
**STEALER**  
 _Stealer #1_

A.M. Yates

Copyright 2016 © A.M. Yates

Cover by Clarissa Yeo/yocladesigns.com

Editor Julie MacKenzie/freerangeeditorial.com

Smashwords Edition Three  
Smashwords Edition, License Notes  
Thank you for downloading this ebook.  
This book remains the copyrighted property of the author,  
and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes.  
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Thank you for your support.
For Nae,  
again.  
Because this  
story started  
with her.
Prologue

A World Without Stars

**V** erge stumbled out into the shadowed alley, blood dripping from his lips. He crashed onto his hands and knees.

Before he could get in a breath, the meathead twins picked him up, spun him around, and slammed him against the wall. Behind them, a corpulent frame eclipsed the pale light slipping through the doorway.

"What did I tell you?" Bog's voice was a thick rumble. "If you brought me one more inextractable, what did I say I would do?"

Verge's words were slurred by pain and blood. "Suffocate me with Cloud's rotted-blackfish breath?"

Cloud drove her fist into his stomach.

He doubled over, gasping. Bolts of agony radiated from his gut out to his fingers. It was a good thing he hadn't eaten yet that day. Otherwise, he might've vomited, and that would've been a waste, seeing as he was given so little to eat to begin with.

Dam shoved Verge upright again, planting a leather-padded forearm against his throat, pinning him to the wall.

His belly a full stride ahead of him, Master Bog stepped closer. His murky green eyes were perched close to the bridge of his nose, which flattened out at the tip. Maybe some lucky slug had squashed ol' Bog good and hard on the paveglass at some point.

The thought of Bog's face flat on the street made Verge smile.

"What's so funny, stealer?" Spit splattered Verge's face as Dam spoke. "I hate you stealers, always smiling. Think you're smart, is that it?"

"Only when you're around."

Bog placed a hand on Dam's massive shoulder, stopping him before he could jam his meat hook into Verge's tender vitals again.

Then Bog let a lovely gold watch slip out of his fist, dangling it by a delicate chain almost as fine as Weaver's Thread.

"What is this?" he asked.

"What you asked for," Verge replied.

Bog snatched the watch up into his hand again. The pasty flesh of his second chin quivered. "I told you to bring me a piece of time! Not this..." His eyes bulged as his voice turned taut and dark. "You knew exactly what this was."

"How would _I_ know that?" Verge asked, feigning innocence. "I'm just a lowly little stealer."

"I know what you're thinking," Bog said. And he probably did. The leader breed was manipulative, cut-throat, and acutely perceptive. "You're right, my boy." He stepped back. "You're the best. No doubt about it. I haven't got a stealer better than you. That's what worries me. Every time you shift, a trader's got to wonder, 'Will my light go out?'" He held up his left hand. Three of his fingers sported rings, each as different as the stealer to which it was connected. The middle one boasted a silver band with a gleaming black stone.

Verge's Essence Stone.

"We all depend on each other, yes?" Bog went on, his tone rising from a simmer to a boil. "Each of us doing our part. _Your_ part is to bring me something I can use!" He gave Dam and Cloud a go-ahead nod.

Dam released Verge's throat as Cloud's fist bashed into Verge's side. Then it was Dam's turn. Back and forth they went, Verge trapped between them. He knew they were holding back; he was no use to them dead. But he had a hard time feeling grateful.

In fact, he was having a hard time feeling anything—other than pain.

"Master Bog?"

Dam and Cloud stopped pummeling.

Verge crashed to the ground, pain devouring him like Unravelers munching holes through the fabric of his being.

"Forgive our interruption," the new voice said. It was light, refined... unsettling.

"Who the—" Bog barked. "Oh, uh... Minister... I mean, _Deputy_ Minister, what are you doing here? That is... We're most honored to see you so... unexpectedly," Bog said. He was doing his best to sound honored instead of annoyed—and nearly succeeding.

Through the flashes of painlight bursting across his vision, Verge spied a slow swirl of elegant black fabric, like a choke of oil smoke, settling around a pair of slender, soft-soled shoes. Beside these were sixteen pairs of legs.

He blinked, refocusing, and looked again.

No, _eight_ powerful legs, and they appeared to be painted black.

His heart lurched into that almost-caught-stealing pace. Those eight beefy limbs _weren't_ painted. They were clad in Unpenetrate.

KETS.

One of Keystone's Elite Terminal Squads was within sniffing range. True-bred hunters—warriors. Not mutts like Cloud and Dam, but trained wolves.

The very thought drove an icicle of fear into Verge's heart.

Battered as he was, he slid quickly upright without making a sound.

"I'm most fortunate," the minister said, "as I've been sent on behalf of His Eminence to seek you out, Master Bog."

"Is that so?" Bog sounded about as thrilled as Verge felt.

With stealer-stealth, Verge began to slink toward the opposite end of the alley, but the dazzling firecrackers of pain made him flinch. One of the minister's wolves noticed.

"Minister Quell," the guard growled.

They'd probably known Verge was there the entire time. KETS could smell blood.

"Slug slime," Verge muttered.

The guard who had spotted him strode between Cloud and Dam, forcing them to skitter aside.

A low gurgle escaped Verge's aching throat as the guard's hand clamped down on his arm. He hauled Verge toward the minister.

All the pain from Verge's beating rose up in a fresh, nauseating wave. Luckily, he swallowed the queasiness back, else he would've puked all over the minister's very fine shoes.

And then he was standing before Deputy Minister Quell.

The man's face was bland and unadorned; his top-knotted hair a flat, brown hue; his frame slight, in spite of the stiff coat that exaggerated the breadth of his shoulders. Even the narrow slits of his eyes were a dim brown—utterly unremarkable.

And yet, Verge's squishy insides were all aquiver.

"You are the stealer called Verge?" Quell asked in his spider's voice—weaving around Verge with silken, sticky, inescapable threads.

Before Verge could answer, Bog stepped forward, making Verge stumble back into Cloud, who shoved him aside into the wall again with a sneer of disgust. Another bombardment of pain shot through him, but he was plenty glad to be away from Quell.

"Please, Deputy Minister, if you'll tell me—" Bog started.

"This is the one who stole the sword last quarter wane." It was hard to tell if Quell was asking or reporting. "And, the waxing before, a bell, also deemed inextractable."

"Yes, I told him he'd better not be bringing me none of those—"

"Are you saying _this stealer_ recognized that the latents were inextractable?" Quell asked, his voice soft... dangerous.

Verge's heart was hammering so hard he was sure they could all hear it in the silence that followed the minister's question.

Bog glanced at Verge, his mouth agape. Verge could see the trader calculating his response. Bog couldn't lie to Quell, or he could, but if he were caught... Well, that wasn't worth it—no matter how good Verge was. And _that_ was what this was about.

No doubt—Quell was here to acquire Verge.

He cursed his recklessness. He should've known flaunting his knack would attract this kind of attention. He'd only meant to infuriate Bog and impress one... or two young women.

Bog scratched at his chin thoughtfully, turning back to Quell.

"Would this be an inquiry?" he asked, in the trader parlance.

Quell didn't mince words. "It is."

Verge wanted to fall to his knees and beg Bog not to trade him.

But stealers don't beg.

"Name your price, Master Bog," Quell said.

Bog's lips puttered, obviously taken aback by the breach of traders' etiquette.

"Well, I've a knot of twenty to feed so... a ye— _two_ years' food credit? All-inclusive." Bog ran his hands over his belly, probably imagining eating all that food himself.

A bold first offer. Not that Quell would accept. No one accepted the first—

"Done," Quell said. "Except now, you have a house of nineteen."

He held out his hand for Verge's ring. Bog hesitated, probably too stunned by the fact that he'd traded Verge for two years of supplies—an unheard-of price for any stealer.

"I believe you can trust me to keep my word. I'll have the papers sent over first thing in the morning," Quell said.

"Yes, right, of course." Bog tugged at Verge's ring. His flesh was swollen over the band, but after some twisting and swearing, it popped free.

And then, Verge's life was handed over to Quell.

A fresh spill of blood seemed to flood Verge's mouth.

"Bring him," Quell said to his KETS. "Good evening, Master Bog."

Two of the KETS hooked Verge's arms and pulled him forward. Verge didn't dare drag his feet.

"What about his things?" Bog called after them.

"He won't need them," Quell replied, leading the KETS and Verge out of the alley.

At the end of the street, lined with looming stone walls of trader houses and softly glowing orbs of Starburners, Quell turned and looked Verge over.

"I have a task for you," he said.

Verge's bottom lip was throbbing and felt swollen enough to burst, so he said nothing. He was taller than Quell, yet the deputy minister seemed to be looking down on him.

"You know of the Waste World?" Quell asked.

Verge nodded. Not that he'd ever been there. Not only was it notoriously difficult to reach, but allegedly it had nothing worth stealing. Lots of stuff. All trash.

"To prove your quality," Quell said, "you will go there and return with a latent of consumable strength."

Verge sputtered, "You're joking."

"You have three days," Quell said, holding up Verge's ring between his fingers, inspecting it.

"But—"

"I would suggest you return before then." Quell slid Verge's ring onto his thumb. "I'm told patience is a virtue. Perhaps you can find me some."

He turned and strode away. His pack of KETS obediently followed.

Verge stared after them.

Even though his mind was telling him the job was impossible, and his body was telling him he was starving and possibly bleeding internally, a tingle danced over his back.

Could it be?

A far-off, acrid stench of burning reached his nose—the scent of another world.

If there was something in the Waste World worth stealing, he'd find it.

He had to. He didn't want to know what his new master would do to him if he failed. 
Chapter 1

**"W** atch it, Amazon freak," Tony said when his thigh bumped into Dee's knee.

She jammed her leg against the back of the seat in front of her and out of the bus's aisle.

Tony jeered down at her. She fixed her eyes straight ahead to avoid provoking further trouble. How she wished she hadn't failed her driver's test—twice. Being the only seventeen-year-old on the bus was its own special kind of torture.

But she bit her lip and kept her head down.

_Don't feed the wolves._

"Hey, T-Bone!" Sly Vasquez called from the back of the bus, his prepubescent squeak the stuff of Dee's nightmares. "Sit your butt down! Let's go, Joe!"

The bus driver frowned at Sly in the rearview mirror. Today Joe was wearing a T-shirt that advertised his hot-air balloon business. As the bus doors squealed shut, she fantasized about stealing the rainbow-striped balloon and drifting away to wherever the wind blew. Maybe to wherever her father was.

Tony shuffled to the back of the bus.

The bus lurched into motion, away from the high school.

She checked her watch. She'd broken her phone and, as punishment, her mother was forcing her to live in the ice age—sans phone.

Twenty-three minutes, six stops, and she would have survived another day. Better than that, it was the beginning of spring break.

Next to her, Danny was sketching.

"Who's that?" she asked, not because she was interested, but because she needed a distraction from Sam and Sly's reenactment of the latest, most-hilarious video of the moment. Laura's fake laugh rang above the others, each syllable stilted and harsh.

"Ha. Ha. Ha."

Danny hugged his sketchpad to his skinny chest and then in a barely audible voice replied, "Odin."

"Can I see?" she asked.

Reluctantly, he handed her the pad.

She glanced over the cartoonish drawing of a bearded, muscle-bound man that longed to be bigger and fiercer than it was.

"How come he only has one eye?" she asked, handing the pad back.

"Because Odin gave his eye to Mimir's Well to gain wisdom." Danny's dark eyes grew bright with suppressed excitement. "Odin's the wisest. He's the best. He's the All-Father."

"With only one eye?"

He nodded, but then frowned at the drawing. "It's not right though. My best pencil broke."

He fished in his pants pocket and pulled out a slim mechanical pencil.

At the sight of it, her throat tightened, her palms prickled.

"See?" He tried to compress the end to push out more lead, but the mechanism didn't budge. He held the pencil in his palm, giving it a rueful, forlorn look. "It was my favorite."

She could tell. The eraser and the company's logo were long ago worn away. The plastic casing was chewed, up and down. Every tooth mark incised the instrument with Danny's belief in magic—belief in gods who used magic.

And, the pencil... It glowed and floated.

At least it appeared that way to her.

Her mouth went dry. Her tingling fingers curled against her palms.

"So, it's no good?" she asked, attempting to sound casual.

"I've got other ones, newer ones." He scowled at the pencil, like it had betrayed him. "I shouldn't use this one for drawing anyway. It's not a proper sketch pencil."

"Could...?" She had that fluttery, almost sick sensation in her gut. "Can I have it?"

His hand closed around it. "Are you going to fix it? Because I tried and the spring's broken."

"No." A fine perspiration gathered between her shoulders. She cleared her throat. "I sort of... collect things. Broken things."

"You collect broken things?"

She nodded.

"Why?"

She shrugged. She had no idea why she collected useless things, except they all contained some... energy.

Years ago, she'd convinced herself it was all her imagination. Danny's pencil wasn't floating or glowing or full of magic. Magic wasn't real. But still... she wanted that pencil.

"Nah," he said, slipping the pencil back into his pocket. "I think I'll try to fix it again."

She deflated. "Okay."

Twenty-one minutes later, she, Danny, Laura, and the Vasquez brothers stepped off the bus—the afternoon air clear and pleasant, the birds singing, the elementary school kids racing across front yards, yelping and squealing.

Usually, Dee headed straight home. But as her foot touched the curb, she noticed Peter's red Honda parked in the driveway.

She stopped in her tracks. The last person she wanted to see was her mom's boyfriend.

Behind her, the bus doors closed with a __whish__. It rumbled away.

On the sidewalk, Sly snatched Danny's sketchpad.

"Got any cool new drawings for me?"

Sly was small for fourteen, but Danny was only twelve and so shy he could barely speak, let alone fight back. He stiffened, but didn't try to retrieve the drawing pad as Sly flipped through the pages.

Sam and Laura were strolling away, down the block. Twisting her beautiful brown hair around her finger flirtatiously, Laura barked her fake laugh every time Sam opened his mouth.

Once, Laura and Dee had been friends—best—but that was before Laura had decided her social status was more important than a lifetime of friendship. Dee couldn't blame her. Not long ago, she would've given anything to feel like she belonged. But recently, she'd come to accept she never would.

"Hey, this one's cool." Sly tore a sheet out of the sketchpad.

Danny flinched, his hands fisted, but he didn't move.

Dee's ears began to ring.

That weird, precarious feeling was shouldering in against her better judgement again. That is, better to just turn and walk away. Better not to get involved. Better not to...

"Give it back," she said, unable to stop herself.

Sly's glinting eyes slid up to her. "What's that, Freaky Dee?"

"It's not yours," she said.

"What do you care?" Sly puffed up his little chest and cocked a pointy Peter Pan ear at her. "You and Danny good friends, huh? __¿Verdado amor, sí?__ "

"Just give it back," she said, resolved to stand her ground, though all she wanted to do was run away before things got worse.

_Don't feed the wolves._ Never _feed the wolves_.

" _No hay problema_." He ripped the sketchpad in two.

Pages were snatched by the breeze and blown everywhere, tumbling across the asphalt like autumn leaves.

Danny's hands went to his head. "No!"

He chased after them.

Dee glared at Sly. "You are such a little shit."

She spun, stooping to grab a page before it blew into the Graysons' yard and the minefield of droppings left by their schnauzer.

Sly's feet pounded the sidewalk behind her, but she dodged as he leapt at her.

He sprawled, crashing stomach-first, barely missing a fresh-looking pile of dog mess.

"Hey!" He bounced back up, brushing the grass from his T-shirt like he'd meant to fall.

A few houses down, Laura and Sam were hovering near Mrs. Jensen's lilac bushes. Sam was smirking. Laura looked on with resignation, as if Dee had brought this on herself.

"I just wanted to pet your poodle hair," Sly said grinning, holding his hands out at either side of his head, fluffing a giant imaginary bouffant. "Is that how you got it? Are you half dog?" He started barking and panting. "Yip yip yip!" He burst into self-inspired laughter. Sam, too, chuckled and seeing that Sam thought it was funny, Laura joined in with her forced imitation of laughter.

The veins in Dee's temples began to pound.

"Is that why you don't know your daddy?" Sly asked. " _¿Tu padre era un perro? ¡En serio!_ "

More laughter.

" _¡Ladra perra!_ " Sly taunted.

She crumpled the stiff sketch paper. Her head began to pound. Her vision cut out for a second and then came back twice as sharp. That squirming, twisting sensation she sometimes experienced seized her, exploding into an upside-down, zero-gravity tilt.

Strange words erupted from her lips.

" _¡Cállate, enano!_ "

Sly's cruel smile faltered.

It was enough to bring Dee back to herself.

She didn't speak Spanish.

Danny was scrabbling to gather his drawings as the breeze tossed them around the neighborhood willy-nilly. Neither Sam nor Laura moved to help.

"What'd you say to me?" Sly's face hardened.

Good question. What _had_ she said?

Better question. _How_ had she said it?

She'd taken French the first two years of high school but hadn't done very well. She wasn't doing very well in any of her classes at the moment. But she was pretty sure she'd told Sly to shut up and called him a dwarf in Spanish.

She fought against her instinct to turn and walk—or better, run—away. But she was so sick of Sly pushing people around.

"I said you should shut your mouth since the only thing that ever comes out of it is shit," she snapped.

Sly's color darkened to a piping-hot stove-top burner hue. Behind him, Danny and Laura were gawping. Sam wore a shrewder expression, like he was wondering if he needed to step in and help his little brother deal with her.

"Just leave Danny alone," she said, "and stop being such a bully."

