Again, Lonan takes the hint. This time, though, it isn’t as clear where he should go—there are no obvious doors, just opaque, ten-foot hexagonal panels made of tempered glass. Bright yellow hexagons are embedded in the floor, one per panel. Lonan and Phoenix and Cass don’t seem to notice them, or they’ve steered clear on purpose. I subtly step up and onto one, and whoosh: a portion of the panel slips down and away, glass so smooth and slick it appears seamless even as it recedes into the floor.
Phoenix starts toward me, but reverses as Pellegrin gives a nearly imperceptible signal for him to stop. Of course—no one was looking my way, so the doctor wouldn’t have seen how the rooms open. Lonan realizes this at the same time I do, and steps forward to the hexagon nearest his feet. Another whoosh, and Lonan disappears inside.
We must be at least halfway done with the demonstration. Living quarters, and then one more place? Is that what Pellegrin said before? As amazing as it is to see what my father has created, I’m eager to get it over with. All the science, the blueprints, the research, the trial and error, the avoidable mistakes—all the details that could make the difference between life and afterlife—everything that can make these things available to the whole of the world, and not just Wolves, rests in the vial at my hip.
Every second we spend down here is necessary, I know, but it feels like we’re jumping through hoops. I’m growing weary of it.
The living quarters, unlike the grand atrium itself, are quite small. It’s like being inside one of the old Ikea showrooms, how pristine and efficient they were, except with great windows of ocean along the outside wall. Terraces of coral jut out from the building and into the water like a mermaid’s dream balcony, pure eye candy.
The boys spread out through the rooms—two bedrooms, a kitchen-dining corner that’s hardly separate from the living space, a bathroom—but my eye catches on a single detail, something only I would notice. It’s like a love letter from my father.
I made it for him the summer after seventh grade, an abstract piece of line art. It is my favorite memory, blown up to a print that covers more than half the main wall: Mom, Dad, me when I was five—what’s meant to be our silhouettes, anyway—the summer before we went from three to two. A pier, a seagull. Water, waves. A sunrise that would surely lead to a sunset, endlessly, peacefully, as it always had.
The crisp lines blur. I cannot lose him, not after I just got him back from the dead. And I cannot bear the thought of Wolves living in these units, the shadows of my peace bringing beauty to their lives. They killed peace, mine and the whole world’s.
A loud thud pulls me out of emotional paralysis.
I am alone in this room, and it’s quiet. It’s been quiet for most of the time we’ve been on the island—not that any of us preferred it that way—but this quiet isn’t the same.
Something’s wrong.
I stop myself from calling out, just in case my instincts are off, and dart toward the adjacent room. A shock of panic blooms and bursts in me, spine to extremities in half a second flat, when I see what’s happened. “Cass—no, put him down!” Cass has Pellegrin by the throat, slammed so hard against the glass that a trickle of blood slides down it.
But he doesn’t stop—where are the others?—and Pellegrin is fading, fast. I slip the silver case from where it sits at my lower back, fumble for a sedative syringe. I’m careful to pick the amber one, not the light blue, definitely not the light blue.
Careful works against me.
Cass sees me, sees my reflection in the window, just as I’m about to plunge the needle into his back. Pellegrin slumps from his grip, still with us but only barely—Cass turns and starts in on me. I dart away before his iron fists rip into me, kick the silver case away so that it’s far out of reach for both of us. He pulls hard at my braid, so hard I’m afraid it will rip right off my head. Instead, he wraps it around my throat, tight. Stars dance in my vision.
I gather my strength and shove both elbows behind me, into his ribs, take in as much air as I can while I’m free and have the chance. Quickly, I jab the syringe into his thigh: he falls in a heap.
My breaths come sharp and jagged. “Lonan?” I call out. “Lonan!” What if Phoenix has him pinned in the other room? I have to find him. Then again, what if he has Phoenix pinned? I should have considered this before calling out. Think clearly, Eden. Be smart.
Lonan pokes his head into the room, and relief: he is immediately, obviously affected by the sight of Pellegrin on the floor, by the blood still dripping down the window glass. He rushes to my side, takes my hand in his before I can stop him. It is warm, soft. It’s comfort where I should be putting up walls.
Pellegrin wheezes, like he’s trying to speak. Only a few words come out with any real conviction: Formula. Cure. If I don’t make it. In my lab. Leaning in closer, I see there is more blood than I thought. “Ava,” he says, more clearly this time. “Not dead”—deep breath—“no way.”
No, no, no. So much no, all of this.
If Ava is alive, that’s it. It’s over. She must have lied to me through Phoenix, back on the yacht—used Alexa to lie—which means Alexa must be compromised. What else isn’t as it should be? She will most definitely take matters into her own hands if she thinks she has reason to, Pellegrin predicted, and it looks like he was right. The implications of this—what it could mean for my father on the HQ island—what it already means, here. This is not good. At all.
And Pellegrin, he needs a doctor, not the scientist sort. His eyes flutter closed no matter how hard he keeps trying to open them. “Eden,” he says, using what little strength he has to suddenly grip my arm. “Run.”
But I have nowhere to go.
Lonan’s hand tightens on mine, nearly cracks my bones. The look in his eyes tells me all I need to know.
Death starts like this: hope dies first.
EIGHTY-EIGHT
HIS EYES ARE blank; his voice isn’t right as he says my name. He is empty, empty, empty.
Hollow.
I find what little weak spot he has, twist my arm out of his grip. The silver case isn’t far, and it’s still open, two syringes left, one amber and one light blue. Phoenix is here, too, now—he beats me to it, takes one syringe in each hand. Lonan pins my arms at the elbows, holding me firmly in place despite how hard I struggle.
I’m outnumbered. A pair of HoloWolves, a pair of needles, all against me. Ava must be more convinced than ever that we came here to assassinate Zhornov, especially now that the light blue syringe is out in the open. What better way to make sure he doesn’t die than to use all the serum on someone else—and it looks like that someone is going to be me.
“Your father said to tell you goodbye,” Phoenix says, turning the syringes over in his hand, “right before I put him out of his misery.”