She nods slightly.
I hold up one finger. “You get one chance at this. One. If you create a problem, any problem, if there’s a hint that you’ve shared information, or caused trouble, or become a liability to us or to Vi in any way, this arrangement ends.”
I don’t say how. Pretty sure I don’t need to.
Mara’s eyes hold mine and I see she gets it. “I understand. I do.”
“I hope so.”
I hold the look for three more seconds. Then I lean back.
Vi’s hand finds Mara’s again. Mara lets her take it, but she doesn’t squeeze back this time. She’s still looking at me. Adjusting to the new shape of what her life will be like.
Armen speaks from behind. “We’ll head back to the Rot in a little while. We’ll find her a place. Vi, but she’s your responsibility until we get her situated.”
She nods. “Fine.”
Rogue pushes off the wall. “Anyone else starving, or is it just me?”
The tension cracks. Not breaks, just cracks, enough that everyone can breathe again. Vi almost smiles but Mara does not.
I stand and move the chair back to the corner. The logical part of my brain is already figuring out details like where to house her inside the Rot, who needs to know, how to explain a new face attached to our crew without raising questions we don’t want to answer.
The part of me I don’t trust is still locked on Vi holding Mara’s hand—and it’s not letting go.
7
VI
We enterthrough one of the former mall’s service corridors, yet another musty passage behind what was once a loading dock for a fancy department store. Armen goes first. Then Mara and me. When she hesitates, I give her a little shove.No turning back now,I tell her with my gaze. Sting and Rogue are in the rear like we’re going into battle or something.
Maybe we are.
Mara slows down. “Oh my god. This place,” she breathes, looking around.
She stops and once again, I give her a little push, my knee faintly aching on the uneven floor like the Hunt souvenir that it is. I’m mostly healed from the fall that smashed it up, but the lingering pain likes to remind me of that night. Another thing the Rot gave me that I didn’t ask for.
I know how Mara feels, the first time experiencing what the former Rothwell Galleria has become, having gone from its former glory, the pride of the town, to a broken-down shell of itself. I’m used to it now, I suppose, but when I look around withfresh eyes like Mara is right now, I see the stuff of nightmares just like I did when I first arrived.
Dismembered mannequins litter the place, as well as other junk like a pretzel shop sign hanging from one corner, and cracked plexiglass shelves that once held scarves or handbags, or something else the ladies of Rothwell couldn’t live without. It’s all been pushed aside and out of the way for the convenience of its current-day tenants, the Rotters and of course Runts like myself, but these and other mementos sum up the mall’s past lives.
It’s just background for me, but not for Mara.
She gapes at the old fountain in the central atrium where we used to make a wish and toss pennies. Someone has filled it with sand and gravel, and now it’s a message drop, notes and small objects left and collected on a schedule I haven’t figured out. The escalators, not having moved in years, are worn smooth by foot traffic going in both directions. The second-floor railing is lined with sheets, tarps, and old curtains hung to create partitions and privacy where the original architecture was open and breezy. The old glass elevator is smashed to bits and surrounded by caution tape, presumably so no one gets hurt messing with it. She takes it all in.
“It’s okay, Mar. Let’s keep going,” I say.
I don’t look at her directly because that would signal to anyone watching that the new person is uncertain, and uncertainty here is blood in the water.
“Yeah. Sorry.” She keeps moving.
People are hustling about like they always are here, and Mara’s gaze follows that, too. It’s early enough that the corridors have traffic, Rotters heading to work hubs, runners carrying supplies between levels, a handful of Runts walking in pairs with their heads angled slightly down. The body language is specificand learned. Who looks at who. Who steps aside for who. Who walks in the center of the corridor and who hugs the walls.
They step aside for us.
Not dramatically, no one flattens themselves against the wall or drops their gaze to the floor. It’s subtler than that, a slight drift to the left, a half step slower, a conversation that pauses mid-sentence and resumes once we’ve passed. It’s a deference that’s built into daily movement so deeply that most people probably don’t notice they’re doing it.
Mara notices right off the bat. I knew she would. Not much gets past her.
