms. Dale and Henrik stood by the battered truck, carefully checking and rechecking our mostly stolen stockpiles of weapons and ammunition. I watched as Henrik pushed a lock of hair out of Ms. Dale’s eyes and behind her ear, and caught a glimpse of her surprised expression—noting the way her cheeks started to redden again, visible even through the window. It was definitely a bit odd to see my old teacher flirting.
Not that I was going to judge—this just gave me some wiggle room the next time Ms. Dale decided to mouth off at Viggo and me again. Yet it was also kind of sweet, to see two people who should’ve been enemies becoming so close so quickly. A smile grew on my lips when I realized that it was our story—Viggo’s and mine—being repeated by our older counterparts.
It was corny, but it made me feel that Viggo and I would have been destined for each other no matter when we met.
“You hit me,” the king practically shouted, startling me from the charming thought. His hand slapped down against the table in aplomb. “You kidnapped me. And now you want to hold me hostage until I agree to sign a pardon for you, your Matrian… girlfriend, and the very degenerates who were sent to assassinate me?” He gave a scoffing laugh, and I turned in time to see him lean back on his chair, pushing it back onto its two rear legs and rocking back and forth, his expression one of bemused incredulity.
“Yes,” replied Viggo, cool and collected. “I do.”
King Maxen’s face reddened in ire. “I will do no such thing!” he bellowed. “I will not be subject to this… to this…”
“Blackmail,” Viggo supplied as he slid a blank piece of paper across the table toward the king. I suppressed a smile.
Maxen stared mutinously at the piece of paper. “Exactly,” he said, his tone dropping into deadly calm.
I turned back to the news ticker I’d been perusing, scouring the thin piece of paper for anything regarding, well… anything. But all it reported was that King Maxen had messaged Matrus expressing his condolences about the attempted bombing in the temple, and expressing again that he’d had nothing to do with it.
The ticker was a form of technology that didn’t rely on being hooked up to electricity, and was now outdated. But many citizens still had them in their homes—even reclusive Viggo, who, based on what he’d told me during my former stay in Patrus, wasn’t much interested in the news. I wasn’t clear on the science, but there used to be a law regarding radio interference which stated that radio frequencies could not be used past a certain quota. I vaguely remembered an explanation that said the heat sinks on the antennas weren’t a suitable material, or… something technical like that.
Getting news to all their people had always been a priority for both nations, which was why every home came equipped with a ticker. I’d always been told they were hardwired, impossible for anybody outside of the government-controlled media outlets to hack, and could be overridden directly by the government in case of emergencies.
Normally, news would be given every hour, on the hour. However, the little strip of paper I was looking at had been the most recent in the pile of old ticker reports that had been accumulating in Viggo’s cabin since he’d left to bring me back to Patrus. The ticker machine hadn’t budged once since we had arrived. That was not a promising sign—it meant that the media centers and government offices responsible for overriding it had been compromised somehow… Or there was such chaos that nobody was even going to work anymore.
With bright morning sunlight streaming through the little cabin’s windows, with some food in me and at least a few hours’ sleep—more than I’d had in the last few days—it was easy to think that we were safe here. But I knew that safety was an illusion that could crack at any moment.
I thought about the plumes of smoke we’d seen marring the night sky, the fires, whole chunks of city blacked out. I had no doubt that Desmond—and through her, Queen Elena—was behind them, but just how many teams of Liberators had Desmond sent out on false premises? How long had this been in the works? How bad was it out there? With the tickers down, I could only imagine what was happening in the streets. I thought about Cad and my aunt and uncle, wondering if Alejandro had been able to get to them in time.
I pushed the useless old ticker aside and looked back at the table.
“There is a war going on,” the king said insistently. “I need to be there for my people!”
I rolled my eyes and hid a smirk behind my hand when I noticed that Viggo’s fists were clenched beneath the table.
Just then I heard the ticker click to life behind me, and I turned around, ripping off the old slip of paper as two more clicks sounded, one right after the other. This was normal, indicating the system was being reset. I took a deep breath and waited. After a long moment, a soft, rapid clicking began as the paper tape was slowly pushed through.
I began reading as it came out, and frowned, my mind digesting the words in growing horror. The tape spewed out for at least a minute, half of which was spent printing warning messages for people to stay in their homes for safety during these dark and troubled times.
I ripped off the tape and turned back to the table, staring at the king and Viggo, who were oblivious to me, too deep into their argument.
Clearing my throat, I stepped up to the table and handed the tape to Viggo, who frowned as he read it.
“What is it?” Maxen demanded, his goatee practically bristling with indignation that I had handed the tape to Viggo first.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” Viggo said slowly, “but apparently, they think you’re dead—you must have died in the terrorist bombings that hit…” Viggo’s brow furrowed, and I remembered that this country was where he had grown up, spent all of his life until now. “The state house at the city center, the warehouse district, the docks… the downtown business center… the military trai
ning base and several wardens’ stations, several key officials’ houses and offices…”
By this time, we were all leaning in to hear the news. It sounded more horrible when Viggo read it aloud.
“They say a terrorist cell of rogue Patrian women called the ‘True Daughters of Patrus’ has taken responsibility for the bombings, claiming they could no longer abide the king’s—your—‘shoddily covered-up attempt to assassinate the Matrian queen.’”
“Upstart women! How dare they!” the king growled.
“Your Majesty,” Viggo said incredulously, his jaw clenching, “there are no ‘True Daughters of Patrus’. This must be propaganda. The Matrians have started their plot to take over Patrus. They would’ve had you assassinated if Violet and I hadn’t stopped them. I heard the queen talking about the plot myself.”
“Well, if that’s the case,” the king replied, “then surely my people will see this for the ruse it is.”
“Your people are scared, and they think you’re dead,” I snapped. “They don’t want anything, except to feel safe and secure. Right now they don’t.”
“Which is why you have to let me go,” he retorted, and I felt some very small satisfaction that he’d at least moved on from pretending I hadn’t spoken at all. “My people need to see that I’m all right.”
“Elena has been planning this for a long time,” Viggo replied, leaning back. “The instant you show your face is the instant she has an assassin take you out. For the time being, you’re better off with us.”
“This is preposterous… At least get a message out to my guards. Have them meet you here!”