The living room was now bathed in shadows, the security screens casting a blue glow over the furniture. Callum moved silently across the polished floor, every sense heightened. The chime sounded again from the tablet in his hand.
Meeting tonight. Wolf’s Head. 10pm.
He tilted his head at the message, at the timing of it. A rebel meeting the same night Greyson and Shadera were detained.
Someone else is feeding the Boundary information.
He shoved the device back into his pocket, setting his gun on his desk as he scoured the security footage of Haven Tower at double speed, looking for anything. Any sign he had missed, any clue that could tell him where Maximus had taken them.
“What do we do now?” Lira asked from the hallway’s opening, and Callum’s eyes shot up to see her not in her dress, but in the clothes he had kept for her here in silent prayer that she would someday wear them.
His heart convulsed at the sight. At the dream that had miraculously come true at the worst possible timing. He stared at her for a long second, the way the black pants hugged her curves, how her brown hair flowed over her shoulders spilling down the front of the grey knit sweater. The gun strapped snugly to the side of her thigh.
Callum cleared his throat, standing from his desk.
“We’re going to Wolf’s Head.”
Lira froze, looking at him with surprise. “The Daggermouth bar? They’ll kill me on sight.”
“Not if you’re with me.” He holstered his gun, then reached for a blade sitting on the desk’s surface and pushed it in beside his other weapons. “If Maximus thinks he can use the people we care about as pawns, he’s about to learn exactly what I’m capable of.”
Chapter twenty-eight
Welcome To The Revolution
Jamesonslippedthroughthenarrow space between two derelict buildings, the shadows wrapping around him as they always did. A weight settled in his chest as he moved—not quite dread, not quite anticipation, but something darker that had been growing since he’d learned about the Vow.
The Boundary smelled of desperation tonight—the usual stench of waste and industrial runoff tainted with fear, with rage. He could feel it in the air, pressing against his skin, seeping through the cracks in the walls around him.
His fingers tightened around the gun holstered beneath his jacket, itching for release.Twenty-four hours.Twenty-four hours since he’d stood in that blue lit room, watching Shadera choose sacrifice over escape. He had been angry at her for that, but now, after pacing and planning and destroying things in the privacy of his hideout, that anger had shifted into respect.
Something moved in the corner of his vision—a flash of reflected light from the end of the alley. Jameson froze, pressing himself against the wall as the mechanical hum of a vehicle grew louder. Veyra patrol. This far in the Boundary. This late.
This wasn’t scheduled.
He ducked behind a rusted dumpster, the sharp edge of corroded metal biting into his palm as he crouched low. The vehicle turned the corner, headlights cutting through the perpetual smog. Its silver hull gleamed obscenely against the backdrop of crumbling infrastructure and makeshift dwellings.
Three more vehicles followed, forming a small convoy that crawled through the narrow street. Jameson’s pulse quickened. Four vehicles meant at least thirty-two officers, possibly more. This wasn’t a routine patrol. This was a statement.
The lead vehicle’s loudspeaker crackled to life, its artificial voice echoing between the buildings. “Residents of the Boundary. By order of President Serel, a curfew is now in effect. Return to your dwellings immediately. Lethal force will be administered if you do not comply.”
The statement played again as the vehicles crawled forward, the sound blaring into the night.
Jameson watched as doors cracked open along the street. Not people fleeing inside as ordered, but emerging. First one, then three, then a dozen Boundary residents slipping out of buildings, faces hard with something beyond anger. They carried makeshift weapons—metal pipes ripped from walls, broken bottles, chunks of concrete. One man clutched a rusted machete that caught the patrol’s searchlight, sending a brief flash across the gathering crowd.
The vehicles slowed.
“Disperse immediately,” the synthetic voice commanded. “This is your only warning.”
The crowd didn’t listen. It grew, swelling from the shadows of doorways and alleys until nearly fifty people stood in the street. Their silence was more unnerving than shouting would have been—a concentrated, deliberate quiet that spoke of a decision already made.
Jameson recognized the signs. The Boundary was done being afraid.
The first bottle arced through the air, smashing against the lead vehicle’s windshield. The sound was like a starting gun. The crowd surged forward as one body, colliding with the Veyra convoy in a wave of fury. Metal pipes rang against armored hulls. Fists pounded on windows. Bodies pressed against doors, preventing them from opening.
The loudspeaker squawked again. “Disperse now or we will open fire! This is your—”
A concrete block crashed through the lead vehicle’s side window, cutting off the warning. Glass shattered, raining down on the street as the crowd roared in approval. Hands reached through the broken window, grabbing at the officers inside. The vehicle rocked as more bodies pressed against it, tipping it precariously onto two wheels before it crashed back down.
