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  “There's a night guard,” Theron’s voice broke through her thoughts. "Might be more."

  Phaira squinted. Theron was right. A man at the elevator, Phaira noted, giving a resident a quick once-over before allowing them to come in. “How do you want to handle this?”

  “You already know what you want to do.”

  “Yeah, I do,” she admitted. She craned her neck to look around the building, searching for the darker parts, the alleyway and the makeshift clotheslines. “5A, right?”

  “Meet you there.”

  When Phaira reached the narrow alleyway, she vaulted from wall to wall, fingers gripping the stony edges, adrenaline rushing, springing back and forth until the walls began to narrow. Then she shimmed up, hands and feet alternating, using her upper body strength to propel herself up. It was a thrill to be set free from the confines of the ship, the hospital, to be out in the open, letting her body command her path. She counted up and across to the corner unit, and swung up onto the narrow balcony. The door was locked. Easily jimmied and slid open. She did so silently, tensed for any signs of someone within. There was nothing.

  Inside, the space was silent, and dark. She activated her Lissome to project light, and swept it from side to side, picking her way towards the dark rectangle of the front door, watching for tripwires, alarms, anything that might set off a trap.

  The sound of creaking, outside the door. Someone shifting in their position. Another guard. Why?

  More and more, she felt certain that Bianco had something to do with all of this. Was he jealous? Phaira wondered. Surprised? Could he have betrayed Theron and set him up to be destroyed? If so, what went wrong? Why did the Red kill him and burn his body?

  She heard the distant ding of the elevator. Phaira peered through the spyhole. Theron was outside the door, she could only see half of him, the other half of the circle taken up by the back of the guard’s head.

  “You know who I am,” she heard Theron’s low voice.

  “Sir,” the bodyguard replied. There was sarcasm in that voice.

  Theron moved so fast that Phaira barely had the time to register the hold, as the bodyguard was wrenched to the floor, arm twisted behind him, wrist torqued to the breaking point.

  Joint lock submission. She’d taught Theron that.

  And he knew it, from the way his eyes flicked to the spyhole, where he knew she waited as if he could see her mouth dropping open with surprise on the other side.

  “Why are you here?” she heard Theron demand. “What’s inside?”

  “What? I can’t - ”

  His words cut to a new gasp of pain.

  “How long have you been stationed here?”

  “Since Mr. Sava died.”

  “Why?”

  “He ordered me to.”

  “When?”

  “Before he died - he said that if someone came snooping after his death -"

  There was a thunk, and the sounds of groaning.

  “You listen to me,” Theron instructed. “Say nothing to no one. If you do, I’ll come back and take the arm off.”

  The door opened, and Theron’s silhouette stretched across the apartment. His breath was quicker too; she could smell his perspiration. In the shadows, Phaira stared at him. How many people were out to betray Theron? No wonder he was such a mess.

  They searched the apartment in silence. There were reams of paper, notebooks, scribbling in a language that Phaira couldn’t read. Diagrams of the body, drawn in light pencil; notations of times and places, again and again. Bianco had been watching someone’s movements. They continued the search, shaking open drawers, knocking on walls, flipping through books. There wasn’t much.

  Theron was looking underneath the mattress when he made a sudden grunt of discomfort, pulling out something from under his leg, and holding it between thumb and forefinger. Phaira squinted at the item.

  Blue, round, smooth. A jewel.

  No, a bead.

  Phaira’s mouth dropped open.

  “What is it?”

  Phaira snatched the bead from his hands, cradling it in her palm, flashing the light from her Lissome into it.

  She caught the faintest motion in the center of the bead: a swirl.

  The same kind of bead from CaLarca’s farm, found in the ashes.

  She closed her hand around the bead, feeling it press into her bones. It made her shiver, just like the last time. Was Bianco the one who burned CaLarca’s farm to the ground? Out of revenge? Out of some demonstration of loyalty to Theron? Was that one of his many business trips, seeking out the green-haired woman and destroying her life?