With that, she gave herself permission to turn away.

She'd meant to bolt home, but something caught her eye and forced her to stop.

Danny's pencil, glowing and hovering above the pavement.

The bones of her fingers pulled toward it like magnets to iron.

She bent and snagged it.

A warm rush of satisfaction pulsed through her.

And then something smacked against the back of her head.

Damp clumps rolled down her neck and under the collar of her shirt. Chunks stuck in the thick nest of her curls, catching on her barrette. Her stomach turned as the stink hit her. Dog shit.

She spun, tears burning her eyes.

"You should pick up your shit, freaky bitch," Sly said, crumpling one of Danny's drawings, which he'd used to pick up the dog poop.

He pitched that at her too, hitting her in the face. Then he stalked away, pushing between Sam and Laura and shoving Danny back into the lilac bushes as he stormed past.

Sam strode after his brother. Laura stood there for a second, looking like she might say something apologetic, but then Sam stopped and turned back.

"You coming?" he called.

Laura hurried after him.

Dee glared after them, body hot and trembling like oil in a hot pan.

Danny freed himself from the bushes, clutching his salvaged papers to his chest, and darted across the street toward his house.

Dee swiped a tear from her cheek and then remembered the pencil.

"Danny," she called as he stomped up the front steps, "your pencil!"

He didn't even look back. He whipped open the door and disappeared inside.

When the door slammed shut, she could feel it in her chest, like a punch.

Reaching down, she picked up the paper Sly had thrown at her and uncrumpled it.

Under the smears of dog poop, Odin gazed up at her dolefully. _What did you expect? Don't feed the wolves._

"Dee?" a deep voice said from behind her.

Her shoulders bunched. She crumpled Odin again as she turned.

Peter slid a suitcase into the trunk of his Honda. He frowned at her.

"What are you doing?" he asked, like a cop interrogating a suspect. It didn't help that he _was_ a cop.

And then her mom came out the front door.

Let the uncomfortable questioning begin. 
Chapter 2

**"O** h, Dee," her mom said in that high-pitched, false happy voice she used whenever she was about to say something she knew would lead to an argument, "I'm so glad you're home. Peter and..." Her nose wrinkled as Dee trudged past Peter, up the driveway toward her. "What is that smell?"

"Dog shit."

"Watch the language." Peter slammed the trunk shut. "Why is there dog excrement in your—"

She flashed him a fanged smile. "Haven't you heard, Detective? It's the hot new thing on the streets. All the 'hoods' are doing it. Shit in the hair. Super stylin'."

"DeAstra!" her mom snapped from behind her.

Dee turned to her mom. "Please, don't call me that."

Her mom's expression battled between concern and fury. "Why is there dog poop in your hair?"

"Do you think I did it on purpose?" Dee said. "God. Can't I even get in the door before the interrogation starts?"

"Please don't take the Lord's name in vain," Peter said.

"Please take all your bullshit rules back to your own house," she spat at him.

His face darkened. "Language—"

"So now you expect me to bleep myself for you? Well, bleep off."

An exasperated breath left her mom, she kneaded her temples with her fingertips, closing her eyes. "Dee..."

Peter folded his arms across his polo and leveled his remote gaze at her. "Your mother has been very concerned about you lately."

"I can't deal with this right now." She started for the front door, but her grandma appeared. Slight as she was, she filled up the doorway—mostly due to the dandelion poof of her hair.

"Did I hear you have feces in your hair?" her grandma chirped.

"I'll go around back," Dee grumbled, turning, only to come face-to-face again with her mom and Peter.

Trapped. The worst feeling in the world.

Worse than being stuck in a hospital bed for weeks, something she knew plenty about and part of the reason she was considered such a freak.

Bad enough she was six feet tall with the craziest curly hair on the planet, but she had a tangle of scars on her back that repulsed most of her peers. The ones who weren't repelled looked at her with pity. Growing up, Laura had been the only one neither grossed out nor inclined to treat Dee like an invalid, but now she had Sam to make out with so she obviously didn't need Dee anymore.

Her mom's flowery skirt was fluttering around her legs. Next to straight and sterile-as-a-cannula-needle Peter, her mom looked like a hippie minus the dreads. Dee would never understand what they saw in each other.

Her mom's tone softened. "Why don't you tell us what happened, honey?"

"Nothing, Mom," she said. "Nothing happened. Can I get cleaned up now, please?"

_Before I start crying again?_

What was the point of telling her mom what Sly had done? So her mom could march down to the Vasquez house and tell their Aunt Gigi—Tia Gigante, as Sly called her—what he'd done? Then Sly would spend the rest of the year tormenting Dee every chance he got. If Dee just put her head down and stayed out of his way, maybe walked to and from school for the rest of the year, then he'd lose interest. The more she reacted, the worse it got. She'd learned that the hard way. Fight, come up with a smart remark, rat them out to the teachers, or worse, parents, and the name-calling, the mean pranks, the sharp glares would only get worse and last longer.

_Don't feed the wolves._

If you ignored them, eventually they moved on to someone else—for a little while.

Sad but true.

Besides, Dee was normally a runner, not a fighter. If Danny hadn't been involved, none of this would've happened. But he was just a kid. She couldn't stomach the thought that Sly was doing to Danny what had been done to her—making her feel like an outcast, a loser, a freak.

Her hand tightened around Danny's pencil. The energy issuing from it intensified, like putting her hand a little too close to a bonfire. It might have been the strongest one yet. She'd have to check it against the others in her box. Carefully, she tucked it into her pocket.

Peter glanced down at his watch. "We have to tell her now."

"Tell me what?" Dee asked.

Her mom frowned at Peter. "She has sh—I mean, look at her."

Peter sighed and scowled at Dee—from potential felon to general nuisance.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Go clean up, baby," Dee's mom said, "and then we'll talk."

"Talk about what?" The back of her head was starting to itch, but she wanted to be done with her mom and Peter for the rest of the day. Her grandma was giving her the stink eye, standing in front of the door, like Dee might try to sneak in and track dog shit all over her pristine white carpets.

"Your mother and I are going on a trip," Peter stated.

Her mom shot him a hard look that made Dee feel a little better.

"A trip?" Dee asked.

Her mom blushed. Dee's stomach soured.

Better feelings—gone.

"To a spa and resort in the Ozarks," her mom said with a stupid, girly smile.

Even Peter was starting to grin like an idiot.

Gag.

"Peter surprised me," her mom went on.

"Great," Dee muttered. "Is that all?"

"No," her mom said, fiddling with her chunky, beaded necklace. "You know we're dropping Grandma off at the airport in a couple of hours."

"We should be leaving right now," her grandma chimed in from behind Dee.

Dee rolled her eyes. Her grandma's flight didn't leave until eight—four hours away. She visited her sisters in Nashville every chance she got. She'd been trying for years to convince her husband and Dee's mom to move down there.

"You'll make the flight, Rose, I promise," Peter said, "with plenty of time to spare."

Dee's grandmother puckered her lips, but didn't argue. She didn't care for Peter all that much, but she didn't care for anyone all that much—except her sisters. Who were in Nashville.

"We decided to leave tonight too," her mom went on. "We'll drop Grandma off and then drive down."

"So... you're leaving me home alone?" Dee asked.

Her grandpa was planning a fishing trip with a couple of his buddies. So a week at home, alone? It sounded like heaven.

"No. You're going with Grandpa."

"You want me to go fishing with Grandpa, Fred, and Dave?" Dee asked. "Again?"

"We're not about to leave you here by yourself," Peter said.

Dee's teeth gnashed. " _We?_ " She turned to her mom. "Or are you letting Officer Friendly make all of the decisions now?"

"Watch your tone—"

"Peter, please." Dee's mom put up her hand, stopping Peter from launching into whatever scared-straight lecture he was about to pull out of his holster. " _I_ will take care of my daughter."

Peter nodded, looking appropriately chastised.

Her mom turned back to Dee.

"And _you_ will treat Peter with respect," she said. "I mean, seriously, baby. What's happened to you? These last few years..."

She started to reach for Dee, but then noticed a clump of dog shit clinging to the sleeve of Dee's hoodie. Dee flicked it off into the yard.

Her mom sighed. "This was _my_ decision. You can stay in the cabin while Grandpa goes fishing. I know you have plenty of schoolwork to catch up on—"

"I can do that at home," Dee said. "I'm seventeen—"

"You don't have a phone."

"Only because you won't get me a new one."

"Because you haven't proven responsible enough to take care of it—"

"I didn't break it on purpose. It was an accident!"

Sort of. She'd been dumb and left it on her desk during study hall while she'd gone to the bathroom. When she'd come back it had been on the floor, shattered. Of course, the study hall monitor had been out in the corridor at the time. And none of her classmates were about to rat out whoever had done it—not to help _her_ anyway.

"I'm not leaving you home alone for a week without a phone," Dee's mom said.

"Nothing's going to happen," she said.

True, because she had no social life. Detective Pete seemed to think she was the mastermind behind some teen-criminal syndicate. But the only thing she was guilty of was failing her classes.

"I'd just feel better if you—"

"Fine, whatever," Dee said, slipping between her mom and the garage. "Bleeping awesome."

"Dee," her mom called after her.

But she had already ducked into the narrow gap between the fence and the garage, heading toward the backyard. She pushed open the gate and dropped her bag onto the slab of concrete that served as a patio. Stripping off her hoodie, she shook the clumps of poop out of her shirt. As she did, her fingers brushed the rough tangles of scars on her back.

Bathing trunk nevus—a big, black, precancerous mark.

It had covered her entire back from her shoulder blades to the top of her butt crack. Right after her birth, they'd removed the mark, leaving her back covered in vicious scars. Over the years, the surgeons had replaced the old, unhealthy scar tissue. They inserted balloons under her skin and slowly inflated them, forcing her body to grow new skin. Then they removed the balloons and the scars, leaving the shiny new skin. It was a long, tedious process. Seventeen surgeries so far. The last had been three years ago—she'd missed an entire quarter of school. And there was already talk about another.

She yanked the hose out from its reel. The spigot squealed in protest as she spun it. Water sputtered and popped, gushing out.

At the edge of the patio, she unclipped her barrette and tossed it into the grass. She ran her thumb through the water. Ice cold. Even though it was a warm spring day, it wasn't _that_ warm. Tightening her jaw, she turned her head. She sucked in a sharp breath as the water hit her scalp. With quickly numbing fingers, she scrubbed out the dog crap, loosening the army of bobby pins she used to keep her hair under control.

She'd seen girls in movies and on TV who seemed to be able to tame their curls into perfect shining coils, but she was convinced it was only possible with a team of professionals, hours and hours of styling, and a bevy of hair products far too expensive for the average teen.

Hair soaked and teeth chattering, she tossed the hose down and wrung the water from her locks. Some days she was tempted to shave it all off.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. She frowned at the Graysons' roof. She could've sworn someone had ducked behind the peak of it. But as she combed the ridgeline, searching, there was nothing.

"Probably just a bird," she told herself.

Giving her hair a twist, she splattered water on the ground, darkening the concrete.

The back door of the garage opened with a groan.

Her grandpa's droopy, basset-hound face appeared. The knot of tension in her shoulders relaxed.

He moved quietly across the concrete slab and held a towel out to her.

"Thought you might need this, darlin'," he said in his soft, sandpapery voice.

"Thanks," she said, taking the towel—one of his threadbare garage ones, not her grandmother's fluffy bathroom ones. She'd still need a shower, but at least the big chunks were gone.

As she dried her face and neck, she stared up at the Graysons' roof.

"Are the Graysons having work done to their roof?" she asked.

He settled onto the creaking bench swing. His eyes were thin slits as he peered up toward the Graysons'. "Not that I've heard."

"I thought I saw someone up there." She plopped down on the metal seat next to him.

The bench swing was an antiquated thing her grandparents had inherited from _their_ parents. Her grandpa had cleaned up the rust and repainted it white.

Her grandma liked white. White carpet, white furniture, white sheets, white house.

Dee figured it was because her grandma liked to be able to see the dirt so she could attack it right away. White made it easier for her to spot the grime. Her grandma's eyesight wasn't what it used to be. Too many years squinting down at a needle.

Once, she'd been the best seamstress in the state. Customers had traveled from all over to have her mend their clothes. But she hadn't just patched holes, her husband liked to brag, she'd patched problems. People would tell her their troubles and she'd always known just what they needed to hear.

In spite of her grandma's apparent disdain for people these days, Dee believed her grandpa. Not only because she trusted him, but because she had one of her grandma's old needles, and it glowed, just like Danny's pencil.

"I guess you heard you're stuck with me this week," she said.

"And you with me." He opened up a paper sack of sunflower seeds and held it out to her.

She took a handful.

"I'm sure Fred and Dave will be pumped to have a teenage girl on the big fishing trip," she said, crunching through the salty hulls to the sliver of buttery seed-flesh inside.

"They'll only be bothered if you haul in bigger walleyes than they do." He popped a few seeds into his mouth, his dark eyes twinkling behind the thick swags of creases.

She smiled, spitting out the shells into the yard where a bevy of goldfinches immediately set upon them.

"Yeah, I loved the look on Fred's face when that bass I caught outweighed his by two pounds," she said, "like he sat on his hook."

He smiled. They rocked back and forth, in and out of the sunlight and the shadow of the garage behind them.

"But really," she said, sidling him a look, "I don't need to go. I'm old enough to stay home alone for a few days."

He was silent for a long moment. "Your mom wouldn't be too happy."

"My _mom_ is going to be in the Ozarks with her boyfriend," Dee said. "And I will be here, spending my spring break on the couch, watching movies and eating cereal for dinner. She won't know."

He frowned. "Don't like lying to your mom."

"Neither do I," she said. "But she hasn't heard all of Dave's knock-knock jokes. I have."

Another flicker of amusement glimmered in his eyes.

"Please, Grandpa. I'll be fine. I won't even leave the house. Can't I just be... _normal_ for a few days? You think the other girls in my class are spending their vacations in an old fishing boat a million miles from anywhere?"

He shook the bag of seeds. "Well, I suppose—"

Smiling, she threw her arms around his neck. "Thank you."

He patted her back gently. "I trust you."

She squeezed him tighter, tears pricking her eyes. "Everything will be fine," she promised. "Mom probably won't even ask about fishing once she gets back." Her happiness drained away. "She'll be too busy talking about _her_ trip."

Her grandpa settled back against the rocker.

After a moment of brooding, she said, "I hate Peter."

He made an indeterminate noise deep in his throat.

"I mean, I don't _hate_ him." She sighed. "I just wish he'd mind his own business. He's always criticizing, asking about my grades and my classes and..." She slouched. "It's like he's trying to be..."

Her throat tightened before she could say it.

More finches hopped closer as her grandpa spat seed shells across the patio.

"I don't need a police detail," she said. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"Grades aren't what they used to be."

"I know." She slumped further. "I just... I can't focus. It's like nothing's quite as real as it used to be, does that make sense?" She shook her head. "I'm probably just crazy."

This wasn't the first time she'd thought she might be crazy.

She retrieved Danny's pencil from her pocket.

The longer she looked at it, the brighter its radiance became—bright as a police spotlight. She knew that if she opened up her hand, it would float right up off her palm.

"This one's got it," she told him softly. "It's like the others. It's glowing."

Her grandpa was the only one who knew about the everyday objects that glowed, that floated, that did all sorts of things she knew they shouldn't, knew they couldn't, and yet did.

He eyed the pencil. "That right?"

She nodded and slid the pencil back into her pocket. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

His gaze turned toward the backyard. The willow creaked in the wind; under its shade, the old playhouse he'd built for her. The white paint was peeling off the gingerbread trim and the mice had chewed holes in the wood, but it still looked better than the prefab, plastic ones most kids had. He'd been a plumber before he retired. And he liked to fix things, to build things, to sit with things until he understood how they worked or why they weren't working.

She wished she had some of that talent.

As far as she could tell, she didn't have any talents. She was fast. The track and basketball coaches had always been after her, but all of the surgeries had kept her out of most sports. She'd tried gymnastics, but it was murder on her scars. She'd been good at balancing and swinging and jumping, but she'd been informed she was too tall, even at ten. Not that she was heartbroken. She didn't understand the point of competing. For what? A medal? A trophy? If the prize had been a hot fudge sundae, she might've been interested.

After a long silence, he said, "Nah. You're not crazy."

"But pencils don't glow or float," she said. "Have you ever seen a pencil do that?"

He made another indistinct noise.

"Nobody sees that kind of stuff," she said. "So either I'm crazy or what? What's the alternative?"

He didn't answer.

"Maybe my dad was a nutcase and that's why Mom won't talk about him. Maybe I got it from him. Maybe I inherited the crazy."

He shook the sack, like he was trying to find one seed in particular. "Asked her lately?"

"About my dad?"

He nodded once.

"Yeah, two months ago. On my birthday. I asked her to tell me something, anything, about him. She asked me why I wanted to ruin my birthday by asking questions like that."

"Told her about the things you see?"

She stiffened. "You know I haven't. She'd just haul me off to a doctor, who'd tell me I'm crazy."

"That the medical term they use nowadays?" he asked with a small smile.

"You know what I mean."

"Maybe you ought to tell her," he said.

"You _do_ think I'm crazy."

He set the seed bag down between them. "No, I don't," he said. "I don't think your mom would either."

"Yes, she would."

He fell into a peculiar, heavy silence.

Though he was silent most of the time, it was an easy silence. This silence made Dee slide to the edge of her seat and frown at him.

"You're not going to tell her, are you?" she asked anxiously. "What I see?"

