“Can’t you check it out? See what he’s up to?”
“We did, but only for a short way. There’s the matter of the half-dogs, plus it’s dark down there. Very dark. And using any kind of light to see is not an option. A few tried that once and they barely got past the entrance. They were immediately arrested for trespassing. There must be some sort of light sensors down there. They want it to stay dark, which is a problem for us because there are hundreds of tunnels. During the Civil Division, half the city was fleeing underground and creating shelters. There are lots of unauthorized passageways that lead nowhere and aren’t on any maps, and the old engineering plans that we have are incomplete at best. We don’t know just what’s down there, or which tunnel to follow. A person could get lost for years. But we think one of the green line tunnels leads straight to the Old Library Building and coincidentally, the Secretary seems to visit there often for no apparent business.”
“You mean the Boston Public Library? Maybe he goes there to read.”
“It’s a food warehouse now, and he never leaves with any packages.”
I weigh this bit of information. “Maybe it’s another entry point to the tunnel?”
“Maybe, but we can’t find it.” He stops and looks cautiously behind us and then back at me. “When you first met me, I had a limp. Remember that?” he asks.
“I remember. I was wondering if it was an act.”
He pulls up his pant leg. It wasn’t an act.
I see a large round scar on the side of his calf where it looks like the flesh has been gouged away. “Two more like that in my thigh.” He drops his pant leg. “When I first got whiff that Karden might be alive, I broke into the Old Library, no plan, just searching for a lead. It was impulsive and a miracle that I got away at all. Security shot me. The only thing that saved me was their bad aim, and me jumping into the river and nearly drowning in the process. I made the mistake of not following one of my own rules. Some lessons you have to learn over, and over. As much as we’re in a hurry, we’re taking our time to get this done right.”
I hear the frustration in his voice. He wants this badly. I grab his arm to stop him and he looks at me surprised. “Why are you doing this?” I ask. “You know Karden could be dead. He probably is. All this work might be for nothing.”
His lips pull tight, like he’s contemplating that possibility. “Could be,” he finally says. “Or we might all fail miserably, but I have to try. Karden said to never stop believing that things could change. I haven’t and right now this is our best shot at change.”
And your best shot at eighty billion duros? But I keep that thought to myself.
We resume walking and he tells me they think they have it narrowed down to the stretch between the public gardens and the library. “A half mile at most,” he says.
“A half mile of dark tunnels that go in all directions isn’t exactly narrowed down.”
“Out of an entire city it is. And if there’s a detainment facility between the gardens and the library, it shouldn’t be hard for you to find—”
“What do you mean, for me to find? I’m not going down into any dark—”
“Relax, pretty boy. I’m the one who’s going down. You just have to charm Raine and her friends so you’re invited into their little circle. The Secretary keeps close tabs on her. Where she is, he is. We just want you to find out what’s down there and where. Do some discreet snooping. Keep your ears open. Pinpoint the location for us. That’s all. You can handle that much, can’t you?” His last sentence drips with patronizing sarcasm like he’s talking to a seven-year-old.
I straighten my fingers, trying to resist the urge to curl them into a fist. A Favor. That’s what I’m giving back. For Karden. For Miesha. I have to remind myself of this fact over and over to keep from recentering his nose on his face. I work to hide my anger. I won’t let him push my—
He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re as soft as a baby’s powdered butt.”
I pounce, but he sidesteps with lightning speed, grabbing my arm and twisting it behind me, smashing me up against the wall. He wedges his body weight against me so I have no leverage, no room to move. It doesn’t matter that I outweigh him, or that I’m stronger. He’s got the moves and plenty of practice at them. “Lesson two,” he says. “Restraint. Never let the enemy push you to move before you’re ready to move.” He leans close and whispers in my ear, twisting my arm up just a little tighter so I wince. “And just as important—lesson three: you may never know precisely who the enemy is.”
He lets go and I spin around, arching my shoulder where he wrenched it. He smiles, reminding me of my brother after the dozens of times he beat me in wrestling matches, never wanting to leave lasting marks that my parents would see, but inflicting enough pain to make sure I got his message. “We need to get back,” he says. “We’ve had some unexpected good luck. We got you entry to a mixer at the Somerset Club tonight. Your meeting date with Raine has been bumped up. Showtime, pretty boy.”
The Meeting
Livvy, Carver, and Xavier trying to dress me is far worse than Miesha choosing clothes for me to wear. They fuss and cluck over every detail. Buttoning my coat, unbuttoning my coat. Smoothing my hair until it looks like a bowl on my head. Changing shirts three times because none of them can agree. It becomes a nervous frenzy that rapidly spirals downward. This meeting has come too soon. Xavier may have portrayed it as good luck because he’s eager to get it under way, but they’re not ready, or maybe it’s just that playing stylist is simply not in their repertoire. Every grooming decision is blown out of proportion and spawns squabbles among them. Black silk pants. No, the brown with cuffs. No, the old-style tunic with billowing pants. Livvy takes a comb to my hair again.
“Stop!” I stand, ducking out of her reach. “Out! All of you, out! I’ll dress myself! I don’t need you!”
They stare at me like I’m a raving lunatic about to destroy their plans.
Livvy steps forward. “We—”
“Out!”
We’re all stuck in a silent showdown. Carver’s eyes narrow like he’s weighing this new development. “Maybe he’s right,” he finally says. “Let’s step out for a moment and see what he comes up with. He needs to feel real to be believable
, not a complete creation of ours.”
At last. Someone who trusts me. But when I look at him to acknowledge this concession, the look in his eyes doesn’t seem like trust. More like a gauntlet thrown at my feet. Don’t screw up.