  “Phaira.”

  She opened her eyes and looked down at the bead again. It had grown so heavy that it felt like it would push through her palm and emerge on the other side. Disturbed, she placed it on the floor. It spun a few times before settling, like there was life to it. “I’ve seen one of these before,” she confessed.

  “Where?”

  CaLarca’s farm was burned to the ground weeks ago. One of these was in the ashes. I thought it was hers. I think Bianco might have been behind the arson.”

  Theron’s hand closed around her wrist. Startled, she looked into the shadows of his face. He was looking in at the bead with horror.

  Then she heard it: the hissing sound.

  And she was sailing through the open door, into the dull yellow light of the hallway, past the surprised, swollen eyes of the guard, Theron’s arms were around her as they hit the floor, skidding across the carpet.

  But no explosion.

  Untangling herself from Theron’s grip, Phaira crawled forward, flinching in anticipation as she peered into the interior of the apartment.

  Bianco's world was burning. A slow crawl of embers was spreading from the bead on the floor, sweeping over the sheets, the papers, the floors in a radial pattern. The bright orange line never burst into flame, but moved like lava, consuming everything. It was the creepiest thing that Phaira had ever seen. Was this what happened to CaLarca’s farm? What was in that bead?

  The sound of pounding footsteps; the bodyguard was headed for the elevator. Phaira was too dazed to stop him, and so was Theron, by the look on his face as he stared at the disintegrating apartment.

  There were two beeps from both of their belts: Lissome calls. Theron turned away from her to answer. Phaira clicked the connection. “Who’s there?” she called.

  “It’s Ozias.”

  Theron shot her a dark look. She lifted her eyebrows, daring him to say something.

  “You should get to the Lea skerries now, and bring your team.” Ozias’s voice was gruff over the line. “Your brother Renzo and Jetsun Sava entered a building in there an hour ago, and my guy on surveillance isn’t responding. Something is wrong.”

  Phaira’s heart felt like it was being strangled.

  “There’s not much time before I call this in,” Ozias continued. She could almost picture the detective looking from side to side, checking for eavesdroppers, by the swish of her breath. “Move fast. I can’t condone anything but a clean capture. Don’t give me a reason to come after you.”

  “Why haven’t you already - ?”

  But the line was already disconnected.

  Next to her, Theron clicked his Lissome shut, his jaw was a hard right angle. “Because they’ll raid the place, and leave no one standing,” he answered her question.

  "Who called you?”

  “The man I sent to watch Jetsun isn’t responding. We need to go.”

  * * *

  Renzo spent the next hour curled into a ball on the floor, willing Jetsun to stay strong, and cataloguing everything he could possibly notice, smell, and hear from the Red, who never moved from her guard at the padded door. There had to be some weakness. Something to exploit. Something to turn off.

  Like the cloaking mechanism. That was a major advantage; it was so quick to activate, it had to be similar to the stealthsuit he owned. There was some trigger that sent the electrical current th
rough the clothing and shock it into invisibility.

  Or the artificial parts of her body; whatever was in her chest, helping it to breathe. The Red was dependent on those areas to continue to function. Take away the cloaking, take away the artificial respiratory system, and they were still left with a violent assassin, but perhaps one on more equal ground.

  Phaira could handle it. If she could find them. If they even realized that they were missing, and chained, and Jetsun was being tortured.

  Suddenly, the Red moved. Terrified, Renzo watched as the Red jerked open the door she watched. Jetsun’s body came tumbling over the threshold. There were tufts of blonde hair on the floor inside; she’d pulled out chunks. The smell of urine choked him. There were claw marks on her arms, and her breath came in shudders, one hand lifting to press into her forehead hard, shaking.

  An hour did that to her? What was in there?

  They were helpless. Utterly helpless.

  Focus, he told himself. This Red was a NINE. He had been studying ways to break through NINE attacks for weeks. It was all in the brain, just waiting to be interrupted.

