“He is,” I murmur, eyes wide and hopeful. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?”

Again, Jon’s eyes gloss over. He mutters to himself, words inaudible, and nods occasionally. On the table, his fingers twitch, moving back and forth like a rake through tilled earth. Pushing and pulling, but at what?

“Yes, he is alive. But he is scheduled for execution, as is . . .” He pauses, thinking. “Sara Skonos.”

The next moments pass strangely, with Jon answering all our questions before we can get them past our lips. “Maven plans to announce their executions, to set another trap for you and yours. They are being held at Corros Prison. It’s not abandoned, Tiberias, but rebuilt for Silver imprisonment. Silent Stone in the walls, diamondglass reinforcements, and military guards. No, that’s not all for Julian and Sara. There are other dissenters within the cells, imprisoned for questioning the new king or crossing his mother. House Lerolan has been particularly difficult, as well as House Iral. And the newblood prisoners are proving to be just as dangerous as the Silvers.”

“Newbloods?” explodes from me, cutting off Jon as he continues, rapid-fire.

“The ones you never found, the ones you assumed to be dead. They were taken to observe, to examine, but Lord Jacos refused to study them. Even after . . . persuasion.”

Bile rises in my mouth. Persuasion can only mean torture.

“There are worse things than pain, Miss Barrow,” Jon says softly. “The newbloods are now at the mercy of Queen Elara. She intends on using them—with precision.” His eyes stray to Cal and they share a glance filled with painful understanding. “They will be weapons against their own, controlled by the queen and her kin, if given enough time. And that is a very, very dark road. You must not allow this to happen.” His cracked and dirty nails dig into the table, carving deep grooves into the blackened wood. “You must not.”

“What happens if we free Julian and the others?” I lean forward in my chair. “Can you see that?”

If he’s lying, I can’t tell. “No. I see only the current path, and however far it leads. For example, I see you now, surviving the Pitarus trap, only to die four days on. You wait too long to assault Corros. Oh wait, it’s changed now that I’ve told you.” Another strange, sad smile. “Hmm.”

“This is nonsense,” Cal growls, untangling his hand from mine. He stands up from the table, slow and deliberate as rolling thunder. “People go crazy listening to predictions like yours, ruined by knowledge of an uncertain future.”

“We have no proof but your word,” Farley chimes in. For once, she finds herself in agreement with Cal, and it surprises them both. She kicks back her chair, actions fast and violent. “And a few party tricks.”

Party tricks. Predicting what we’re going to say, reading Farley’s attacks before she makes them, those are no such thing. But it’s easier to believe Jon is an impossibility. It’s why everyone believed Maven’s lies about me, about newbloods. They saw my power with their own eyes, and chose to trust what they could understand, rather than what was true. I’ll make them pay for their foolishness, but I won’t make their mistake. Something about Jon rattles me, and instinct tells me have faith, not in the man, but at least in his visions. What he says is true, though his reason for telling us might be less than honorable.

His maddening smile flags, twisting into a scowl that betrays a quick temper. “I see the crown dripping blood. A storm without thunder. Shadow twisting on a bed of flames.” Cal’s hand twitches at his side. “I see lakes flooding their shores, swallowing men whole. I see a man with one red eye, his coat blue, his gun smoking—”

Farley beats a fist against the table. “Enough!”

“I believe him.” The words taste strange.

I can’t trust my own friends, but here I am, allying myself with a cursed stranger. Cal looks at me like I’ve grown a second head, his eyes screaming out a question he doesn’t dare ask aloud. I can only shrug, and avoid the searing weight of Jon’s red eyes. They rove over me, examining every inch of the lightning girl. For the first time in ages, I wish for silk and silver armor, to look like the leader I pretend to be. Instead, I shiver in my threadbare sweater, trying to hide the scars and bones beneath. I’m glad he cannot see my brand, but something tells me he knows about it anyway.

Buck up, Mare Barrow. With a great swell of strength, I lift my chin and shift in my chair, effectively turning my back on the others. Jon smiles in the ashen light.

“Where is Corros Prison?”

“Mare—”

“You can drop me off on the way,” I shoot back at Cal, not bothering to watch the verbal blow land. “I’m not leaving them to become Elara’s puppets. And I won’t abandon Julian, not again.”

The lines on Jon’s face deepen, speaking of many painful decades. He’s younger than I thought, hiding youth beneath the wrinkles and the gray hair. How much has he seen, to make him this way? Everything, I realize. Every horrible or wonderful thing that could ever happen. Death, life, and everything in between.

“You’re exactly who I thought you would be,” he murmurs, covering my hands with his own. Veins web beneath his skin, blue and purple and full of red blood. The sight of them brings me such comfort. “I’m grateful to have met you.”

I offer up a thin but obliging smile, the best I can do. “Where is the prison?”

“They won’t let you go alone.” Jon glances over my shoulder. “But we both know that, don’t we?”

A warm blush rises to my cheeks and I have to nod.

Jon mirrors the action before his gaze shifts, landing on the table. The dreamy look returns and he pulls his hands away. He stands up on wavering feet, still watching something we cannot see. Then he sniffs and pulls up his collar, gesturing for us to do the same.

“Rain,” he warns, seconds before a downpour slams into the roof above us. “Pity we must walk.”

I feel like a drowned rat by the time we reach the jet, having hiked straight through mud and torrential rain. Jon keeps us at a steady pace, even slowing us once or twice, to “line things up,” as he said. A few seconds after the jet comes into view, I realize what he meant. Gareth tumbles out of the sky, a slowing meteor of wet clothes and blood. He touches down fine, and the bundle in his arms, a baby by the looks of it, springs into midair, transforming before our eyes. Nanny’s feet hit the ground hard and she stumbles, dropping to one aged knee. Shade jumps to her side, holding her steady, while Farley pulls Gareth’s arm over her shoulder. He gladly puts his weight on her, leaning to compensate for a useless leg dripping blood.

“Ambush in Pitarus,” he growls, both in anger and pain. “Nanny got away clean, but they surrounded me. Had to upend a city block before I could break off.”

Even though Jon assured us there would be no pursuit, I can’t help but watch the darkening sky. Every twist of cloud looks like another airjet, but I hear and feel nothing except the distant shivers of thunder.

“They’re not coming, Miss Barrow,” Jon says over the rain. His mad smile has returned.

Gareth glances at him, confused, but nods along. “I don’t think anyone followed,” he says, trailing into a growl of pain.