"Nah," he said, "but I think you ought to think on it."

She sighed. "I'll think about it. I just don't want her to freak-out, you know?"

He nodded. "She was awfully worried for you, after you were born."

Guilt-sauce.

"I know," she murmured.

Her mom had dropped out of college after Dee was born, lost her scholarships, moved back in with her parents, worked two jobs, sometimes three.

"And your dad..." he started.

"I know it was hard because he wasn't around," she said, "but it's not like anyone told her to get pregnant at nineteen."

Taking his silver toothpick from his shirt pocket, he cast a glance at the door beside them and the house windows nearby.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He stuck his toothpick between his lips. "I've been waiting for your mom to tell you," he said. "It only seemed right."

"Tell me what?"

"It's not my place, ought not to be, anyway," he said like he was talking to himself, which he never did. "I gave her my word. Nothing's more important than a person's word. Promises are made to be kept, but..."

"But what?" She turned slightly toward him, wringing the damp towel in her hands. "What's not your place?"

He frowned down at the concrete between his dusty, old boots. "I'm only doing this because... Well, these things you see, I don't want you thinking you're going round the bend. 'Cause it might be..."

"Might be what?"

Taking a deep breath, he said, "Met him once."

"Met wh...?" Confusion gave way to realization. She sat up straighter. "You met my dad?"

Slow nod.

"When? How come you never said—"

"Your mom asked me not to and"—he rubbed his big, rough hands together like he was trying to warm them—"in truth, he was... Well, I didn't quite know what to make of him or what happened."

"What happened? What do you mean? How did you meet him? When? What was he like?"

In seventeen years, she hadn't learned thing one about her father. Not even his first name. She wanted to be angry that her grandpa had kept such a huge secret from her, the way she was often angry at her mom for not telling her anything. Her mom would always say Dee was better off not knowing, which had made her think the reason her mom didn't talk about him was because she didn't actually know or remember him.

Her mom had spent the summer after her freshman year of college touring across the country, following some band. Dee had told her mom it was okay if she didn't remember him, she just wanted to know. But her mom had put her off by saying vague things like, "I don't know what you must think of me," and "Can't we talk about it another time?"

Except another time never came.

Of all the varied and wild possibilities Dee had considered, it had never occurred to her that her grandpa might've met him.

"Saw him outside the hospital," he said.

She stared. "You mean... after I was born?"

He nodded.

"He... he knew about me?" She choked up. Whoever her father was, wherever, she'd always assumed he was ignorant of her existence.

"I was outside, having a smoke, back when I did that." He rolled his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. He'd taken up the toothpick when he'd quit smoking years ago. "This young man he just... well, appeared."

She frowned. "Appeared?"

He started the bench rocking in a smooth rhythm again. "Uh-huh. Looked pretty odd to me, dressed the way he was. I've seen some strange ways of dressing, but..."

"Strange how?"

But he didn't answer. He went on with his story, staring at the middle distance like the memory was playing out before him.

"He knew me. Came right up to me and asked about your mom and about you. I was a bit hotter back then. I could tell right off who he was, after seeing all that hair of yours and those eyes. They're the same as his."

She touched her damp hair. As it dried it was growing in volume—soon it would be a total nightmare.

"I got in his face about shirking his responsibilities." He cleared his throat in a way that suggested he wasn't proud of how he'd acted. "He told me it was your mom who'd sent him off, told him not to come around, but he'd been checking up on her. He wanted to make sure you were all right. 'Course I told him you weren't, about the mark on your back, about what the doctors said needed to be done. He got agitated, more than he had been, which was pretty wound up. He wasn't much older than you now, just a kid, and the way he looked, the way he talked and smelled—"

"Smelled?" she asked.

He just shook his head. "He said they couldn't take off the mark. He said it wasn't what they thought, and your mom should know that. We had a few words. It might've come to something uglier if the other two hadn't shown up."

"Other two?"

"Another one that looked like him—the way she was dressed... But it was her friend who set me back on my heels. The big guy."

Dee wished she could do one of those Vulcan mind-melds so she could see what he'd seen. But she counted herself lucky that telepathy was not amongst her freaky traits. Reading people's minds all day? No, thanks.

"Big guy?" she asked.

"Real big. Too big. Thought he was police at first, but he wasn't wearing a uniform. He looked painted, like someone had slathered him in greasepaint. And he was blindfolded, or seemed to be, except he came right for the boy—your dad—and grabbed him before he could run. Not that he tried, he was too busy shouting at me, telling me the doctors were wrong and that I had to stop them. The big guy hauled him off and then all three of them just... well, they vanished."

"Vanished?"

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "You think I'm crazy?"

A short breathy laugh escaped her. "You really met my father?"

"Seemed like he was in some trouble. Whoever that big guy was... I don't know, military maybe, covert ops... organized crime? I don't know. It happened so fast, and for a long time after, I tried to tell myself I'd dreamt it. You know, none of us were sleeping well back then. We were all so worried for you."

"But you didn't dream it."

He shook his head. "Before they took you in for that first surgery, I told your mom what happened. She made me promise not tell anybody, including you. She got real upset, said I didn't understand and wouldn't and it was better this way, safer. You'd be safer. No matter what River had said about it."

Dee's heart stopped. "River?"

"Your father. River." 
Chapter 3

**T** he words kept running through her head. All through her shower, through saying goodbye to her grandma and mom, and as she watched Peter's car pull out of the driveway— _My father's name is River._

After a quick microwaved dinner, she retreated to her room.

It was immaculate. Bed made, windows smudge-free, clothes folded and put away, vacuum tracks still visible on the white carpet. Her grandma must've come back in while Dee had been showering. Her grandmother loved those shadows the vacuum left on the carpet—it was like a fetish for her. Dee took quiet pleasure in erasing them with the clouds of her footprints.

She retrieved a key from the jewelry box on the wicker vanity. Kneeling, she reached under her bed and pulled out a metal box about the size of her trig textbook. Thankfully, her schoolbook was not as thick as the box was deep.

Cradling the box in her lap, a giddy flutter bounced around her stomach. She unlocked the box and then took Danny's pencil out of her pocket.

Just a crummy busted pencil maybe... but when she ran her fingers over the plastic, images of Odin and Thor, dragons and giants, sorcerers and kings filled her head. Not the cartoon sketches Danny drew, but the ones in his imagination, the ones that breathed and fought and ruled the universe. Danny's belief was so strong that if belief were all it took, Odin _would_ have existed.

She held the pencil as tightly as she dared, allowing its particular hum to pass into her palm, up her arm, until even her heart seemed to pick up the subtle vibrations. She'd never used drugs, except for the ones she'd been given in the hospital, but she imagined this was what it felt like to be high—this dangerously pleasurable sensation that left her heart skipping and her breath short.

When she opened the box, Felix was the first to greet her, as usual. The cartoon-cat key chain contained Laura's real laugh. But it was more than a laugh, it was her courage.

Dee had found Felix a few years ago, buried under a bunch of bracelets in a catch-all on Laura's dresser. When she'd asked if she could have it, Laura had hesitated for a second, but then had said, "Go ahead. It's just a dumb broken key chain."

But it wasn't. It was much more than that—if only Laura knew.

Gingerly, Dee laid Danny's pencil in the box, right next to her mother's broken glasses. One of the lenses was cracked, a jagged line splitting the thick glass diagonally. They shone brightly to Dee's eyes, almost too bright to look at. And they showed the truth. Dee didn't know how she knew, she just did.

Then there was the sewing needle, dull and useless to her grandma, but sharp to Dee. The winks of light coruscating over its surface told her it could sew up anything.

And her grandpa's brass lighter, winking in and out, like it could disappear altogether if it wanted to. Rumors in the family were that her grandpa had been a bit of a hustler before he'd gotten married. Dee hadn't believed it until she'd found the lighter in a rusting toolbox in the garage. And then there was her cousin's guitar pick. It was melting, even though she knew it wasn't. Yet when she looked at it she saw a puddle of bubbling plastic, defying its own structure.

This was why she'd been afraid to tell her mom the truth. Or anybody. She knew what would happen if she explained what she saw to a doctor. She'd be diagnosed as schizophrenic or something since she seemed to be hallucinating. After all, rubber cats didn't giggle, guitar picks didn't melt (on their own, continuously) and mechanical pencils didn't hum or glow or float. Except... they did.

A doctor would cram her full of pills and monitor her for the rest of her life. They would find a category to file her in and talk about her in clinical jargon. She'd spent a lot of time with doctors and nurses. They were some of the best people she'd ever known, but sometimes she thought they didn't have a clue. They just made their best educated guesses and ran with them. In this case, Dee was not putting herself up for examination. And being able to check the sane box wasn't the only reason.

The deeper reason was less explicable. Somehow, she felt she had all the best parts of the people she loved, like she was entrusted with them, guarding them. And maybe one day they'd realize how important these things were, the way she did, and ask for them back.

And now, after what her grandpa had told her, she wondered if there was something else going on.

He'd said her father had appeared and reappeared like... what? Magic?

She'd pressed him for more details, but he'd told her to talk to her mom and that he wasn't saying anything more about it until then.

She'd never really let herself believe in magic, but as she sat with the box on her lap, with ordinary objects that seemed somehow extraordinary, she began to wonder if maybe...

She closed and locked the box, tucking the key behind the fake velvet lining in her jewelry box.

For the moment she would be content to know that her father had a name. It was River. When her mom came back, they would talk. Dee wasn't going to be put off anymore.

That night, she fell asleep on the couch watching an old Western with her grandpa.

He woke her around three in the morning. He was already dressed for his trip.

"Best head to bed," he said to her. "And take this."

He pressed his hunting knife into her hand. She sat up, blinking, trying to clear the film of sleep. The knife, in its leather sheath, was heavy.

She held it out to him. "I don't need—"

"'Course not," he said and planted a kiss on the top of her head.

She clipped the knife to her waistband anyway, to humor him. "See you in a few days," she said with a smile.

He nodded and headed for the door.

She waved and sat back, listening as the garage door rumbled open. The engine of his truck grumbled to life and then faded away.

She picked up the half-eaten bowl of popcorn and shuffled through the kitchen. The clock on the microwave glowed 3:30 in green.

Grabbing her hoodie off the hook by the door, she padded into the garage. She stuffed her feet into her knee-high boots. Not bothering to zip them up, she opened the back door.

A chilly burst of damp, springtime air swept over her face. Shivering, she trudged across the patio toward the compost barrel at the back of the yard. She could've used the compost bucket in the kitchen, but her grandma had washed it before her departure, leaving it—pointedly—upside down in the sink. Dee knew that's how she expected to find it when she returned.

The moon was full and bleach-white, rolling off behind the peak of the house. At her feet, beads of dew clung to the grass, each one filled with moonlight—thousands of mini-moons floating through the space of her backyard.

She dumped the popcorn into the barrel and then turned back to the house.

Her heart jumped into her throat.

Someone was sliding out of her bedroom window.

An alarmed scream lodged in her throat, her breath catching, not because she'd caught a thief in the middle of the night, but because of his back.

More specifically, the mark on his back—a big, black ellipse. It stretched from his shoulder blades to the dimples above his butt. Just like the one she'd had at birth.

She blinked, knuckling her eyes. It was a shadow. It must have been.

But as his feet touched the grass, quiet as falling snow, she noticed how the back of his shirt—little more than strips of knotted leather—had been left open. And his pants were slung low in a curve that mimicked the ellipse, purposefully exposing it.

He turned, freezing when he saw her.

The world seemed to flip and spin. Just as it had earlier when she'd sworn at Sly in Spanish.

She swayed, fending off the somersaulting sensation.

Again, the world flickered away and then reappeared, sharper than before.

Even though she was twenty feet away at the other end of the yard, his face was clear, as if he were standing right in front of her. She'd always had good night vision, but this was more like super-vision. Half of his head was shaved, the hair on the other half was long and too-white, whiter than the moon. Flecks of blood dotted his face. Deep purple bruises ringed his throat. And his eyes... black. So black.

And then she saw the box in his hands. _Her_ box.

His gaze dropped to it and then bounced back up to her. Lifting the box with one hand, his swollen, scabbed lips quirked. He spoke.

At first, his words were garbled, like the scrambled static her grandpa got when he was tuning into a baseball game on his old radio. Just a bunch of gibberish, but then...

A sharp pain cut up her spine, into her skull.

She bit back a cry, touching her head and then her ringing ears to make sure they weren't bleeding.

"Who are you?" he said, seeming to repeat himself.

"I... what?" She inspected her fingers. No blood. She prodded her temple gently, the pain was subsiding, but a strange effervescence fizzed through her, like she was slowly filling with tiny bubbles.

He tapped the box. "You found these?"

Coming back to herself, she clutched the edge of the popcorn bowl. It was an old ceramic one, weighty. If she needed to, she could bash him with it.

"There's nothing in there of any value if that's what you're thinking, so you can just leave it."

He made a strange face like he hadn't understood her. "Nothing of value?" he repeated. " _Who_ are you?"

"I'm going to scream. I'll wake up the whole neighborhood."

He hugged the box to his chest and tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "You live here?"

"Yes, I live here. This is _my_ house and that's _my_ box and you'd better give it back and take off, because I am serious, I'm totally going to scream."

He stood there, waiting with an infuriatingly smug expression on his face.

But she didn't scream.

He had _her_ mark. The one her father, River, had told her grandpa not to let the doctors remove. That had to mean something, didn't it? And now she was starting to understand what her grandpa had meant when he'd said her father had looked strange.

This thief boy looked strange.

It wasn't just his ultra-white hair or his eyebrows, which were white too—no dark roots—or even his eyes, which were impossibly black. It wasn't his bizarre primitive-punk outfit either; it was something else entirely. He didn't quite seem anchored to the world around him, like a paper doll moving through a 3D set, except... the other way around. He looked _more_ real. He seemed to possess another dimension the world around them lacked.

He stretched his fingers over the back of the box, drumming his thumbs on its sides, looking her over... and over.

An aggravating blush raced up from her chest, spreading across her face. She zipped her hoodie over her tank top.

"Are you covering your mark?" he asked. "You can't _really_ live here... Did Quell send you?"

"Quell?"

"What's your name?" he asked.

The words came out before she realized what she was saying.

"Dark Star."

She'd meant to say Dee, because _that_ was her name.

"And you expect me to believe that you live... here?" He gestured back to the house.

"Yes. That is my house. I live there. And that is _my_ stuff you're stealing."

He snorted. "Of course I'm stealing your 'stuff.' You left it lying out. What did you think was going to happen?"

She took a few steps toward him, holding out her hand. "Give it back and I won't scream."

"Scream all you want," he said. "You think I can't outrun a scream?"

"Outrun...?" She shook her head. "Just give me back the box."

"Uh... no." He eyed her again, in that way he did, like he was searching for something. "You _really_ live here?"

"Yes!" Her hands went to her head. "Why am I talking to you? You're a thief."

"You don't have a handler?"

"Handler?"

"Who has your Essence Stone?"

"Essence Stone?"

"Where were you trained?"

"Trained?"

His brow fell. "Stop repeating everything I say."

"I will when you say something that makes sense," she growled, thumping the heel of her hand against her thigh in agitation.

He stared at her for a long moment. "You're serious. You don't know what you are?"

"What I am, is about to be pissed if you don't give back my box!"

"So... you've never shifted?"

"Say what?"

"And you don't know about the Crescent or the pathways or anything?"

"Just give me back the box."

He held it up. "You don't even know what's really in here, do you?"

She took a few steps closer. "I know that what's in there belongs to me and you've stolen it."

"Yeah, I did. That's what I do. I steal. That's what you do too."

"No, I don't."

He tapped his finger against the box. "Then how did you get these?"

"I asked for them," she said.

"You what?"

"I asked for them and people gave them to me."

His face grew dark "Don't lie."

"I'm not lying—"

"Hitch it, Star." He seemed to take a step toward her, just one, except then, he was right in front of her. He'd crossed fifteen feet before she'd had time to blink.

She stared, stunned. Not only by the fact that he'd moved so quickly, or that he was taller than her—hardly anyone was taller than her—but... the scent of him.

She couldn't pin it down. It was like she'd discovered another way to smell altogether. He was musky, and the clothes he wore, leathery, but he smelled warm and sweet. Her head was spinning again, but this time in a lazier way.

"Since you're... whatever you are, I'll fill you in. The rule is finders keepers."

She gaped at him. "What? Are you five?"

A tick of breath, an almost laugh, passed through his teeth. "You're worse than a Void. To not know who you are, where you belong, to not have a han—" He cut off his own words, gaze turning inward for a moment. Even his eyelashes were white. Not blond—a thick white that stood out against his dark complexion, made darker by the bruises patchworking his face.

"Someone really did a number on you," she said. "Did they catch you stealing their stuff too?"

His expression was hard to read, something like disgust and annoyance and...

Half a second passed in which nothing was said, but it seemed much longer than that. Time and space stretched like slow taffy pulls.

The longest fraction of a second in history.

All she could think was that no one had white eyelashes or eyes so black or smelled the way he did—more real. She could almost feel the scent sliding over her tongue thick and sweet, like licking a melted trail of vanilla custard off sun-hot skin on a humid July day.

He flipped a hank of hair away from his eye.

"You want your box, Star?" he asked. "Come and get it."

He took off, racing across the yard, leaping over the fence, toward the front of the house. By the time Dee reacted, he was gone. She dropped the popcorn bowl and ran after him, hobbled by the loose boots that flapped around her calves. She fumbled to open the gate latch. She hurried to the front yard and searched.

Then she spotted him in the shadow of Mrs. Jensen's lilacs.

