June hadn’t said a word since Marcella mentioned Sydney, hadn’t trusted herself to speak. Now she cleared her throat.

“Do you still think he might be useful?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Marcella, taking out her phone.

“Should I follow him?”

“No need.” Marcella punched in a number. “I’ve seen enough.” Someone answered, and Marcella said, “He’s staying at the Kingsley, on Fifteenth. But right now, he’s moving west on Alexander. Happy hunting, Joseph.”

June’s stomach dropped.

How did Marcella already know where they were staying? Where Sydney was staying?

She gave June a bland look. “You didn’t think you were the only one keeping an eye on things, did you?”

June swallowed. “Do what you want with Victor, but Sydney isn’t part of this.”

“Maybe she wouldn’t have been,” said Marcella, pointedly, “if you’d told me the truth about the girl’s power instead of keeping her to yourself.” She flicked her fingers dismissively toward the door. “But go ahead. See if you can get to her before they do.”

VIII

THE LAST MORNING

THE KINGSLEY

“SYDNEY!” called Mitch, flipping the grilled cheese in the pan.

She didn’t answer.

That bad feeling, the one he’d had on the way to Merit, began to crystalize from a general dread into something specific. Like the vague first signs of an illness that suddenly sharpened into the flu.

“Sydney!” he called again, shifting the pan off the stove so lunch wouldn’t burn. He started toward the bathroom, slowing when he noticed the door was open. As was the door to Syd’s room.

And the one to his own.

Mitch glimpsed a black tail swishing absently just inside the door, and found Dol sprawled on his bedroom floor, facing the window and chewing on a scrap of paper.

Mitch knelt down and pried the paper from the dog’s lolling mouth, stilling at the sight of the crown, the sideways profile. It was a face card.

The king of spades.

Mitch was on his feet, already dialing Sydney’s cell. It rang, and rang, and rang, but no one answered. He swore, and was just about to chuck the phone onto the bed when it went off in his hand.

Mitch answered, praying it was Syd.

“Pack up,” ordered Victor. “We’re leaving.”

Mitch made an uneasy sound.

“What is it?” demanded Victor.

“Sydney,” said Mitch. “She’s not here.”

A short exhale. “Where?”

“I don’t know. I was making lunch and—”

Victor cut him off. “Just find her.”

* * *

SYDNEY stood on the curb, looking up.

Five years ago, the Falcon Price had been a construction project, rebar and concrete surrounded by a plywood fence. Now, it rose high above her, a gleaming tower of glass and steel. All the evidence of the crimes committed that night hidden beneath fresh cement, drywall, plaster.

She didn’t know what she’d expected to find. What she’d expected to feel. A ghost? A remnant of her sister? But now that Sydney was here, she could only see Serena rolling her eyes at that idea.

Syd knelt, reaching into her bag for the secret she’d carried so long. She eased the lid off the red metal tin, folded back the strip of cloth. For the first time in five years, Sydney let her fingers skim the soot-covered shards of bone. The finger joint. The piece of rib. The knot of a hipbone. All that was left of Serena Clarke. All that was left—besides whatever was left here.

Sydney laid the bones out on top of their cloth wrapping, arranged them just so, leaving a fraction of space for the missing, drawing imaginary lines where the other bones should be.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, and was about to bring her hands to the remains when her phone rang, the high sound cutting through the quiet. How stupid. She should have shut it off. If she had already gotten started, if her hands and her mind had been reaching past the bones when that noise happened, Sydney could have lost the thread, could have fumbled her only chance. Ruined everything.

She dug the phone from her pocket and saw Mitch’s name flash across the screen. Sydney switched the cell off, and turned her attention back to her sister’s bones.

IX

THE LAST AFTERNOON

EON

“WHAT do you mean, transport protocol?”

Dominic had been in the locker room, buttoning up his uniform shirt, when Holtz burst in, face bright. He’d finally been tapped for field duty. Or rather, for transport.

“They’re letting Stell’s hunting dog out,” he said.