  Hauling Jetsun up by the arm, the Red shoved her into a chair. The blonde woman moaned, her face covered with her tangled hair, as a strap was affixed across her chest, then her thighs and feet. Renzo yanked on the chains, again and again, the metal biting into the bones of his wrists. “Let her rest,” he begged. “Let her sleep.”

  Overhead, floodlights flicked on, harsh and fluorescent, burning Renzo’s eyes. Speakers crackled with static. Some kind of audio track was playing.

  Then Renzo recognized the voices. Theron’s low, growling voice. And Kuri, begging and pleading.

  “Why bribe Sydel with money?

  To pay to extract the implants… I was desperate… for Shantou and me, to be free of the pain…

  “We didn’t know it was metal inside our heads. We broke into a facility with an MRI machine. Bribed a technician to take pictures of our skulls. The pin dislodged from her skull and ripped through her brain… I couldn’t shut down the machine fast enough… And then we were reported, and barred. They from any hospital or facility. There were only underground surgeons, and hundreds of thousands of rana to have the procedure done…

  “Did Shantou survive?

  She did.” Here, Kuri let out a sob. “Please, let me go and take care of her…”

  “Where is Shantou now?

  I can’t…. I won’t tell you…

  Do you know how many people you two have hurt?” Theron’s voice was quiet, but furious. “It’s not difficult to find your trail, when you know what you’re looking for. So many people left with broken memories, reduced motor skill function, incapacitated. Typically blamed on a stroke or aneurysm, lucky for you…

  Do you know what a Nyx is?”

  There was a long silence. Then Theron spoke. “The second N in the NINE acronym.

  Nyx is control over another’s actions, thoughts, words. They turn you into a husk, move you like a puppet. He got a hold of Shantou, and she let him experiment, do whatever he wanted, and I swore I’d get the money and get…”

  As the voices reverberated through the basement, the Red wandered over to Kuri’s corpse again. One clawed hand trailed the metal slab on which he lay.

  Shantou. The Red was Shantou.

  It wasn’t a former girlfriend of Theron, exacting this revenge; it was Kuri’s partner.

  “Please,” Jetsun rasped. “It wasn’t me, I knew nothing!”

  The Red let out a cry of pain, so harsh it made Renzo recoil. There was a clicking sound in the depths of her breath. Then words came smoothly, without interruption, though muffled by the metal mask. “Why have you kept him in his position?”

  Jetsun blanched. “I - what?”

  Theron Sava is a disgrace to his position,” the Red said. The sudden eloquence was almost as frightening as the silence. “Embarrasses you. Causes you endless work. You know he’s a poor choice for leadership. Yet you continue to enable him. Why?”

  “I’m a Sava.”

  “Not a true Sava.”

  Jetsun let out a short, unexpected laugh. “Do you know to whom you’re speaking?” she asked, some of that familiar haughtiness in her voice. “If you’re looking to make me burst into tears, you’re mistaken.

  “Oh, we’ve already been down that route, haven’t we?” the Red reminded her, with a meaningful glance at the padded room. “A proposition, then.”

  “What might that be?”

  “Your release. Renounce your position, your faith, your family, and you can leave.”

  The Red couldn’t be serious. This was a trick.

  “Never,” Jetsun snarled. “You're recording this conversation. If I make those statements, you’ll make sure the world hears it, and it won’t matter if I’m alive.”

  A bark of laughter behind the mask. “Another offer, then. Since you’re such a dedicated Sava.”

  Renzo didn’t like the tone in the Red’s voice, how coy and teasing it sounded.

  Nyx, he remembered from the recordings. A husk to control. This isn't her voice. This is someone else’s.

  “Kill Renzo."

  His insides froze.

  “Shoot him, stab him, whatever you want,” the Red said smoothly. “Then you get to disappear.”