He stood there, like he'd been waiting for hours, with an impish smirk on his face. Brandishing the box at her, he winked, and then disappeared.

She hurried down the sidewalk. The neighborhood was eerie in its shadowed silence. She stopped behind the wall of lilacs where the thief had been, but he was gone. Running through the yard, she checked the street, but even with the new super-vision—she could read the license plate of Laura's dad's truck parked a block away at the bottom of a hill—the thief was nowhere to be found.

Vanished. 
Chapter 4

**C** old pain ripped through her chest.

Her box. It was gone

It hadn't just been "stuff."

They'd been pieces of the people she cared about most.

And they'd been stolen.

She scoured Mrs. Jensen's yard to be sure she hadn't missed something.

"What have we here?" a soft voice said from... somewhere.

She froze.

"Hello?" she whispered.

The shadows grew deeper, darker.

"Little scout, little scout," the voice said from the bushes, "let me out."

She shuffled closer to the lilacs and peered into the thick clusters of spade-shaped leaves. "Is someone there?"

Nothing but the darkness of the hedge and a strange terrible stench, like burning plastic bottles and oilcans.

"Look in between," said the voice.

She flinched back. "In between?" She shook head. "Okay, so... I'm losing it. I'm seeing things and hearing things and—"

"Stop babbling and let me out before she comes."

"Before who comes?"

The voice grumbled. "That scout with the box, you want to find him? He has something that belongs to you?"

"Yeah. Where did he go? Where are you? Who are you?" She pushed aside the leaves again, looking with a little less focus, or a little more, she couldn't quite tell. It was like staring at a stereogram, one of those pictures that seems to be nothing but static, until the hidden image inside appears.

The picture that emerged was that of a tiny, glowing green worm.

"Let me out, and I will take you to him."

"Sweet, I'm talking to a glow bug," she muttered. "Topping the sane charts for sure, Dee."

The worm stretched toward her. She leaned back.

The longer she looked, the more she saw.

The worm was tangled in a web. Thin strands appeared... and appeared, stretching on and on—silvery-violet threads with no end.

She resisted the urge to run screaming. Spiders. Not her favorite arachnid. Actually, she didn't have any favorites. She disliked all of them equally.

"You _can_ see me," the worm said, as if he found this amusing. It sounded like a he—this voice she was attributing to the glowing, squirming creature. "Good," he said, "now slip your fleshy little finger through the tear," he said, "and I'll pull myself through."

"What are you?" she asked, leaning closer and then stopping. What was she thinking? Obviously, she wasn't. She _was_ crazy. That was the only explanation.

"Tick-tock, tick-tock. Help me out so that I may help you... out."

"Help me find my box?"

"I'll help you shift so you may find it yourself," he said. "I can't do much more at the moment without drawing unwanted attention..."

"Um, okay," she muttered, closing her eyes. "Stop, Dee. This is too weird. You need to go back home and go to bed. None of this is real. Disappearing thieves and talking glowworms, not real. Not real. Not real."

"Are you finished?" the worm said in a bored tone. "I know you mortal sort are generally dull-witted, but I believe you do understand the nature of temporal matters—"

"Not real. Not real. Not real."

"Stop that!" the worm's voice boomed, rattling her eardrums and startling her out of her mantra. She stumbled back from the bushes.

"The longer you stand there babbling, the closer I am to being entombed in another cocoon until the end of the universes," the worm said.

"Universe," she corrected.

"Think you're so special, do you?" the worm retorted. "Now stop attempting to think, and free me."

"Okay, let's just say I'm not crazy." She moved the branches aside again. Once more, the worm appeared, a comma of light barely bigger than her pinkie. "That guy just stole my stuff and then disappeared."

The worm seemed to sigh. The sound echoed all around her.

"That scout, or stealer, as they're now called," he said, "took the latents because that is what he does. Yes, he shifted, which is also what he does. Something you would know about if the people on this world weren't such ludicrous savages. Imagine, removing a scout's Spirit Mark. An insult, for which this world should be undone, taken back to the primordial ooze from whence it sprung."

As the worm muttered in his peculiar way, she inspected the web. The strands appeared to pass through the branches and the leaves themselves, like a hologram. More evidence that this was all just another step on her inevitable journey into madness. She choked up. She didn't want to lose her mind.

"What is wrong with your eyes?" the worm asked.

"Nothing," she said, wiping away the tears.

"Let me ask you, little scout," the worm said, "how long has your kind ruled this world?"

"Huh?"

"The humans here, how long have they dominated this sphere? A few thousand years? Do you know how old this universe is?"

"No."

"In all the time humans have ruled this world, how long have they known that... for instance, the moon influences the tides, or that the sun feeds the plants?"

"I don't know."

"It seems to me you don't know much."

She frowned. "So?"

"So you're not alone. None of the humans in this world really understand much of anything, let alone know it. With that in mind, allow me to suggest that you view this moment in your life as one of discovery. You, of all the inconsequential mortals on this planet, have the privilege of discovering something about the nature of this universe none of the others have yet learned. I'm certain many of your kind were called mad when they discovered some new bit of apparent truth. But then, you're not really of this world, and it was only a matter of time before you realized, and your true nature asserted itself."

"What do you mean my true nature?"

"You are like the other one, the stealer. Though your Mark was taken, the gift remains. The Mark was merely the means of accessing one aspect of that gift. But we can talk about this after you've freed me."

Dee touched her back. She _had_ been born with a mark, the same one on the thief. That _was_ true. Everybody knew that. And her grandpa had said her father hadn't wanted the mark to be removed. So, maybe... not crazy?

She really wanted that to be true.

"How do I get you out?" she asked, the last of her tears drying as she inspected the worm more closely. As incredible as her vision had suddenly become, his body wasn't clearer, no matter how much she focused on him. And though she moved closer, he seemed to remain at the same distance. The illusion was giving her a headache.

"Find the puncture and put your finger through it," the worm said. "I will use your flesh as a bridge into your plane and out of this one."

She recoiled. "My flesh as a bridge?" She didn't know what that meant, but she didn't like the sound of it.

"Just find the hole," the worm demanded.

"What hole?"

"It's right in front of you," the worm insisted. "Don't think, just find it. Just as you found the latents. Feel for it."

"A hole in what? A branch?" she asked.

"I assume that since you're speaking, you're also thinking, as much as a creature such as yourself can. Allow me to repeat myself, stop. Stop talking, stop thinking, simply do."

She scowled. "Weren't you the one who asked me for help?"

The worm twisted. The gossamer threads lit up with his movement, accompanied by a soft tinging noise like silverware on china. But even though she was currently going with the assumption that she wasn't crazy, she couldn't help but wonder if this was all in her head.

The worm stretched what little of his body was free toward her.

"Here," he said.

She took a step back and bent her knees to inspect the spot he was pointing to—nothing but air. She was about to throw another vote into the crazy hat when she saw—or rather, felt—what she could only describe as a tear.

A hole in the air.

It was hard to see at first. The way the worm had been hard to see. The more she tried to lock in on it, the less it seemed to be there. But when she relaxed her eyes, it became clear. Like the thinnest film of plastic had been hung up in the air, evident only once she'd spotted the imperfection in it.

She attempted to prod the surface around the rip, but her finger didn't meet any resistance—nothing but air.

"The way you move, one would never know you were a scout," the worm said in that dull, irritated tone of his.

"Are all worms this rude?"

"Oh, no, they're worse, believe me. I'm being kinder to you than the others would—much."

"There are others?"

"If only you knew."

"So why don't you call them to get you out?" she asked. "Who made this web anyway? What is it, really? What are you?"

"All in time, little scout. All in time," the worm said.

"Maybe I shouldn't help you," she said.

"Do you want your box back or not?"

Yes, she wanted her box back. Not just wanted, she _needed_ it back. The objects inside were more than junk. It was like the people she cared about had all been kidnapped. Once again, assuming the thief was real and all of this was happening and she wasn't nuts.

"Okay," she said. "But you're going to help me, right? You're not going to screw me over or something? If I set you free, you're not going to just vanish like that guy did."

"I will help you, little scout," the worm replied in a manner that was less than reassuring.

"Help me find my box," she said.

"I will assist you in traveling to the place where you may retrieve your box..."

"And where's that? Can't I just buy a bus ticket?"

The worm laughed in an even more unsettling manner.

"Where is it?" she asked again.

"It is called the Crescent."

"And what's your name?"

"You may call me Nid."

"Nid," she repeated. "But that's not really your name, is it?"

"It is a name I have been called."

"What are you?"

"I am an Unraveler."

"What's that?"

"First, free me," the worm said.

"Where is the Crescent? How are we going to get there? How will I get back?"

"Oh, so you think ahead," he said. "How boring."

"Where is it?" she asked again.

"Another world, little scout."

"You mean like another planet?"

"I said what I meant."

"So you're what, like an alien?" That explained the green glow. Maybe all those stories about little green men weren't so far off, except the aliens weren't men, they were worms.

"Do you intend to free me or not?"

"Fine, but you promise you're going to help me, right?" she said.

"Promise?"

"You don't know what a promise is?"

" _I_ know, but do _you_?" he asked.

"Yeah. It means you won't screw me over and take me to some alien planet and leave me there to be probed."

"Probed?"

"I just want my box back," she said.

"And you shall have it."

"And you'll make sure I get back here safe and sound, right?" she asked. "Promise?"

"Hmm..."

"Well, if you need time to think about it, that web looks like a pretty cozy spot for contemplation." She stood up, cracking her back, which had grown stiff while she'd been crouched, peering into a bush, talking to a glowworm that probably didn't really exist. "And I'm sure whatever alien spider left it there for you won't be coming around any time—"

"You have no idea what you're asking," Nid said.

"You're right." She bent to zip up her boots. "I'm not even convinced this is really happening. But if it is, if a worm from another world is telling me that I have to go with him to get my box back, then I'd like to know that once I have my box I'll be able to get home again. I'm not about to end up like Dorothy skipping around Oz looking for the wizard. I don't do musicals."

"A promise is a bond, little scout," Nid said. "Bonds have unexpected consequences... You do not understand what that means."

"Oh, so you're worried about me?"

"I'm only giving you fair warning," he said. "But of course... if that's your wish. I promise. I shall do all in my power to see you home safely."

She squatted again, inspecting the tear and the glowing creature beyond it.

If he was real, if all of this was real, if he was telling the truth, if she wasn't crazy, then what? Was she prepared to travel to another world with a worm that had the most discomfiting laugh she'd ever heard, for a box?

Laura was perfectly happy laughing her fake laugh. Her grandma didn't even want her needle back or her ability to help others. She was content watching cooking shows and pestering her husband to put the house up for sale so they could move to Nashville. Danny didn't really need his belief in Norse gods, in magic, did he?

Nid had grown very still. His light seemed to dim. Was her delusion at its end? Would she blink to find herself staring into Mrs. Jensen's lilacs, looking at nothing but twigs and leaves, talking to nothing but ordinary ladybugs?

The threads of the web pulsed with pale silver light. The longer she watched, the stronger the light grew.

"Nid, what's going on?"

He didn't respond.

The web bounced around him, though he wasn't moving.

And that's when she saw the spider.

First instinct: Run.

The translucent creature glided over the web, its legs moving together in a smooth ballet of creepiness. Its oil-black eyes, all too-many of them, appeared to be fixed on the little lump of diminishing light that was Nid. He was curled so tightly it looked as though he were trying to consume himself.

The closer the spider came, the bigger it was. Shelob's crystalline sister.

Dee's pulse thrummed. She didn't think. She couldn't. Not with a spider the size of a small car moving toward her.

She stuck her finger through the tear. "Nid, hurry!"

But her words were moot, because the moment she'd pushed her finger through the puncture—which gave her the dual sensation of her finger going numb and being crushed all at once—Nid sprang outwards, his glow flaring, blinding her. The spider let out a high-pitched screech that pierced Dee's ears and went straight into the jelly of her brain like a stick blender, scrambling her senses.

Pain split through her finger, and she was thrown back.

She blinked, staring up at the fading stars, grimacing from the fall and the ringing in her ears.

After a moment, she sat up, searching the bushes, the dewy grass of Mrs. Jensen's yard.

No webs. No spiders. No Nid.

"Nid?" she called softly.

She wasn't sure if she wanted him to answer.

"Right here, little scout," he said.

She looked down and found him wrapped around her finger like a glow-stick ring.

A faint tingle flowed up her arm, like she'd put her hand against the hood of a car with a running engine.

As she lifted her hand, he peeled away and dropped into the grass.

"Very good," he said, that smiling curl to his voice. "Now... Where were we?"

She kneaded her temple, her head throbbing. What was she doing? This couldn't be real, could it?

"Ah yes... my promise," Nid was saying.

While she tried to convince herself one last time this was all a dream, his glow grew.

By the time she noticed the circle of green light that had formed under her, it was too late.

"Nid, what—"

She fell. 
Chapter 5

**A** split second of breath-stealing free fall before she landed flat on her face.

A phlegmy chuckle greeted her. "Lovely. Who taught you to shift? An educer?"

She groaned.

The ground under her was dark green, slightly reflective, hard as concrete but smooth as glass, and landing on it hurt like the worst belly flop ever.

Peeling herself off the ground, rubbing her stinging stomach, she started to look around but experienced a sudden blackout of her senses—overload.

She dropped back onto her hands. Full body rush. Head swimming. Ears filled with crashing-wave noise. Eyes stinging and watering.

Then, just as abruptly, her senses returned—sharper, cleaner, but still oversaturated.

The air was cool, but promised to be warmer soon. The taste of it painted layers on her tongue. Heavy with oxygen and a bit sweet, sprinkled with a bite of salt—the primal, ever-cool pungency of a big body of water close by. Then the scents of civilization: melted animal fat sizzling in a pan; cold stone growing warmer in the rising sunlight; wood smoke, spicy and dizzying.

She sat back on her heels and blinked her eyes into focus.

Then she blinked again.

And again.

She kept searching for something to latch on to, something familiar.

But all she found were bits and pieces—a rectangular window, a doorknob, a chimney.

The window was set into a beehive-shaped... building. She could only assume it was a building. And the doorknob was fixed to a strange globular wall that might also have been a building, though it was hard to be sure since it looked more like a huge hill of spilled concrete. The chimney jutted slantwise out of a spindly, leaning glass tower encased in wood scaffolding. Smoke wafted gently from the chimney pipe, up into a field of thin fuchsia- and violet-hued clouds.

She squinted.

Was that the sky? Everything was so disorienting, she wasn't comfortable naming any of it.

And the more she tried to make sense of the mishmash, the more she felt the sticky fingers of panic stirring up her stomach. And the more she came to realize, strange as everything was, it was all very real.

The ground underneath her. The bizarre buildings and alien sky.

She covered her mouth.

"Please, do not evacuate your internals on my street," that same phlegmy voice said.

She turned toward the voice.

What she had assumed to be a garbage sack, with a shiny box tossed on top of it, moved. The metallic bag rustled. A gloved hand brought a slender, silvery tube up to a narrow slot in the box. Puffs of pungent smoke billowed out and coiled around her.

She coughed, gagging.

"Unraveler eat through your tongue, stealer?" the voice behind the box asked. "Or has the Apex finally agreed to let the handlers cut them out?" More phlegmy laughter. The whole crinkly sack shook. "They'd ring the bells for that, I warrant."

A sound, an almost-word escaped her mouth, something along the lines of "Gah."

"No bodies on the road!" a voice hollered behind her.

Leaping to her feet, she scrambled out of the way as a giant slug barreled toward her. The creature's googly eyes—the size of her fists—rolled wildly.

She stumbled and crashed onto her butt next to the snorting, coughing, jiggling sack with the box head.

The opalescent slug slucked by at the speed of a galloping horse, pulling a wagon piled high with crates. The driver, a man with a creased brown face and glossy black hair that fanned at the back of his head in a spiky halo, sneered at her as he flew by, waving what appeared to be an umbrella with a hooked end at her in a threatening manner.

Fixed to the back of the wagon was a thin scraper that pushed the slug's trail of mucus toward the gutter in a syrupy, glistening wave.

The slug passed under a giant metal insect spanning the street—a bridge?

The driver thrust his umbrella upwards. The hook caught a ring suspended under the chitinous structure. A waterfall of goo splooshed down over the slug. The driver popped open his umbrella to deflect the drippings as the wagon passed under the bridge and climbed the hill past the maybe-buildings.

"Terrible, this drought," the sack commented conversationally. "Heard they're rationing the oil supplies to bring in more slick for the slugs. If you ask me, they ought to conscript a few more stealers to take up the slack."

She dropped her head into her hands. "Okay, just breathe. Everything is okay."

"Looks like I've found a likely candidate right here," the sack remarked.

It leaned over her. Its cube head blotted out the light. Then he tapped the corner of his box with the tip of his finger and the cube opened, releasing a cloud of scintillating smoke. Sparks crackled and snapped. The face behind the box was craggy and narrow, like a mountain ridgeline, but at least he had a face. He squinted down at her.

"Close call on your errand, stealer-girl?" he asked. "I'd be glad to send a rat for your handler—there's usually a few scampering around—for a price, of course." He turned to scan the street.

She gazed up at him for a long moment, focusing only on his deeply lined skin and the wiry hairs crawling out of his nostrils.

He was real. He appeared to be human. Not alien at all.

She resisted the urge to touch him just to be sure. But the driver had appeared human too. That is, head, eyes, mouth, arms, legs, everything where it was supposed to be. She didn't know what she'd been expecting—actually, she hadn't been expecting anything because she hadn't fully considered what it might mean to travel to another world with...

