By the time the first stars blink through the smog and the last cup of caf’s gone cold, we’re curled on the couch. Data screens flicker. Alerts scroll across the bottom in muted red. But we don’t look.
Her head rests against my shoulder. Her body’s tucked into the crook of mine, warm and quiet and heavy with the weight of what’s coming.
“I can’t sleep,” she says softly.
“You don’t have to.”
“We’re not ready.”
“Nope.”
“And we’re outnumbered.”
“Definitely.”
“But we can’t fail.”
I wrap my arms around her. “We won’t.”
She turns into me, fingers grazing the skin just under my shirt. She’s shaking, just a little.
“I keep thinking about the kids,” she whispers. “The little ones. The ones that’ll be there holding their parents’ hands and laughing at fireworks.”
“I know.”
“If we screw this up?—”
“We won’t.”
“But if we do?—”
“We’ll burn the system down before we let it win.”
She freezes. Then exhales.
“Promise?”
I kiss her hair. “You got my word. I’m your blade now. Your shield. Whatever it takes.”
She doesn’t speak again. Just clutches me tighter, burying her face in my chest. And I hold her, fierce and full, until sleep finally claims her.
I don’t sleep.
Not tonight.
Not while death’s getting dressed for a festival.
CHAPTER 19
KRISTI
Kenron is still asleep on the couch, boots off, one arm flung over his eyes like it’s the only thing holding his skull together. He didn’t sleep much. I’m not sure I did either. Not really.
I’m at the counter, compad in hand, fingers trembling over the contact field. My tea’s gone cold. Has been for an hour. I’m staring at her name on the screen like it might bite me.
Margo Delane.
Senior Archivist. Historian. My mentor. My friend.