Dom’s chest tightened. “What?”

“Eli Cardale. They’re letting him out of his cage—to go after that crazy mob wife, the one who killed Bara.”

Dom was on his feet. “They can’t.”

“Well, they are,” said Holtz.

“When?”

“Right now. Orders came in from the director. He was gonna handle it himself, but there’s some big op going down in the city—another EO—and Stell just blew through like a storm. Before he left, he told us to initiate the extraction . . .”

But Dom was still stuck on the words before. “Another EO?”

“Yeah,” said Holtz, pulling a suit of matte black armor from the wall. “That mystery guy, the one who’s been killing off other EOs.”

Dom’s mouth had gone dry.

“What are the odds?” mused Holtz. “So much excitement in one day.”

Holtz finished strapping in and turned to go, but Dominic caught his arm. “Wait.”

The other soldier frowned down at the place where Dom’s fingers dug into his sleeve. But what could Dom say? What could he do? He couldn’t stop the missions—all he could do was warn Victor.

Dom forced himself to let go.

“Just be careful,” he said. “Don’t go ending up like Bara.”

Holtz flashed that cheerful, dogged smile, and was gone.

Dominic counted to ten, then twenty, waiting until Holtz’s steps had receded, until he was left with only the thud of his heart. Then he walked out of the locker room, turned right, and headed for Stell’s office—and the only phone inside the building.

He kept his gait even, his steps casual—but with every forward stride, Dom knew he was going further down a one-way road. He stopped outside the director’s door. Last chance to turn around.

Dom pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

* * *

VICTOR knew he was being followed.

He sensed the weight of their steps, felt their attention like a drag. At first he assumed it was June, or one of Marcella’s human guards, but as their steps quickened, and the sound of one person became two, Victor began to suspect another source. He’d been heading directly back to the Kingsley. Now, he veered left, cutting through a crowded stretch of downtown Merit’s restaurants and cafés.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn’t recognize the number, but answered without slowing his step.

“They’re on to you,” said Dominic, his voice low, urgent.

“Yeah,” said Victor, “thanks for the heads-up.”

“It gets worse,” said Dom. “They’re letting Eli out.”

The words were a knife, driven so precisely between Victor’s ribs.

“To catch me?”

“No,” said Dom. “I think it’s actually meant to catch Marcella.”

Victor swore under his breath. “You can’t let that happen.”

“How am I supposed to stop it?”

“Figure it out,” said Victor, hanging up.

He could feel them lapping at his heels. Hear the sound of car doors swinging closed.

Victor crossed the street and stepped into a nearby park, a sprawling network of running paths, vendor carts, open lawns, packed tight with people in the midday sun. He didn’t look back. He hadn’t been able to pick his pursuers out of the crowd, not yet. Population was working in their favor, but it could also work in his.

Victor picked up his pace, allowing a hint of urgency to creep into his stride.

Catch up, he thought.

He heard a set of steps quickening, clearly expecting him to break into a run. Instead, Victor turned on his heel.

He doubled back on the crowded path, and started walking again in the opposite direction, forcing his pursuer to either stop and retreat, or maintain the illusion by continuing toward him.

Nobody stopped.

No one retreated.

Usually people bent away from Victor, their attention veering like water around a stone. But now, in the tangle of joggers and walkers and ambling groups, one man was still looking straight at him.

The man was young and dressed in civilian clothes, but he had the gait of a soldier, and the moment their eyes met, a ripple of tension crossed the younger man’s face. He drew a gun, but as he swung the weapon up, Victor flicked his own fingers, a single, vicious pull of an invisible thread, and the man fell to his knees on the path, the gun skidding out of his hand. Victor kept walking as the crowd turned, half in worry at the man’s scream and half in horror at the sight of the weapon on the park’s pavement.

Chaos erupted, and in that chaos Victor cut left, onto a different path, aiming for the street side of the park. Halfway there, a second figure rushed toward him, a woman with cropped dark hair.