Something soft.
A smile broke over his face, gentle, almost relieved. The tiniest laugh puffed out of his mouth, and he took my hand to hold between his. His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist, waking a trail of goosebumps across the surface of my arm. “Congratulations. You finally asked the right question.”
My spirits sank. “You aren’t going to answer it, are you?”
He released me and stood, breaking the spell between us. “Nope. And it’s time for you to go.”
15
Judge, Jury, Executioner
Their public executions are merely a confession that they fear us more than we fear death.
—NIA WILLIAMS, IN RESPONSE TO EXECUTIVE ORDER 16389
Week by week, I adapted to the whims of the Blood Colonel who dominated my Thursday nights. He gave me chores after he wearied of my poor endurance. I was to jog every day—“at leastthirty minutes, Sophia, andonlyduring the day”—and he wanted me to take time to work out. I grumbled, but obeyed, remembering how Tekqua had always wanted me to exercise more. This was the least I could do for her.
His information bought the Defiance a distinct advantage, and the NSF brought in recruits trying to manage it all. Theo was thrilled, greedy for Lucas’s intel. He mentioned more than once that we might end this thing.
Yeah, I’d believe it when he got us there.
We failed to kill Jack Miller before he healed, but we got several lower officers in the attempt. Lucas wasn’t surprised by our failure.
“He’s a hard man to pin down,” he said when I told him they’d fallen back.
A few times, Theo or Williams asked me to approach Lucas outside our weekly meetings, and I biked to the house on Evanston to turn the lamp purple.
I’m waiting.
When the light glowed orange—on my way—in response, butterflies fluttered inside. Those meetings were short, and Lucas was always in a rush to return.
Twice, I received a page to meet him at a different time than usual. On both occasions, he gave information that led us straight to a timely win.
During those weeks, Devon tried to approach me many times, but I kept my distance. I declined Zara’s invitations to chat. People gossiped, especially once I started exercising on a regular basis. They smiled like they thought I might snap, and the pitying darkness in their eyes made me squirm. What theories had they developed about the lonely orphan, afraid of human touch and affection? The only person who didn’t treat me like a fragile china doll was Lucas Scott.
He treated me like a rag doll.
And yet, every spare thought focused on his mystery. Nothing made sense, and my curiosity would not be slaked. The day Lily Wyatt was transported from headquarters, paranoia set in. I spent a solid two weeks spiraling, convinced it was some elaborate ruse to infiltrate us. Perhaps he was a great actor, winning me over so I’d lead him into the fold, and that’s when he’d strike—literally killing me with kindness.
Those suspicions disappeared on the first of August.
“Remember when they used to use guns?” a man asked as we settled in the TV room to watch the executions.
“I miss those days,” a woman replied.
Brandon Sikes, the anchor of Unified News, announced the event as he usually did, then the feed cut to Unity Square.
My stomach vanished.
It wasn’t his turn.
It should have been Jack Miller.
Why was it Lucas?
Unity Square was a simple gray courtyard composed of concrete and dust. The camera always faced a wall of cement blocks, and a wooden podium stood to the side. Above the darkened bloodstains on the wall, the Brotherhood Cross gleamed on a flag of pristine white.
Only the Defiance flew the US flag anymore.
