She felt that same repulsion now, as her fingers hovered over her sister’s bones.

Sydney tried to will her hands down as something inside her heart pushed back.

Why couldn’t she do it?

Sydney had to bring Serena back.

She was her sister.

Family isn’t always blood.

June had said that—June, who’d never betrayed Sydney. June, who’d protected Victor. But she wasn’t Serena.

And if EON was chasing them now, Serena could help. Serena could do anything. Could make other people do anything.

It was a terrifying power to start with—but how bad would it be if Serena came back wrong? What would that power look like when it was fractured, broken?

For so long, Sydney had assumed she was afraid of failing. Afraid that she’d slip, lose the threads, and with that, her only chance at reviving Serena.

But the longer she stared at her sister’s bones, the more Sydney realized—she was just as scared of succeeding.

Why had she waited so long? Was it really because she thought it had to happen here? That the connection would be strongest back where it had first been broken?

Or—was it because it gave her an excuse to wait?

Because Sydney was afraid to see her sister again.

Because Sydney wasn’t ready to face Serena.

Because Sydney wasn’t sure she should bring her sister back, even if she could.

Tears blurred her vision.

She realized, suddenly, that in all her nightmares, Serena had never once saved her. She was there, on the banks of the frozen river, waiting, watching as Eli stalked Syd across the ice. As he wrestled her to the frozen ground. As he wrapped his hands around Syd’s throat.

Serena hadn’t pulled the trigger on Sydney that night.

But she hadn’t stopped Eli from shooting her either.

Sydney missed her sister.

But she missed the version of Serena who had loved and protected Sydney, made her younger sister feel safe, and seen. And that Serena had died in ice, not fire.

Sydney’s fingers finally came to rest against Serena’s bones. But she didn’t reach beyond them, didn’t search for the lingering thread. She simply folded them up inside the strip of cloth, and put them back in the red metal tin.

Her legs were shaking as she pushed herself up to her feet.

Syd shoved the container deep into her pocket, heard the scrape of metal on metal as the tin came to rest against the gun. In her other pocket, her fingers found her cell phone. She dug it out as she left the Falcon Price lot and headed back toward the Kingsley, watched it restart in her palm. Her boots dragged to a stop.

There were so many missed calls.

A handful from Victor.

Then a dozen from Mitch.

And text after text after text from June.

Sydney took off running.

* * *

SHE tried to call Mitch, but it went straight to voicemail.

Tried to call Victor, but no one answered.

At last, June picked up. “Sydney.”

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Where are you?” demanded June, sounding breathless.

“I had all these missed calls,” said Syd, slowing to a walk, “and I can’t get ahold of anyone, and I—”

“Where are you?” repeated June.

“On my way to the Kingsley.”

“No,” said June. “You can’t go back there.”

“I have to.”

“It’s too late.”

Too late. What did she mean?

“Just stay where you are and I’ll come to you. Sydney, listen to me—”

“I’m sorry,” said Syd, right before she hung up. It had taken her twenty-five minutes to walk to the Falcon Price. She made it home in ten. The Kingsley finally came into sight, down the block and across the street. Syd slammed to a stop as she noticed the two black vans idling on the corner, one near the entrance, the other at the mouth of the parking garage. They were unmarked, but there was something ominous about the tinted glass, the windowless sides.

Arms wrapped around her shoulders.

A hand closed over her mouth.

Sydney twisted, tried to scream, but a familiar voice sounded in her ear.

“Don’t fight, it’s me.”

The arms let go, and Syd turned to see June, or at least a version of her, one with loose brown curls and sharp green eyes. Sydney sagged in relief, but June’s attention twitched, drawn to something over Syd’s shoulder.

“Come on,” said June, gripping her hand.

Syd resisted. “I can’t just leave them.”

“You can’t save them like this. What are you going to do? Storm in there? Think. If you go in there now, you’ll just get yourself caught by EON, and what good will you be to anyone then?”