"Nid!"

Sack-man flinched back as she pushed to her feet.

The ground under her looked a bit like cobblestone, except it had a spring to it, bouncing under her as she hurried to the curb.

The street was dark and smooth. No sign of Nid.

Had he been slug-squashed? Panic started twisting up her insides again.

"I'm here," Nid whispered.

She let out a sigh, searching around. Behind her, the sack-man was muttering in a grumpy tone.

"Where?" she asked.

"Where what?" the sack-man demanded.

"In your hair," Nid murmured.

She cringed, tensing. "In my hair?" The idea of an alien worm in her hair made the thought of dog poop almost appealing.

"I must stay close to you and hidden for a time," he said. "Until we see how we might make the best use of our little bargain."

"Bargain?" she asked, her fingers itching to dig him out of her hair.

"Who are you talking to?" the sack-man demanded. "And why's your Mark covered? That some extract mirage?" He shifted back and forth behind her, like he was trying to see through the "mirage."

"Okay," she said, ignoring the sack-man. "Now what?"

"Now you find your box," Nid said.

"Find it how?" Her gaze skated up and down the sloped street. "This place is schizo." She laughed humorlessly. "Or maybe it's me. Still could be all in your head, Dee."

"Clear off, why don't you?" the sack-man barked at her. "You're in the way of my customers."

She looked around—the sidewalk was empty. "What customers?"

"Ah, smart-mouthed little... off!" The sack rustled as he popped up to his feet.

She rushed away, up the hill.

"Mincemen," Nid sneered as they left the sack-man behind, "the lowliest of the leader breed that can still claim status."

She passed a tall, narrow structure covered in spikes that had no apparent windows or entrance. Next door was a small, white sphere of a building, emanating soft light.

"Why is everything here so... mixed up?" she asked.

"This area is known as the Scythe. It lies closest to the Boats," Nid said. "People here make do with what is left over and unwanted by those higher on the curve. Have you sensed your latents yet?"

"Latents? Why do you keep calling them that?" She was grateful the streets were empty, or appeared to be. She eyed every stack of boxes she passed warily, wondering if there might be a person hidden inside.

"Because that is what they're called here." Could a worm roll its eyes? His tone suggested that if he could, he was. "Latents are physical objects imbued with an attribute."

Her head was starting to hurt. She thumped her fist rhythmically against her thigh as she walked up the hill. She passed the black, insect-like bridge, hoping it wouldn't prove to be alive too.

"Attributes?" she asked.

"A kind of energy," Nid replied.

"Like Danny's pencil," she said, stopping at the next bridge that spanned the road. A much more recognizable one made of stone.

He didn't respond.

She stood at the foot of the bridge and then glanced up the hill, then back to the bridge. A warm tingle rippled over her skin, leading her. She started over the bridge. As she moved, the prickling sensation increased—tugging currents of electricity racing up her arms and down her back.

"You have the knack," Nid commented when they'd crossed the street.

"Knack?" she asked.

She slipped through the thin space between two more "buildings." One appeared to be nothing more than a hallway's width of stone, the other a toddler's design of geometric shapes in various vivid hues stacked haphazardly—sphere here, cube there, cylinder at the corner.

"It leads you to what you seek," he said. "A part of the gift of the Mark."

As she moved steadily uphill, crossing bridges, she waited for a sense of wonder or excitement to hit her. She was in a new world. A world that her father, most likely, inhabited.

But all she felt was apprehension.

She didn't know anything about this world or how it worked or what dangers might be lurking. It had been a long time since she'd felt so young and inexperienced and overwhelmed.

And it didn't help that this place was inciting a whole mess of haywire responses within her. She had the strangest urge to run, not because she was afraid or in hurry, but because her legs simply seemed juiced up and in need of a release. Her scars itched like crazy. She hadn't put any lotion on them and dry scars tended to crack and bleed. But this wasn't the usual irritation. It was deeper than that, like her bones were itching.

She rounded a metal, silo-like building and came to a halt.

People. Lots of them.

"The Lower Horn's Morning Market," Nid commented.

Wagons and carts. Boxes and crates. Colorful and shining canopies fluttering and snapping in the breeze.

The market was set up in a circular city plaza, surrounded by bigger buildings that remained, nonetheless, a discordant meld of this-and-that.

But if she'd thought the buildings were strange, it was only because she hadn't seen very many people yet. A few wore clothes similar to what the thief had worn, scraps of leather stitched up and wound around their bodies. One woman jogged by, her hair a glowing magenta, her skin a shade of burnt caramel. She cast Dee a sidelong look—her eyes were red too. On her exposed back, a mark.

Another slug-wagon was parked across the street. A brawny man and woman unloaded crates of neon green balls—toys or food? The woman's hair was braided to her scalp, dangling in long whips over her broad shoulders, swinging around her narrow waist. The man looked like he had soot smeared around his eyes. His black hair was sheared close in the back. The front was swept to one side like a fringe of straw. He was massive, one arm clad in leather, bound by a strap that cut across the taut swells of his chest.

When he noticed her staring, he blew her a kiss.

She ducked her head and started toward the nearest bridge.

"Just find your box and you can go home," she muttered to herself.

The idea of other worlds was interesting, but she didn't want to know anything about this place. She wasn't a part of it, no matter who her father was. She wasn't curious. This world was too thick with scents, too vivid with color, too full of strange people. Too much, too dangerous, too... other.

She crossed the bridge and slipped into the busy market, trying to keep her eyes down, but failing.

"Salt, young stealer?" a bosomy woman asked. She was as shiny and dark as the street, with swirls of sparkling emerald-green hair that matched her eyes and the scintillating piles of salt on her table. Something in her voice pulled at Dee. "Best green salt in all the worlds," she purred. "Keep you swift and stealthy."

"No, thanks," Dee said reluctantly. Although... she did like salt...

"Foolish scout," Nid chided. His voice broke the spell the vendor seemed to have cast, and she tore her eyes away from salt stall. "Do not be so easily swayed, else you'll not traverse the length of this market before you lose your shirt. Focus."

"Right." She picked up her pace. It was difficult not to stare at the myriad of people and their bizarre goods.

At the end of the row of stalls, a wiry man flashed a smile at her—literally. Light burst from his teeth like a camera flash, blinding her.

She blinked away the white splotches as he was about to ladle a fuzzy brown glob into her hand.

She snatched her hand back. "What is that?"

The man stopped smiling. Before he could hit her with his stupefying smile again, she turned and ran out of the square, away from the market. It felt good to run. It cleared her head.

Darting around a corner, she tripped over a pile of rubbish heaped against a wall. Catching herself before she landed on her face again, she heard Nid muttering in annoyance.

"Sorry, Nid—"

She glanced over at the garbage heap only to find it looking back at her.

Again, not garbage—a person. A young man, surrounded by sacks of all sizes, leather and plastic and one that looked like a rock. She'd tripped over his leg, but he hardly seemed concerned.

He stared at her through cables of black dreadlocks. In the twisted ropes of his hair was an odd assortment of decorations: a feather, a coin... a bubble-gum wrapper? He was broad-shouldered, but thin. As she gazed at him, his eyes changed color, from dull brown to clear honey-gold. Just like that. And of all the weird things that had happened to her in the last few hours, this unsettled her more than any of them.

She stepped back. "Sorry. I didn't see you."

"I know you," he said in a beautiful, husky voice that stopped her dead.

Pulse thrumming, she couldn't tell if she was scared or blushing. "I really don't think you do."

The corner of his mouth curved upwards as he stood.

More feathers were pinned to his ragged brown coat amongst unidentifiable bits of metal and glass. Beads and shells and stones clacked as he moved, strung on leather and rough-looking twine. Holes in his dingy shirt showed an even filthier shirt beneath. His pants, too, were hole-ridden and dust-stiffened and studded with bric-a-brac. An earthy musk wafted off him, not sour like body odor, but damp and thick, reminding her of the upturned soil after her grandpa tilled the garden in the spring.

Thinking of her grandpa made her heart twinge.

"Don't worry," he said. "You'll see him again."

"I will? I mean... Who are you?"

He didn't really know what she'd been thinking? Did he?

"I'm Dusk," he said. "And you're Dark Star." He grinned. "Dee."

She gaped. "I... How did you know that?"

Oh no. Could people here read her thoughts?

"You're looking for Verge," he said.

"Verge?"

"He's a stealer. One of the best," Dusk said. "Quell's waiting for him. Quell and Eclipse. You're here to help him."

"Help him? Who? Wait... You mean the kid who stole my box?" she asked. "Is that who you're talking about?"

His eyes changed hue again, darkening to a shiny copper. She was more than a little freaked out, but at the same time, she couldn't move—her legs were like concrete.

"The Unraveler brought you here. Just like in the beginning..." He seemed to lose focus.

"So... this kid, Verge?" she asked. "He's the one who stole my box—tall, white hair, smug?"

Dusk straightened his shoulders, his gaze drifting to the bustling street. A woman passed, hair coiffed in elaborate Medusa coils interwoven with huge diamond flowers. On the sidewalk behind her, her shadow was studded with diamonds too.

Dee blinked and looked again. Yep, diamonds on her shadow.

She put her hands up at either side of her face to block out the crowds. Her movement made Dusk flinch, like a startled cat.

"Sorry," she said as he cowered from her.

He slunk back to the wall.

"Does Verge live around here?" she asked. "Is he close by?"

Dusk's eyes faded to flat brown again. He huddled once more amongst his nest of bags, hugging his knees. But his gaze flicked up, across the street, to a wall crawling with ivy and topped by a spiral of what looked like glass barbed wire. "Verge. Bog House." He buried his head against his knees, growling.

"Are you okay?" She took a step toward him, but he winced again and she stopped. "Sorry," she said gently. "Thanks."

She backed away, turning and threading through the crowd.

"Poor kid." She crossed the bridge to the other side of the street. "I think he's homeless."

"Of course he's homeless," Nid said in a barely audible whisper. "There's no place for untrainable seers."

"Great," she muttered as she approached the ivy-covered wall. On closer inspection, it wasn't ivy but some kind of mutant moss with leaves. "Good to know my world's not the only one with issues."

"This _is_ your world, little scout."

"No, it's not," she said firmly. " _My_ world is the one you're going to take me back to as soon as I get my box, remember?"

"I am aware of my promise," he replied coolly.

Walking alongside the wall, she came to an alley. She peeked into its shadows. At least it didn't look big enough for a slug to squeeze into.

Tingling from head to toe, she might as well have been plugged into an electrical socket.

"Found what you were looking for?" Nid asked.

"I think so." In the morning light, the coils atop the wall glinted warningly. "He's here, I think."

"Good," Nid said. "Now let's find out how much of a scout you truly are." 
Chapter 6

**S** lipping deeper into the alley, she located a door amid the ivy. Of course, it had no apparent handle. She gave it a push, but nothing happened.

"How am I supposed to get in?" she asked. "Don't suppose I can just knock and ask nicely for my box back?"

"Now is the time to discover why a scout should need to be so tall," Nid said.

"You want me to jump?" She pointed at the coils. "What about the barbed wire, or whatever that spiky, pain-inflicting stuff is up there?"

He shifted, wiggling above her ear, giving her icky chills.

"It's not real," he said.

She studied the coils. If she turned her head slightly, they disappeared. "What's the point of fake barbed wire?"

"What is the point of any of it? Are you jumping or not?"

With a deep breath, she swung her arms a couple of times, bouncing to get the feel of the leap. She couldn't remember the last time she'd jumped since she'd quit gymnastics. Pretty much everything was within reach.

"Here we go," she said.

She sprang upwards. Her palms slapped the top of the wall, but she slid down again, stumbling backwards and into the wall on the other side of the alley.

Nid let out a soft sound that might've been laughter.

She gritted her teeth and straightened up. "I'm just rusty, that's all."

Once more, she leapt. This time she caught the ledge, but then struggled to pull herself up. After some cursing and scrabbling, her toe lodged in one of the mortar joints. She heaved herself up onto the top of the wall. The building on the other side was built right up against it.

Made of stone, the house was three or four stories—hard to tell since the windows weren't aligned but scattered as if someone had flung them randomly.

Getting to her feet, she turned back to the building and focused once more on the tugging—the knack, as Nid had called it—that had guided her here.

Her gaze slid up to a window farther along. One of its shutters was ajar.

Heel-to-toe, she walked along the ledge toward the window, her feet passing right through the illusion of glass wire.

Once she was beneath the window, she stretched on her tip-toes, but fell short. She would have to jump again, only this time the ground was much farther away.

When she hesitated, Nid asked, "Is there a problem?"

"I can't reach it," she replied. "Maybe there's another way. On the other side of the building—"

"You mean to tell me you're thinking again?" he asked.

"Yeah..."

His laughter had an edge that made her want to yank him out of her hair and squash him under her heel.

"That must come from your mother's side," he remarked. "Now, stop thinking and climb."

"You're kind of a jerk, you know that?" she said as she turned to study the window again.

Her insult only provoked another bout of laughter—more unsettling than before.

She bounced on her toes. Her fingers bumped the shutter, and with a flick she nudged it open. No glass behind, not even a screen. Bugs and cold must not have been a problem in the Crescent. Lucky for her.

_Don't think. Don't think._

She leapt and grabbed the window ledge. But before she could exhale with relief, she found herself hanging, straight-armed, and with no toeholds to give her a boost.

"The longer you dawdle, the farther away your box is likely to be," Nid remarked.

"Do I look like I'm dawdling?" she said between her teeth. "Why don't you get off the Dee-bus and give me a hand? Oh... that's right, you don't have any hands."

As she was snarling at him, she somehow pulled herself up. The space between the locked shutter and the open one was just big enough for her to slide through.

The tug was overwhelming now—she was breaking out in goose bumps all over.

Once inside, her improved eyesight peeled away the shadows with ease.

The room was small—a bed against the wall, a metal sink next to the door, a dresser by the window, a long mirror in one corner. No pictures, no trinkets, nothing to suggest that anyone lived there at all.

She crept toward the door, but stopped when she heard muffled voices. She cocked her head as she listened. Her heart doubled its pace—Verge. His arrogant voice was branded into her brain.

"I'm not avoiding it. Why would I do that?" he asked. "I have plenty of time."

"If Bog finds out you came back—" a softer voice said.

"Don't tell him, then," Verge said, right outside the door.

Dee backed up and searched for a place to hide, noticing then that she'd left the shutter open. She hurried across the room, closed the shutter, and then slid behind the standing mirror, shrinking into the corner and willing herself to be invisible.

The door opened.

"He had them throw everything out," the softer voice said, female, younger.

Verge snorted. "Don't bet on it."

The mirror was a heavy oval on a wooden stand. Dee had to crouch to keep her head from poking over the top of it. She reduced her breathing to a shallow trickle. But the vibrations from her box were pulling at her, making her hands sweat and her toes wriggle.

There was a grunt and some scraping—wood on wood.

"What's that?" the girl asked.

"Nothing important," Verge said.

"You can't go there," the girl said.

"What choice do I have, Crystal? Got an idea? I'd love to hear it."

The bed creaked.

Dee stiffened.

In the corner of her eye, she saw Verge sit down. He had a leather bag slung across his body. And her box was in it, she was sure.

He set a wooden box on his lap, opened it, and took out a small bundle.

"People disappear there. They never come back," Crystal said.

He shook his head. "I thought educers knew better than to listen to rumors."

"We listen. Most of them aren't true. But some are." Crystal's voice wavered. "My father was recruited by Quell."

He looked up, frowning at the girl Dee couldn't see.

"You never told me that," he said.

"That's because there's nothing to tell. One day, he was there, and the next, he was gone. I never saw him again. Not even a message."

"Sorry," he said.

Dee doubted he would just put his bag down. But how was she supposed to get it off of him? He was evidently some great stealer. She wasn't a stealer. She'd never stolen anything in her life.

But he had her box and she was going to get it back...

_Don't think. Just do._

She pushed the mirror aside and lunged at Verge.

The mirror crashed, shattering.

Crystal yelped.

Dee tackled Verge.

Together, they rolled over the foot of the bed to the floor.

In the tussle, she tugged the strap of the bag over his head. Scrambling to her feet, she thought she was free, but before it slid off his arm completely, he caught it.

They each held on to the strap. The bag swung between them.

He gaped at her, still on his knees.

"I don't believe it," he huffed.

She yanked on the bag, but his grip was firm.

"This is mine," she growled.

"Is this one of your friends?" Crystal asked.

The girl edged toward the door, entering into Dee's view. She was round faced, wearing a stiff blue dress that swallowed her slight frame. She kept close to the wall, blending in with the shadows like a mouse.

"Star's just a sore loser," Verge said, black eyes hot as burning coal.

Dee gave the bag a tug. "I didn't lose anything. You stole it!"

"Of course I did!"

They glared at each other, neither moving.

Then, pounding footsteps thundered in the hall. Crystal stopped slinking toward the door. She was nearly flattened when it flew open and two massive figures swelled into view.

Dee didn't flinch. She wasn't going to let go, no matter how ugly and threatening anybody was.

Verge, too, held his ground, though his eyes were flicking back and forth between her and the thugs. But she was wholly focused on her box.

"Stealer, what are you doing here?" the female goon asked Verge. "You don't belong here anymore."

"Aw, but Cloud, I missed you," Verge said. "Our talks, our late night meetings in the alley, I thought we had something special."

The male one snickered. Cloud's face darkened.

"I think you're pissing her off," Dee said.

Verge shrugged, giving her an impish grin.