  She would do it. Renzo was certain of it, as soon as the words left the Red’s mouth. Jetsun would do it to save her life. He didn’t matter to her. This was the end.

  The silence went on and on. Renzo refused to look at the blonde woman; instead he stared at the chains around his wrist, waiting for a click, for an explosion, for the unsheathing of a knife.

  So it goes, he thought. I didn’t think this would be the end. I had so many plans, for when this was done.

  “I don’t kill on your orders," Jetsun spat the final word, "Shantou.”

  Renzo stared at her. There was real fear in Jetsun's voice, and regret, but also gritted-teeth determination. She refused to look at Renzo, but she didn't need to. She had chosen Renzo’s life. She’d spoken the NINE’s name. Humanized her. Maybe that was the key, make her remember that she wasn’t a monster, but someone who loved Kuri….

  Then the world turned red.

  * * *

  “I warned you not to get involved.” The woman’s voice was full of ice. “And here you are again, calling.”

  Anandi,” Sydel said firmly into the black Lissome. “Renzo is in trouble - "

  "And I warned him equally,” Anandi interrupted. “Yet here you are, on Theron’s goddamn ship, in the middle of a fight that I want no part of.”

  Sydel huffed with frustration. They were flying Theron’s ship as fast as they could to Lea, counting down the minutes until the arrival time. CaLarca and Cohen were in the cockpit, and Sydel had snuck away, hoping for one last resource of help.

  “How many times does this have to happen, Sydel?” Anandi challenged. “You call me up in a crisis, expect me to work magic from a distance and save everyone? Is that my only purpose to the rest of you? Does it matter what I think or want?”

  It was indeed her purpose, and it didn't matter what the girl wanted, but Sydel wasn’t going to admit that outloud.

  “You’re better than this,” the woman’s voice jolted her back to attention. “You’re better than what you’re about to become, Sydel.”

  “You know, Anandi,” Sydel said. “I’m very tired of people telling me what I should and shouldn’t be. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be constantly watching everything that Theron does. And don't deny it, I know you are. Your father told me. In all those hours we spent together, helping him to regain his strength, while you were playing at being a revolutionary.”

  There was a long silence. Sydel winced at her own biting words. But they were already out there.

  “For my own sake, and the Hitodama.” Anandi finally spat out.

  Sydel could sense Anandi’s heart, how it beat faster with rage. Sydel’s own anger was rising.

  You o
we me, she railed against the girl in her brain. You owe us.

  Or I could make you, the tiny, sinister thought followed. Like pulling on a puppet’s strings, a flicker of her fingers, closing her eyes, opening her brain. I could make you do what I wanted.

  Where was this voice from?

  “Get your Lissome tab on its throat or chest.” The girl’s voice was curt, and strained.

  Sydel blinked. “What?”

  “Lissomes are hyper-sensitive to heat. If they get too hot, too fast, the battery will blow. Send a charge, or use one of your NINE abilities. If it can’t breathe, it can’t fight.”

  Then Anandi’s voice returned, higher-pitched, and shivering. “You’re just like the rest of them,” she hissed, a sob at the end of the sentence.

  The line disconnected. Sydel stared at the Lissome.

  Did I make her tell me that?

  * * *

  Renzo's cheek was freezing cold. Pounding headache. Stiff jaw. When he lifted his arm, his joints screaming in pain, to run his hands over his own head, all he felt was hair and skin. Nothing warm, nothing wet. He couldn’t hold back the flood of relief, or the tears in his eyes.

  Jetsun was face down on one of the cabinet's metal planks, next to Kuri’s body, her wrists gathered on the underside, her legs fastened by straps. Her hands hung limp. Clumps of long blonde strands were on the floor underneath her. Renzo lifted his head, just a little, to catch a glimpse of the back of her skull: shaved to the skin, shockingly pale. The Red stood next to her, with a tray of tools, her clawed fingers tickling each instrument, as if waking them to life. There was a key on that tray, Renzo realized; for the chains?