June was right, and Syd hated that she was. Hated that her power wasn’t enough to protect them.

“We need a plan,” said June. “So we’ll think of one. I promise.” She squeezed Sydney’s hand. “Come on.”

This time, Syd let herself be pulled away.

* * *

IT was beginning to rain as Victor followed Stell through the streets of downtown Merit.

He plucked a black umbrella from a corner stand without paying, and vanished beneath it, one bloom of darkness among dozens. Half a block ahead, the detective stopped beside a black van and a sedan, and convened with a cluster of soldiers in sodden street clothes, their manner and posture nullifying any meaningful disguise.

Victor lingered nearby, folding himself into the huddle at the bus stop. He watched Stell rake a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, the picture of frustration. Watched him gesture at the soldiers, who got back into their vehicles, while Stell himself set off on foot.

Victor fell in step behind him.

Stell walked for ten, fifteen minutes more before swiping into a residential building. Victor caught the front door just as the elevator closed. He watched it ascend one floor, then two, before stopping. Victor took the stairs instead and arrived just as Stell was unlocking the front door, watched the man stiffen as he registered the other man’s presence, realized that he wasn’t alone.

Stell turned, drawing his service weapon before he saw Victor, and froze.

Victor smiled. “Hello, Detective.”

Stell’s hand was steady on the gun. “It’s been a while.”

“I’m surprised it took you so long.”

“In my defense,” said Stell, “I assumed you were dead.”

“You know what they say about assuming,” said Victor dryly. “We EOs are hard to keep down.” He nodded at the weapon. “Speaking of down.”

Stell shook his head, grip tightening on the gun. “I can’t do that.”

Victor flexed his hand. “Are you sure?” He splayed his fingers, and shock crossed Stell’s face like lightning as his own hand opened, let the gun fall to the floor.

“You’re not the only one who’s traded up,” said Victor, moving toward the detective. The air caught audibly in Stell’s throat as he tried to back away, and couldn’t.

“Pain is specific, but relatively simple,” continued Victor. “Now, animating a body, articulating it—that requires precision, the firing of certain nerves, the pulling of specific strings. Like a marionette.”

“What do you want?” hissed Stell.

I want to stop dying, thought Victor.

But Stell couldn’t help with that.

“I want you to keep Eli in his goddamn cage.”

Surprise crossed the detective’s face. “That isn’t your call.”

“How could you be so stupid?” growled Victor.

“I do what I have to,” said Stell, “and I certainly don’t answer to—”

Victor’s hand clenched into a fist, and Stell doubled over in pain. He caught himself against the wall, gave a sharp whistle through gritted teeth, and a second later every other door in the hall swung open, soldiers streaming in, weapons raised.

“I want him alive,” ordered Stell.

Careless, Victor chided himself. The cop had baited his own trap, and he had stepped inside.

“You’ve always preferred being predator to prey,” observed Stell.

Victor’s teeth clicked together. “Did Eli teach you that?”

“Give me a little credit,” said Stell. “You guys aren’t the only ones who can spot a pattern.”

“What happens now?” asked Victor, trying to sense the number of bodies surrounding him. How much power would he have to use to level the ones he couldn’t see?

“Now,” said Stell, “you come with us. This doesn’t have to get violent,” he continued. “Get on your knees and—”

Victor didn’t wait for him to finish. He reached out with everything he had. Two bodies hit the floor behind him, another buckling at the edge of his sight.

Then Stell shot Victor in the chest.

He staggered, his hand going to his ribs. But there was no blood, only a red dart, buried deep. A vial, already empty. Whatever it held, it was strong—Victor wrenched the dart out, but his limbs were already going numb.

He cranked the dial up on his own nerves, clung to the pain to regain focus.

Victor brought two more soldiers to their knees before another shot pierced his side. A third took him in the leg, and he felt himself slip. He tried to brace himself against the wall, but his legs were already folding, his vision flickered, then dimmed. He saw the soldiers swarming in, and then—