"Think you're cute?" Cloud growled. "Let's see how cute you are when I'm done with you."

Cloud shouldered her hulking counterpart aside and charged into the room. Broken glass crunched under her boots.

Verge sprang up, scrambling over the bed and away from Cloud, dragging Dee with him.

Stumbling, she spotted the bundle Verge had taken from his own wooden box. He must've dropped it when she'd tackled him. She snatched it up.

When she stood, she found herself face-to-face with Cloud.

The female thug was easily four inches taller and a foot wider at the shoulders than Dee. Her gray-and-red coat wrapped around her body, drawing attention to the big and the wide. Red streaks had been smeared around her eyes in hasty swipes, like war paint, or really bad eye shadow. She poked Dee hard in the shoulder.

"You don't belong here either," she snarled.

Dee was pushed back, slipping over the pieces of broken mirror and falling into Verge, who had edged behind her.

They wrestled for the bag again.

The strap wound around her forearm and cut into her skin. She struggled to regain her footing on the shards of glass, but her feet kept sliding out from under her. She ended up with her back to the wall, caught in a tug-of-war.

"Look what I have." She waggled the leather bundle at Verge.

The briefest look of panic flitted across his face.

Crystal darted forward and grabbed for the bundle.

Dee pulled it away, tucking it into her palm.

Crystal shrank back, hands balling to her chest. Under a heavy fringe of hair, her eyes were big, her face like a porcelain doll's.

Verge swung Dee around and slammed her into the corner where the mirror had stood.

"This is fun," the male thug said. "I've never seen two stealers fight before."

"They're not fighting," Cloud sneered. "They're trysting. Don't you know anything? That's the only time stealers touch each other. We've _got_ to get them out of here."

Dee wrapped her arms around the box, hugging it to her chest. Verge was trying to wrest it from her, their faces inches apart.

"She's sort of single-minded, isn't she?" she said of Cloud.

"She should be so lucky," he said with a smirk.

They both grunted as they fought for the box, neither giving in.

"I'll make you a deal," she said. "Whatever this is"—she let the end of the bundle poke above the top of her hand—"for my box."

"Stealers don't make deals," he said.

"Then you're not getting this back," she said, clutching the bundle tight. "See how you like it."

He went still for a second, his gaze combing her in that blush-inspiring way. The tingling redoubled into crackling currents.

Then his hand shot into her hair.

"Hey! Ow!" she cried as he ripped hairs loose.

He paled, his grip loosening. He gaped at the little green worm twisting between his fingertips.

Cloud barked out a laugh. "Stealer's got bugs in her hair!"

"Crystal, one of your jars, quick," Verge said.

Crystal scurried forward, pulling a small silvery jar from the pocket of her oversized dress. She removed the stopper and held the jar out to Verge. In a flash, he stuffed Nid inside.

Crystal jammed the stopper back in, and Verge took the jar.

"What was that?" Crystal breathed.

Dee swiped at the jar, but Verge jerked back, stumbling over the fallen mirror stand.

Cloud's hand clamped around his bicep. "Why don't you let us take you back to your new handler?"

He pulled against Cloud. "No! Wait! I need my bag!"

Cloud glared at Dee, like she could pummel her with her eyes.

Dee edged toward the window. She had her box back, everything was okay... except Verge had Nid stuffed in a jar.

It had all happened so quickly...

"Nid?" she called.

Verge's hand tightened around the jar. His face hardened. "Give me the box."

"No way," she said through her teeth.

"You collecting bugs now, stealer?" Cloud said to Verge, her nose wrinkling. "Come on." She started to haul him away.

"I need that box!" He struggled against Cloud, but the young woman was built like an ox and barely seemed to notice his attempts to wrench free.

The quavering sheen in his dark eyes made Dee hesitate. "Just give me one of the latents!" he pleaded. "You don't under—" Cloud wrapped her arm around his throat, cutting him off.

He thrashed against her.

The male goon stepped toward her. Shirtless and twice as wide as his partner, his eyes were dull, a general aura of menace surrounding him.

"Take care of her," Cloud said to the male thug as she dragged Verge out of the room. "I'm going to return this trash to Minister Quell."

Dee pushed open the shutter and clambered out the window.

The thug lunged for her. He was powerfully built, but awfully slow.

She dropped to the wall without thinking about the descent or what might happen if she stumbled off the narrow ledge.

She had to get Nid back.

Otherwise, how was she going to get home? 
Chapter 7

**C** loud had knocked Verge out and was hauling him over her shoulder like a bag of charcoal. Dee might've been impressed by her strength if she hadn't been busy having an inner freak-out. The only thing she could do to keep the inner from becoming outer was to remain focused on Verge.

This kid was causing her way too much trouble.

Through the alien city, she followed them all morning, uphill. Her thighs burned and her eyes were heavy, begging for a nap, but she didn't let Verge's too-white head out of her sight. All the while, her lockbox banged against her leg. She wanted to dump the box, but she couldn't stop and risk losing track of Cloud.

A part of her was hoping the jar with Nid inside would drop out of whatever pocket Verge had stashed it in. But after the first hour or so, she gave up on that hope. After all, he was a stealer. He probably wouldn't have put stolen goods where they would just fall out.

The city was built upon broad terraces carved from the mountainside. The higher they went, the more foliage there was—thick, fragrant, tropical plants—plenty of cover for her to duck behind whenever Cloud stopped to readjust her grip on Verge or turned a corner and glanced down the street in Dee's direction.

And the farther they traveled, the more of her panic leaked out.

Nid was the one who had told her to stop thinking. Great advice. Now he was stuck in a jar, and she was stuck in this world, unless she could rescue him.

As the sun started to beat straight down on top of her, they entered a nice, shady park.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead, trying not to think about how long it had been since she'd last had a drink of water.

People in monochromatic attire—white, gray, black, or some metallic variation—strolled by at a leisurely pace, only occasionally shooting her a scrutinizing glance. She didn't have to be from this world to know that she'd entered the posh part of town. If she'd felt out of place before, she felt even more so amongst the Crescent's upper crust.

While they were much less colorfully dressed than the people in the market, they were no less bizarre. Either their clothes billowed or were so stiff they looked like they were wearing Lego blocks. Hair was generally slicked back, fixed with metal skewers; some wore strange face coverings like the sack-man. One woman's face was lost behind a sheer sleeve of fabric, a huge set of white wings spreading out from the back of her head as if it were about to lift from her neck and take flight. A number of people were distractingly beautiful. So much so, Dee's mind went blank looking at them. Others simply made her knees buckle, their presence demanding that she kneel before them.

Her best defense was to simply keep her eyes on Cloud and Verge and block everything else out. She succeeded for a time, distracted only when she glimpsed a fountain, nestled in a grotto off the path. Her parched throat begged her to stop, but she forced her attention again to Cloud—until they broke from the cover of the park.

In spite of her best intentions, she found herself gaping again.

Off in the distance, rising above all, was a great black pyramid. It gleamed wetly in the sunlight, like melting wax.

She was so awestruck she nearly lost Cloud, who had not once wavered from her straight-ahead pace.

The neighborhood was unmistakably an enclave of privilege. Walls and gates everywhere. Behind them, buildings peeked out... mini-estates. They were uniform in their rounded-edge style, all the same chalky white stone. Next to the glossy dark roads and looming pyramid, the contrast was startling.

But her awe was short-lived as she found herself utterly exposed on the sidewalk. All of the plants in this neighborhood were trapped behind walls, leaving her no place to hide.

At that moment, Cloud stopped at a gate.

Dee dashed behind the only cover available—a carriage-type conveyance sitting idle on the street. Creeping alongside it, she found herself next to one of those giant slugs that had almost run her down earlier.

The creature, oozing syrupy, sweet-scented goo, gazed down at her, bulbous eyes like puddles of gasoline—rainbow swirls.

"Nice... giant slug-thing," she murmured. "Please don't... slime me."

A soft, pleasant hum issued from the creature's thick neck.

Crouching, she peeked around it toward the gate.

Cloud dumped Verge on the ground. He slumped, still unconscious.

"Brought him all the way from the Scythe myself," Cloud announced to whoever had opened the gate—Dee couldn't see from her vantage.

"Yes..." The voice on the other side was as flat as a fresh sheet of blank paper.

"Can't let these stealers get out of hand." Cloud kicked Verge.

Dee winced. The slug's body rippled and a fresh puddle of clear goop globbed onto the road. She edged away as it spread. Her nose wrinkled, though she was the one who stank. She'd put on fresh deodorant after her shower, but that had been a day and a world ago.

"Yes. We'll see to him," the voice said.

"He broke back into Bog House," Cloud continued. "He's not wanted there anymore. I got orders from Master Bog not to let him in."

"Yes..."

"I brought him back here—"

"Yes..."

"It's a long way from the Scythe," Cloud said.

Dee rolled her eyes.

While Cloud went round and round, trying unsuccessfully to receive payment for her trouble, Dee scanned the wall. It was lower than the one she'd climbed earlier and without any illusory barbed wire.

"You there! Shove off!" The carriage driver barked down at her as he climbed into his seat.

She backed up. He prodded the slug with his hooked umbrella. He eyed her suspiciously from behind a prism-cut monocle, but she was too busy searching for another hiding place to be bothered by his scowl.

Nothing but white walls.

Briefly, she considered running alongside the carriage until she could duck around a corner. But the slug zipped away before she'd made up her mind, leaving her utterly exposed and standing dumbly in the middle of the otherwise empty street.

To her surprise, Cloud was no longer at the gate. She was halfway down the block, storming away with her shoulders bunched up, muttering under her breath. Apparently, she hadn't gotten what she wanted.

The gate was closed and Verge, gone.

While the street was still deserted, Dee raced and jumped, reaching for the top of the wall.

She yelped as her hand was sliced open.

She fell back to the ground. A ripple of glittering light flashed along the top of the wall, invisible crystalline coils revealing themselves briefly—real ones this time.

Then they were invisible again.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back. Blood pooled in her palm. Though the cut was long, it was shallow.

She took out her grandpa's hunting knife and cut the sleeve of her hoodie off at the elbow.

Wrapping her hand, she followed along the property wall into a narrow alley. At the end was a shorter wall. In other words, dead end.

She paced down the alley and back toward the street again. No entrances. At least none she could see. Picking up a pebble, she flicked it at the top of the wall. The stone struck the coils, which flickered into visibility for a split second before vanishing again.

The pebble bounced back to the ground.

Standing there, grinding her teeth, she tried to come up with a plan.

But who was she kidding?

She was a seventeen-year-old girl alone in an alien world. She couldn't even pass driver's ed, let alone mastermind her way into some swanky estate. And if people in this world used mutant slugs to chariot them around, what kind of monsters did they have guarding their white-walled fortresses?

Then again, what choice did she have? She couldn't give up. She had to find Verge. She had to find Nid.

Her bleeding hand stung and throbbed. Her eyes burned from exhaustion and unshed tears. She was sweaty and tired and aching and, more than anything, she wanted to go home.

Growling in frustration, she pitched the pebble toward the end of the alley.

It sailed over the top of the wall.

"Real nice, Dee. You can't even hit a six-foot wall," she muttered, about to let the tears finally fall, but then...

The pebble.

It had gone _over_ the wall. No coils.

Snagging another pebble, she approached the dead end and flicked it at the top of the wall.

Again, it sailed over.

She found a third, a fourth, a fifth pebble, tossing them, testing.

The walls on either side of the alley—the property walls—had coils. But the wall at the end of the alley was unprotected—no invisible barbed wire of bloody mutilation.

So, she could scale that wall and then jump the coils of the adjacent wall, over...

Another slug-carriage rattled by. She ducked into the corner, but there were no shadows to hide her. Fortunately, the driver didn't look in her direction.

She gave the back wall a considering look.

If she climbed up there now, she'd be completely exposed. She had no idea what lay below. Anyone could see her in broad daylight. Better to wait until nightfall.

A host of doubts marched into her head.

What if they moved Verge before then? What if she was caught trying to break into this private enclave? What if she lost him entirely? What if she was stuck here, forever?

But then the memory of Nid, whispering in her ear:

_Don't think._

She had a plan. She'd return at sundown. And she _was_ going home. No matter what.

Kneeling next to the shallow, circular fountain, she cupped chilled water into her mouth, far too thirsty to worry about whether or not it was safe to drink.

She washed her hand as well. The bleeding had slowed. Slicing off the end of her other sleeve, she wrapped the cut again. With no trash cans in sight, she stuffed the bloodied scraps under a yellowed, shriveled, and altogether sad-looking hedgerow.

She retreated to a stone bench. A wave of relief washed through her hungry and exhausted body as she sat. The bench gave under her, like sand.

Her stomach rumbled. After a few minutes, she lay down and curled up, hugging Verge's bag, and her box, to her chest.

The familiar hums from the objects within soothed her. _Latents_ , Nid had called them.

And _she'd_ found them. Some inexplicable force within her had been able to sense them. It felt like a tug, deep down, her bones like divining rods tuned into the latents' particular and peculiar energies.

But though she'd retrieved her box, she was experiencing another odd sensation, similar to the tug, but different. A sunburn heat, a hot prickling, on the back of her neck.

When she closed her eyes and focused on the feeling, a face rose up in her mind's eye—Verge.

That cocky boy thief was making her tingle, and that tingle was making her anxious to get back to him, to find him, to help him. And it wasn't just about finding Nid and getting home either.

Which brought her thoughts back to another strange and confounding young man: Dusk.

He'd said she was here to help Verge.

She'd been so overwhelmed she hadn't given it much thought, and besides, he hadn't seemed exactly lucid. But as she lay there, burning with anxious prickles, she wondered if maybe Dusk had been right.

It bothered her that Verge had been knocked out and hauled up here to this swank neighborhood and dumped. She didn't like to think about what could be happening to him while she was hiding in the park, stymied by the daylight.

Eventually, the dizzy swirl of her thoughts gave way to a restless doze.

She woke with a start in the twilight, half expecting to be at home in her bed. A strange peacock-like bird with a trailing, golden tail squawked at her from where it was perched by the fountain.

"Sorry," she muttered to it, not sure why she was apologizing. Maybe because the bird belonged in this world, and she, clearly, did not.

Using her grandpa's knife, she busted open the box's lock. It wasn't difficult. She seemed to know how to do it, as if the lock were a knot that one simply needed to understand the ins and outs of to crack.

Leaving the box on the bench, she transferred her latents into Verge's bag, along with the wrapped bundle. Inside the bag, she found a couple of bumpy, grayish spheres.

Fruit, maybe?

Her stomach rumbled demandingly.

She cut into one. A pinkish ooze welled up. She caught a drop on her finger and tasted it.

Sweet and tangy, a cross between strawberry and lemon.

She sliced it into halves and slurped out the insides. Tiny, thin-skinned seeds popped between her teeth and released an extra sweet burst.

The bird's beady black eyes watched her eat.

When she'd finished, she tossed the lumpy rind to the bird. It dove for the scrap, the fan of its tail swishing happily over the mossy stones.

"I'll tell Verge you said thanks." She stood, slinging Verge's bag across her chest and heading out of the park.

The streets were as quiet as they had been earlier. Along the sidewalks, white globes bobbed under silvery nets tethered to metal poles, issuing soft, twinkling light—the Crescent's version of streetlamps.

The air was cooling, but not chilly. In spite of her stinging hand, she clambered up the alley's back wall easily.

Once on top, she realized why the wall was there. Obviously to keep idiots like her from falling to their deaths.

On the other side, a drop-off, straight down thirty feet. Below, more walled estates. Directly beneath Dee, someone was enjoying an evening swim, but they didn't notice her.

From her perch, she could see the entire terraced mountainside, down to a vast expanse of water in the distance—a bay. In the fading twilight, the water rippled violet and silver. Farther afield, hulking silhouettes of anchored ships. The spears of their masts, sails furled, were like dozens of bony fingers stretching toward the moon.

The white disc of the moon was enormous, much larger than the one back home, though just as white and pitted. And under its generous reflected luminescence, the spirals of barbed wire on the estate walls were now visible. Quite pretty, like cut-crystal, they cast rainbows over the alley.

Beautiful coils of deadly sharp glass.

Which she needed to hurdle.

For that to happen though, she required momentum.

The wall under her was barely as wide as her foot.

She shuffled along it, peeking over the glittering wire. Behind, a manicured garden.

The drop wasn't far, but someone's flowers were going to be crushed. That was all assuming she didn't slip off the alley wall before she even cleared the coils.

She inspected them more closely, hoping to find a space wide enough to plant her foot and propel herself over, but the vicious, four-inch barbs were too close together.

Time to stop thinking.

She had to do this.

How else was she going to get home? And what if something happened to Nid? Or Verge?

Just thinking about him reignited the sunburn tingle. It crawled all the way down her back.

She heel-toed back along the wall, away from the coils.

Just like the balance beam.

She'd been a star on the beam. Her coach had always lamented her height and her medical condition. If not for those, he'd said, she might've had a shot at going somewhere. Little did Coach Xi know, she _had_ gone somewhere—just not the Olympics.

At the end of the wall, she turned again.

To one side, pavement. To the other, a thirty-foot drop. Ahead of her, sometimes-invisible coils with sharp, slicing barbs.

"This is so crazy," she murmured as her stomach performed a series of flips that would've made Coach Xi proud.

_Don't think_ , she heard Nid saying.

She squeezed her eyes shut and took a few deep breaths.

_And don't die._

She focused on the tingle pull, imagining it as a rope, towing her straight ahead, up and over, safely to the other side.

Her feet started moving before her mind had given the okay.

By the time her thoughts had caught up, she'd already launched herself over the coils and was falling.

Arms pinwheeling, she leaned back, so as not to land on her face—again.

Hitting the ground on the balls of her feet, she somersaulted forward, thumping her head and then sprawling on her back with a grimace and a moan.

Coach Xi would _not_ have been impressed.

But at least she wasn't dead. And she'd made it over the wall. 
Chapter 8

**I** n spite of the throbbing knot on the back of her head, she pushed to her feet.

Inside the walls, the estate was terraced, like the rest of the city. One level up was a two-story building like an overstuffed marshmallow with _lots_ of brightly lit windows. Thankfully, no one had been enjoying the view when she'd leapt.

She crept through the flower bed, pretending not to notice how close she'd landed to the drop-off.

The back of the garden opened right to the edge, no fence or hedgerow or barrier. Straight down to the neighbor's pool. As she moved away, she let out a deep-held breath. She was going to find Nid. And Verge... She gritted her teeth.

Why was she experiencing this sunburn tingle for him?

Sure, he was cute—in an alien, thief-boy way—but that was hardly enough to earn crush status. All he'd done was cause her trouble—the serious, life-imperiling kind. Besides, she didn't know anything about him. Having sudden, electrified urges for him was beyond dumb.

_Dumb. Dumb. Dumb._

She repeated this in her head as she snuck through the garden, creeping alongside the marshmallow building. Beyond it, another terrace, a pool. Fountaining sprays trickled into the placid, softly lit water. Strange birds and insects sang and buzzed. Farther off, voices—male and female, more than a few. Breathy laughter.

Sticking close to the outer wall, she passed the pool, getting poked by the occasional leaf, and always listening.

Though the sunburn tingle built urgently, she forced herself to move slowly. But she knew, without knowing exactly how or why, that Verge was close by.

The terrace above the pool featured another garden. Through the dense foliage on the next terrace, she spied a casual gathering, maybe a dozen people. It was hard to tell with all the vegetation blocking her view. The massive spray of fernlike plants provided plenty of cover, but the fronds also grabbed at her hair, leaving sticky green pollen when she finally tugged her curls free.

This place was a jungle. The gardener must've needed a machete to kill the weeds.

Threading her way through the abundance of greenery, she crouched low to stay out of sight, at times crawling. Hadn't the sack-man with the box head said there was a drought? She wouldn't have known it from the damp earth soaking into her pants and clinging to her hands. Finally, she reached the end of the terrace. A stone retaining wall met her. Rising slowly, she peeked up and over.

The party. She could see them all clearly. Unlike on the street, the women here wore bold colors. Each dress was only one solid, vibrant hue, made of fabrics so sheer nothing was left to the imagination. The men were all dressed in black. Most of them were older. Although she spotted at least one bored and slightly sulky looking teenaged boy draped in a chair off in the corner. They were gathered on a patio courtyard, surrounded on three sides by buildings. Forming a C around the courtyard, breezeways connected two smaller wings to a four-story mansion, all covered in lush vines.

The back-of-the-neck sunburn intensified into an all-over burn.

Verge was in the main house, on one of the upper floors.

She just _knew_.

"Where did your husband run off to?" a woman asked.

"You know how it is," the wife, a noodle-necked woman in a cobalt-blue dress said, "work never ends."

"Well, I guess not for someone as important as he is," the first woman said.

"By the by," a man interjected, "when is Quell going to let us in on the big secret?"

"Oh, yes. We're dying to know what His Eminence is planning for the full moon!" the first woman declared. "You must know!"

"I swear, I am as in the dark as you are," Quell's wife said.

The teenager spoke, seeming to sink deeper into his chair as he did. "Even if she did know, His Eminence would cut out her tongue if she said anything."

The group fell uncomfortably quiet.

"As if that could keep me from talking!" the wife said, laughing.

The others laughed too.

"Well, whatever it is, we only have to wait another day," the first woman said.

"That long?"

More laughter.

Dee retreated back into the plants near the outer wall, once more out of sight of the partygoers. She slipped up to the next terrace and slunk to the back of the nearest building.

The vines crawling over the walls were so dense and tangled she couldn't see the façade behind them. She gripped the vines, giving them an experimental tug.

Grabbing hold, her wounded hand screamed, bringing tears to her eyes. She bit back against the pain and hoisted herself up, climbing steadily to the roof. Before long, she heaved herself up onto it.

The white barrel-tiles felt as though they might shatter as she picked her way across. She wasn't helped by the fact that the roof pitched toward the alley. She just hoped the neighbors across the way didn't glance out one of their well-lit windows.

Crouched low, she followed the ridgeline toward the main house. As she passed along the breezeway, she looked back. The patio was in full view—any of the partygoers could have seen her, had they happened to look up.

But they didn't.

Verge was close. She could practically smell his particular cologne: leather and arrogance and warm vanilla. Was she actually smelling him or only imagining it?

Just when she thought she couldn't be any freakier, here she was, on a rooftop, following the burning pull of a thief in order to get her talking worm back.

No, nothing crazy about that.

Then she heard him.

"Let me go," Verge was saying. "I still have time. I know where the latents are."

The back of the mansion sported double balconies on its upper floors. She jumped and grabbed the bottom of the third-floor balcony.

More searing pain. She was sure, as she caught the edge and pulled herself up, that her hand was bleeding again, but on the bright side, she hadn't fallen to her skull-crushing death yet.

As she landed on the balcony, she peaked furtively through the glass doors leading into the house. The lights inside glowed, the white shades were drawn. Slinking across, she kept one eye on the patio below, but the conversations continued uninterrupted.

She was so close now; she tingled from head to toe. But she needed to get higher still.

Climbing over the balustrade, she pulled herself onto the fourth-floor balcony.

But Verge's voice was slipping through another set of doors on the _adjacent_ balcony.

She looked down.

_Very dumb_.

A four-foot gap yawned between the twin balconies, offering a nice clear view of the ground forty feet below.

She bit her lip to keep from swearing.

And then she heard Verge say, "I had them, but—"

"But?" a smooth male voice asked. When Verge didn't respond, the voice said, "You lost them?"

Verge's tone was dark with wounded pride. "I've never lost a latent."

"So then?"

"I was attacked," Verge said.

"Attacked? In the Waste World?"

"No. Here."

"By Bog's hunters? They took the latents?"

"No, it was... a girl. She followed me. She jumped on me and..."

"Are you saying another stealer took them from you?" The voice sounded light, amused. "Stole them by force?"

"She's close. I can—"

"Enough," the man said.

"No, just let me go and I'll—"

"I said enough." The man's tone fell like a hammer.

Dee flinched.

"I've heard many excuses over the years," the man continued. "But, as you know, stealers are such terrible liars. I must credit you though, humiliating yourself, claiming another stealer had gotten the better of you, very... unexpected. But a stealer attacking someone? Attacking another stealer? After such an absurd assertion, how can I believe anything you've said?"

While they were talking, Dee was testing the vines covering the wall between the two balconies. They seemed as strong as the ones she'd climbed earlier. She hoped.

Her foot searched the tangles until her toe caught. Then, with trepidation, she took her other foot off the balustrade.

The vines rustled, giving under her weight, but they held.

Her hands and shoulders burned. Every muscle in her back strained, her scars pulling painfully. Once both her feet found a cluster strong enough to hold her weight, she reached out for another fistful. Bit by bit, she worked her way across the wall.

Her foot touched the stone, and she hurried down to the ledge.

Once safely on the next balcony, she crept to the door and peeked into the room.

More bobbing lights, netted and anchored to the walls like lambent balloons. Built-in bookshelves, packed. The edge of a desk, and Verge in a chair, his back to her. But she barely saw him, her gaze drawn to the guard in the corner.

She knew right away he was like the one her grandpa had seen—the big guy in greasepaint who had hauled her father off all those years ago.

He made Cloud and her cohort look like flabby couch potatoes.

Six foot plus of lean, yet bulging muscle, each swell sculpted by his skintight uniform. She didn't think it was paint. Otherwise, certain aspects of his anatomy would've been visible that weren't. The getup reminded her of a scuba suit, but tighter and thinner, molded. A strip of the same black material covered his eyes, from temple to temple, like he was blindfolded. What was the point of having a bodyguard who couldn't see?

From where she crouched she could make out two more scuba goons. One was stationed by the doors she was peeking through—which were ajar.

Though the guards weren't moving or speaking, and she couldn't tell if they were even able to see, just their presence, their preternatural stillness, screamed at her: Run! Now! Far, far away!

"Please, Minister Quell, give me more time, I'll get the latents..." The subtle tremor in Verge's voice unsettled her.

He was slouched in his chair, his knees planted wide, arm hanging over the back in a casual manner. He appeared to be maintaining a cool front, but she knew better.

"Tell me," Quell said, "what did the Waste World smell like?"

"Like burning," Verge replied. "A thousand kinds of burning."

"You _have_ been there," Quell said. "Perhaps you're unaware of how impressive that is."

Verge shrugged. "Maybe you didn't know what a good investment you were making."

"Well, I had hoped," Quell said, smooth voice smiling. "You _can_ detect the potency of a latent, can't you? You can tell when its attribute exceeds accepted extractable levels... perhaps, you can even determine its precise quality."

"I'm no seer," Verge said.

_Liar_ , Dee thought.

"No, you're not," Quell agreed. "But you're not a mere stealer either, are you? Of course you're not. Not just any stealer can navigate the passages to the Waste World. I'm told they are fraught with Weavers. As soon as an Unraveler opens one, it's closed up again. You don't know how many lights I've seen go out. I've sent many... many stealers before you. So few have returned... so very few."

"I didn't have any trouble," Verge said.

"No. Not until this girl... attacked you, is that it?" The dark laughter in Quell's tone made Dee's stomach squirm.

Verge's head might have twitched in Dee's direction.

Could he sense her? Was he burning all over too?

Sweat wove a web down her back as she tried to figure out what to do.

She wanted to help Verge escape this creepy Quell guy and the nauseous power of his too-smooth voice. On the other hand, she also wanted to run—fast and far.

"I never expected you to find anything consumable there," Quell said.

Verge was curling and uncurling his fist. "Then why send me?"

"All I needed to determine was the magnitude of your shifting ability," Quell replied. "We've tried to use seers, but they are... disinclined to assist in this matter. Even the most rational of them aren't persuaded—by any means."

The queasy wriggle was burrowing around Dee's insides. She'd been as still as a frozen frog, but the urge to run was wheedling its way up from her toes into her legs.

"Fortunately, educers are less concerned with morality and more concerned with retaining their ability to walk, and breathe," Quell said. He wasn't threatening, exactly. He was just stating things—cold, flat facts. And yet... Dee didn't even have to see him to fear him.

"Have you ever been inside the Apex?" Quell asked.

Verge's fist clenched and held. "Why would I have? Nothing in there worth stealing."

Quell chuckled.

Dee rose into a readied crouch.

The guard next to the door twitched.

She froze.

Her heart dubstep dropped—breaking out into heavy bass thuds mixed with slurred stutters.

The guard resumed his statue-like stillness.

Had he noticed her? Could he see through his blindfold? Or was the blindfold just an illusion? Like the invisible coils on the wall?

Quell's paper-thin laugh came to a sudden tearing halt.

"I agree," Quell said. "None of the leaders at the Apex are worth much to anyone. The moment you're inside, you will be the most valuable person there. I am certain Minister Eclipse will concur. Now that we know you are a stealer of exceptional quality, you will join the elite of your breed. Twenty years, and in all that time, we have found only eight stealers who possess the necessary fortitude. You will make nine and _finally_ complete the cycle."

"Glad I could help," Verge said. "Who are these elite stealers?"

"Names you might know: Breeze, Smoke, River..."

Dee's hearing cut out for a second.

River.

Was her father _really_ here?

But she hadn't come to find her father. She'd come to retrieve her box, and now she was trying to get Nid back so she could go home.

"And what is it you want us elite stealers to do?" Verge asked.

"Hardly anything at all," Quell replied. "Tomorrow night, the nine of you will gather in the Apex and usher in a new era for our people."

New era?

Could this guy talk more like a super-villain?

Why didn't Verge just run? Those guards were... Okay, scary as hell, but she'd never seen anyone move as fast as Verge.

And this place, in spite of the walls, the coils, and the guards, wasn't a total fortress. If she could get in, then surely Verge could get out. Why didn't he do that disappearing thing he'd done before in Mrs. Jensen's yard?

"Sounds good," Verge was saying. "If you don't need me now, I'll come back tomorrow night."

He stood up, but the guards stepped forward and crowded him.

She held her breath.

In that space of quiet, a low whistle wound through the cool night air—a strange, somber note that set her hair on end and turned her sunburn to a chill.

"I suppose I could allow you... one more day," Quell said. "Perhaps if I did, you'd spend it with the young woman who's lurking on my balcony—" 
Chapter 9

**T** he balcony doors flew open.

She skittered away, hopping back onto the balustrade, crouching upon it.

Fingernails scraping the stone, she seized the edge of the balcony, her heart slamming against her chest.

Two guards strode out, hauling Verge between them.

Then a man, who appeared to have raided Darth Vader's closet, emerged.

His black coat was stiff—the shoulders artificially wide and rigid. From beneath the long coat, a sheer, floaty fabric wafted around his legs. The getup was clearly designed to intimidate—and was doing its job. Yet, his face was placid and unremarkable. He reminded Dee of her grandparents' accountant. Except something about his serene features made her want to take her chances with gravity and jump.

He stepped forward, clasped his hands behind his back, and gazed up at her.

"Who is this?" he asked in a pleasant tone.

Her eyes flicked from him to Verge.

She wanted to demand he return Nid so she could get out of this crazy world with its creepy accountants and gangs of scuba goons, but Verge was giving her this look—a worried, almost pleading, look. Strangely, it was not begging for rescue. Instead, each pointed roll of his eyes seemed to suggest that she flee. Which of course meant she stayed put.

Quell only waited for a second before continuing. "Are you the young woman Verge accuses of _accosting_ him and stealing his latents?"

She chafed. "He stole them from me first!"

Verge cringed.

"You traveled to the Waste World?" Quell asked her.

"No," she said. "I came here to get what belongs to me, and then I'm going home."

"Home?" he repeated. "Where is home?"

The expression on Verge's face was just like Laura's whenever the Vasquez brothers picked on Dee, as if this whole situation were her fault.

But she hadn't asked him to steal her stuff. She didn't know she'd have to travel to some other world to get it back. And she definitely didn't have anything to do with Verge's being held prisoner. He was _not_ her problem. No matter how much sunburn she felt or what some crazy street kid said.

She just wanted Nid back. She just wanted to go home.

Quell took a step toward her. Poised precariously on the balcony's ledge, she had to resist the urge to lean away.

"You look familiar," he said. "Have any of your latents been deemed inextractable?"

"Been what?" she asked, but then shook his question away. She spoke to Verge. "Just... give me what I came for and I'll leave." Her eyes remained on Quell though, but only because he seemed to be demanding her attention.

"And what is it you came for?" Quell asked. "If it's for your friend—"

"He's not my friend."

"No. Stealers aren't particularly adept at making friends, are they?"

She jerked her chin toward the patio. "I'd rather have no friends than poser friends."

Quell remained impassive, but he blinked.

She'd never made anyone blink before.

"How interesting," Quell said flatly, but if a look could've cut, she would've been bleeding—more. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.

"I think I know all I need to." She glanced past Quell, and the guards behind him, to the connecting breezeway beyond.

"And what is it you _think_ you know?" Quell asked.

She looked back at Verge.

_Why aren't you disappearing, you jerk?_

He raised an eyebrow at her. The frightened tremor that had been in his voice earlier was reflected in his eyes now. For some reason, he wasn't leaving. He couldn't.

"I just need what you took from me," she said to Verge.

He was deadpan. "Don't know what you're talking about."

She choked on a curse.

Quell was watching her—no longer blinking.

This was no good.

Verge's arms were pinioned. Even if he'd been willing to give her back the jar holding Nid, she doubted he could've pulled free to retrieve it.

Her eyes combed his body, searching. Skintight as his clothes were, there was no sign of it.

Did he even have it anymore? Had his captors searched him? Taken it?

Her head began to spin with panic.

"Look behind you, stealer," Quell said.

She did.

Two more guards were on the balcony behind her. But... she'd known that.

What she hadn't known was that one of them was holding a silvery jar like the one Verge had stuffed Nid into.

"Hey, that's my—"

The guard flung the contents at her.

She ducked, throwing her arm up over her face, but whatever had been in the jar never hit her.

She lowered her arm. A misty shimmer distorted her vision, a satiny dampness settling on her face. A light, pleasant fragrance wound around her.

What were they trying to do? _Febreze_ her to death?

"Why don't you step down?" Quell suggested.

She turned back.

She wasn't going to get Nid back, not tonight. Not with this creep and his dipped-in-plastic lackeys standing between her and Verge.

The sunburn had returned in full force, urging her to help Verge somehow.

She glared at him. This was all his fault.

His fault she was here. His fault she couldn't go home.

His fault she might never be able to get home again—

She wavered on the ledge.

And then, everyone else disappeared.

It was just her and Verge.

"Okay, take the latents or whatever," she said to him, touching the bag. "Just give me—"

"I don't want them," he said sharply.

"You don't get it," she said. "I can't go—"

" _You_ don't get it," he cut in. "You should leave _now_."

"That's the point... I can't," she said, desperately trying to keep weepy thoughts from her mind. A lone tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away roughly with her shoulder.

Verge's eyes wavered. "Neither can I."

"So what?" she said. "Because you're stuck, I'm stuck too?"

"Listen to me"—he held her gaze—"run. Now."

She wanted to run. But she couldn't. And not just because she didn't have anywhere to go.

"I think... They're going to hurt you," she said.

"I figured that out on my own, thanks."

"I... I don't think I can let that happen."

He huffed, rolling his eyes. "It's just a tryst, Star. You shouldn't have..." He shook his head. "You'll get over it. _Trust me_."

"This kid told me I'm supposed to help you. I didn't believe him because... why would I? You stole my stuff, you've taken—"

"Stop talking."

"I can't go home without—"

"Star!"

She rocked, startled, gripping the ledge and coming back to her senses before she toppled and plummeted. Quell was still there, along with all of his guards. He seemed to be absorbed by her, like he was watching an intense play.

A new burn spread over her face, half fury, half embarrassment.

"That was rude," Quell said to Verge. "I was sure young... _Star_ was about to share something very interesting with you."

Shimmery sparkles lingered around the edges of her vision, she blinked them away.

"What did you—" she started.

"I gave you one of those magical moments, in which it seems all the world has dropped away and you are completely alone with... whomever you wish to be alone with," Quell said with a viper's smile. "Now that I've been given the opportunity to eavesdrop on your conversation, despite Verge's interruption, I feel as though I know what I need to know about you."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know Verge was telling the truth," he said, "as stealers have the unfortunate tendency to do. You took the latents from him because he stole them from you first, which means that _you_ were in the Waste World. Not only that, but you found latents there—something no stealer has _ever_ done before."

The fact that he sounded impressed twisted her stomach and turned her sweat cold.

"I also know," he went on, "that you are in the midst of another one of your breed's curses—a tryst's infatuation—to such an extreme degree that you've lingered here far, far too long and are now surrounded."

Below, one of the guards was peering up at her from the patio, unnoticed by the partygoers. Two more stood on the lower balconies, leaning over the edge to watch her. Now there were two behind, three below, and two holding Verge.

"And while I only require nine stealers," Quell said, "having a spare never hurts."

She sprang up and caught the gutter.

Someone seized her wrist.

She hadn't looked up because she hadn't wanted to give away her next move. And because her gut had told her the roof was the best bet.

So much for super-instincts.

"I told you that you were surrounded," Quell said, sounding bored.

Her injured hand slipped off the gutter, but it didn't matter because the guard on the roof had a grip like a bear trap. She glanced up at him... and then looked again.

She could see his eyes.

Even though he still wore his superhero—check that, super-villain—mask, his dark, hooded eyes were visible. Maybe his mask was broken.

"Bring her down," Quell ordered.

One of the guards on the adjacent balcony climbed onto the ledge, clinging to the vines, and swiped for her. She swung away, incidentally kicking Quell in the jaw.

He stumbled back, holding his cheek.

Finally, an emotion appeared.

Behind his bland façade was a look that made the scuba goons seem like cuddly puppies.

The guards appeared momentarily stunned.

"Quell, what's going on up there?" someone called from the party, finally taking notice.

Dee's toes grazed the ledge as her legs swung.

Perched at the top of the steeply pitched roof, the guard with the broken mask struggled to hold on to her and his balance. His jaw bunched with strain. He attempted to pull her up, which he probably could've managed if she hadn't been kicking wildly as the others grabbed for her.

She stared at the one holding her until his gaze focused on hers.

Whatever remained of the sunburn tingle vanished.

A queasy shudder passed through her.

A fresh sweat broke over her skin—fear sweat, terror sweat—cold and tacky.

His brow furrowed.

"My, what pretty eyes you have, Grandma," she said through a forced, clenched-teeth smile, "like melted chocolate."

His eyes widened.

In that brief moment of surprise, she seized his wrist with her free hand and yanked, bringing him crashing down on the roof tiles.

He let go of her before she pulled him over.

She dropped. Her left foot slipped off the ledge, and she crashed onto the balcony, her shoulder crunching and her hip smashing against the stone. Still... better than falling forty feet to the ground.

She pushed herself up again more quickly than she'd known she was capable of.

Quell's eyes were sharp and hot. His jaw reddened. He stepped back, which seemed to be the signal for his brute squad to move in.

One of Verge's captors released him.

With his free arm, Verge cracked his elbow into the other guard's nose.

The guard doubled over, long enough for Dee to run at him and jump, using his back as a springboard to propel herself to the other side of the balcony.

There, she clambered over the ledge. The other guard, a woman with blond hair, knocked Verge unconscious with a quick, vicious blow to his jaw. He crumpled to the ground with a sickening thump.

For a split second, she had the urge to make sure he was all right.

_Dumb._

It was time to run.

And she did. 
Chapter 10

**T** he partygoers were screaming and shouting senselessly. Obnoxious. And not helpful, to anyone.

She slid down the vines, dropped onto the breezeway, and flew over the slippery tiles.

Clambering to the roof of the adjoining wing, she raced across and scrambled down the vines, half-slipping, mostly falling, before landing with an _oof_.

Past the pool. She kept running. One terrace, then the next.

The guards' footfalls thundered behind her.

As she tore through the garden, she looked back.

Brown Eyes, somehow, was right behind her.

Ahead, the end of the yard, the terrace, and another long, long fall...

Without stopping, she launched herself over the drop-off.

She didn't have time to pray that she'd jumped out far enough or that the pool was deep enough.

She just sucked in a breath and curled into a ball.

Water exploded around her.

Her knees smashed against the bottom. But like the park bench, and the sidewalks, the belly of the pool wasn't hard—it gave like a trampoline and bounced her back up.

She surfaced.

From the ledge above, Brown Eyes dove like an Olympic athlete.

She hoisted herself up as he plunged into the water with the scantest of splashes.

_Nice form_.

But she didn't hang around to congratulate him.

The homeowner came out, his mouth hanging open. She rushed by.

"Sorry," she breathed as he stumbled out of her way.

She dashed through his house, zipping by a startled young woman.

_Must get out. Must get out._

And then she was out the front door, tearing down the front walk. As she hit the gate, fumbling with the foreign latching mechanism, she heard the young woman exclaim in surprise again.

Brown Eyes charged through the door. His eyes were still chocolate-hued, but hot chocolate now—scalding hot.

At last, she shoved the gate open.

Bolting into the street, she was almost slug-squashed as a carriage bore down on her. The driver shouted in alarm. She darted out of the way.

The slug, spooked by their near collision, jerked forward and zoomed away. NASCAR didn't have that kind of acceleration.

Brown Eyes ripped open the gate, and for one splintered heartbeat she stood there like a cornered rabbit, held captive by his glare.

His eyes narrowed, like he was about to ask her something. Perhaps, "How would you prefer to die?"

A primal jolt tremored through her. All those mundane, trivial concerns of her life back home—Officer Peter, the Vasquez brothers, failing her classes—vanished, like a thief in the lilacs.

None of it was important. None of it was real.

Not like this world was real. Not like _he_ was real.

In his brown eyes were two colors: Black and white. Life and death. Hunter and prey.

And she was _not_ the hunter.

Another slug-carriage sluck-rattled toward her.

"No walkers in the road!" the driver, a woman in a bowler-style hat, shouted as the carriage barreled past. The passenger's face, painted white and flecked with silver, glowered through the window, breaking Dee out of the hunter's trance.

She took off down the road. The wind at her back sped her. That, and the terror of what might happen if the hunter caught her.

She passed the slug-carriage, receiving another round of disgruntled scowls from the passenger and the driver.

The carriage slowed behind her as it trundled under a bridge. The driver hooked the ring. From some hidden place, a waterfall of goo sloshed over the slug.

Through the translucent gush, the hunter remained clear, those primal eyes tracking her every movement.

He skirted the slug's goopy shower and then surged back up to speed.

Her chest heaved.

She was running fast—faster than she'd known she could run—but the hunter was fast too. While the rest of his pack had fallen behind, she couldn't shake him.

Verge's bag thudded, heavy and soaked, against the back of her thigh, weighing her down. Running in sopping wet boots wasn't the most pleasant experience either. Every step squelched and left a puddling trail behind her. But she poured on another burst of energy, fueled by nothing but good old-fashioned fear.

Those hot-and-cold eyes of his had woken something instinctual inside her. She didn't have to stop herself from thinking; she simply _could not_ think.

Civilized brain off. Animal brain on.

Run.

Faster.

Lungs on fire. Wind stabbing at her eyes. Heartbeat set to rib-cracking.

She threw another glance over her shoulder, sure that she'd gained some distance over her new stalker, but he was still closing in.

"Halt!" a voice cried.

She turned back to find herself lined up for another head-on collision with a slug. The driver stood, waving her out of the way. Even if she'd been able to put the brakes on, she had too much momentum.

Instead, she dodged to the right, toward the sidewalk.

The slug's eyes rolled wildly. It veered into the opposite lane. The driver yelped, clinging to the reins. The carriage tilted and careened, tipping on its sleigh-style runners and crashing to the roadway with terrible, splintering cracks of glass and wood.

She wanted to apologize, but didn't have the breath or the time. She just hoped no one was injured. She could still hear the driver shouting. At least he sounded more angry than pained.

Then the hunter appeared. He leapt onto the overturned carriage and launched from it, landing in a crouch at her heels.

He lunged for her.

She took another step, but he grabbed hold of the bag and yanked her back. The strap cut across her chest. Her feet slipped out from under her. She crashed onto the cobblestones. They may not have been as hard as the stones she was familiar with, but it still hurt like hell. She was so sick of falling on her face.

His hands clamped down on her legs, dragging her toward him.

She fought furiously.

He grunted as she battered his ribs and his stomach with her elbows, but he wasn't deterred.

Twisting over, she slapped his face. It was like smacking a refrigerator and probably caused her more pain than it did him, especially since she'd hit him with her wounded hand. The scrap of hoodie fabric had fallen off at some point.

A crimson smear painted his cheek.

His nostrils flared. His eyes widened and lit up, like he enjoyed the bouquet of blood.

But of course he did.

He was a hunter.

He was a killer.

Her blood was exactly what he was after.

She thrashed as he tried to pin her down.

Something jabbed the small of her back. She arched, giving him a chance to seize her hair.

She slapped at him with one hand, and with the other, reached around and grabbed what was poking her: her grandfather's hunting knife.

Holding her injured hand down, his gaze snagged hers.

She froze, except her fingers, which popped the catch on the knife's sheath and curled around the handle.

"What did you use?" he growled. "Where did you get the latent? Who educed it for you?"

Her lungs burned. Her heart continued to race, though she was trapped beneath him.

"You can see through the mask," he spat. "You can see my eyes!"

Yes, she could. They turned up at the ends, like a wolf's. And they pushed her to the brink of hyperventilation. Hot and cold. Black and white. Hunter and prey.

She could see her life ending in his eyes.

The sound of his pack's footfalls grew closer.

How long had she been on the ground?

A second? Two?

It felt like lifetimes.

"The Minister's calling us back!" one of his pack shouted in his direction.

He ignored them. His teeth were clenched. His breath huffed, hot against her face. So close, she could taste it... like sweetened black tea...

"Answer me."

She ripped free the knife and thrust the blade at his stomach.

The knife struck him and rebounded, sending a jarring reverberation up her arm and into her skull.

He flinched back, releasing her hair and wrist.

He scowled down at his stomach.

But there was no wound.

She hadn't hurt him.

Strangely, she was relieved.

She didn't want to stab anybody, not even him. Except, he was still weighing her down, and she still had to get away.

There was no thought. Only reaction. Only fear.

She wanted out. She wanted away. She wanted home.

Alive.

She swung the knife again, hoping only that he'd flinch back and move off of her.

Instead, she sliced open his cheek.

Now both of his cheeks were bloody. One fresh and bright and flowing—his. One older and darker and drying—hers.

An apology swelled as far as her lips before she caught it.

She hadn't meant to cut him, but then... what was she thinking?

She was fighting for her life.

He grabbed her arm, wresting the knife from her. As they fought, he shifted to one side, freeing her legs.

She scrambled up to a crouch, but he held her wrist. Behind the wreckage of the carriage, his pack appeared.

On gut instinct, she pushed her face closer to his, tasting the iron tang of blood and the warmth of black tea.

"I see you," she hissed, "hunter."

And he blinked.

She ripped away. She could hardly think about how improbable it was that he'd been stunned enough to let his grip slacken when he was obviously a trained killer.

She didn't hang around to question him.

She took off again.

He was close behind.

The weight of him bore down on her.

Her hunter wasn't going to give up. He wouldn't stop until he'd caught her. She had to get rid of him somehow...

Another bridge loomed ahead. A gold-hued ring dangled from its underside.

The craziest of all crazy plans—and she'd had more than a few that day—formed in her mind.

With no time to debate its merits and obvious pitfalls, she slowed, allowing the pack to gain on her. As she passed under the shadow of the bridge, she surged back into a sprint.

On the other side, she launched, straightening her body like she was taking a running mount onto the uneven bars. She caught a girder, biting down on a scream as her wounded hand slapped against the metal.

Still, she hung on, momentum swinging her body forward.

For a second, she found herself staring up at a starless sky. Not cloudy, just empty.

Beyond the thumping of her pulse, the pounding footfalls of the pack.

They passed under her and then slowed.

Her body piked and she swung back under the bridge again. Her butt slammed right into one of the pack.

She dropped to the ground, stumbling, but keeping her feet. He grabbed for her, but she dodged him and raced back the way she'd come.

She jumped again, snagging the ring and yanking. When she released it, she staggered a few steps, and then crashed onto her knees.

The pack had turned around, coming back after her, right in time for a slug bath.

Sometimes, crazy works.

The entire pack was drowned in a sluice of gelatinous ooze and knocked to the ground.

Even her hunter.

This time, he was the one flat on his face.

She hesitated long enough to take a deep breath and regain her balance.

Her hunter attempted to get up, but he slipped, crashing right back down again.

She jetted for the sidewalk and the terraces below.

No looking back. 
Chapter 11

**S** he fled to the only place she knew in the Crescent—Verge's.

She'd never run so far for so long, and she understood, on some level, that she shouldn't have been able to do so. And yet, she did.

Scrabbling up the wall and through the shutters, she collapsed on the floor in the darkness. Fortunately, the broken mirror had been swept up.

She lay there, chest hitching painfully, hand on fire, head pounding.

At some point, the door creaked open. Someone shuffled inside. The door clicked shut again, but she didn't move. Her legs were slug goo—she couldn't have run anymore even if she'd wanted to.

A shadow loomed over her. She blinked through her sweat and fatigue until the shadow's face resolved into something recognizable.

"What are you doing here?" Crystal demanded in a whisper. "You shouldn't be here. You don't belong here."

Dee licked her parched lips. A rasping noise grated out of her throat.

Crystal's delicate doll-face features were smooth and hard as porcelain. "You can't be here."

Dee's eyes slid shut.

She wanted to say she didn't have anyplace else to go, that she really _did_ want to go back home, but her ride was trapped in a bottle—thanks in part to Little Miss Frowny Dollface. But she couldn't say any of those things. She was too busy gasping for air.

"You're bleeding," Crystal said, as if Dee had cut her hand open just to be annoying. "Stay here."

Dee would've laughed, had she been capable of laughter. All she could do was breathe and try not to puke.

A few minutes later, Crystal reappeared carrying a small bag. She knelt next to Dee. Her face was apucker, though it was partially obscured by the high collar of her stiff dress. She slapped something cold and wet on Dee's hand. Dee winced but couldn't lift her arm to see it.

"I don't know why I'm doing this," Dollface muttered.

She fished what appeared to be a small, glowing snow globe from her bag and then a slim vial. She inspected the vial for a moment, seeming to have some internal debate. Then she unscrewed the cap. Her thick bangs fluttering out of her eyes as she huffed. "I could get into _so_ much trouble."

She tilted the vial to Dee's lips.

A cool liquid slipped over her tongue, metallic.

And then she passed out.

"Wake up. You have to wake up."

Dee bolted upright, ripped out of a dream in which she was trapped in a web and giant spiders were descending upon her—all of them with melted-chocolate brown eyes.

"Where...?" She reached for her head, but stopped when she saw some kind of huge green leech stuck to her palm. She yelped. Before she could rip it off, Crystal grabbed her wrist.

"Don't ," she said. "What are you thinking? It's just a patch-slug. It's healing your wound."

Dee's stomach mimicked the gelatinous creature's undulations. "Ugh." She dropped her hand. "What is it with this world and slugs?"

She squinted toward the window. The shutters were open, but it was still dark. The room was lit by Crystal's snow globe, which bobbed in the corner, tapping softly against the ceiling like a balloon.

"Here." Crystal held out a metal cup. Dee drank it, thinking it was water.

Her tongue was assaulted by a salty-sweet liquid full of thick globs.

She gagged.

Crystal's silvery eyes narrowed in irritation. "It's milk," she said, though the word she said didn't quite sound like milk, but more _mauluke_.

Dee held the cup back out to her. "I think it's gone bad."

"I made it yesterday." Crystal pushed the cup back at her. "You've been here too long. You have to leave."

Dee took another tentative sip of the milk, or _mauluke_. Texture-wise it was like glue mixed with uncooked dough, but the flavor wasn't terrible and the more she drank, the more her head cleared.

Crystal stood, smoothing the tent of her dress, which ended above her knees. Her tights were gray and saggy and her shoes boxy and too heavy for her petite frame.

She scowled down at Dee. "Are you looking for Verge?" she asked. "I would've thought you could have surmised he's no longer here"—she crossed her arms—"after what you witnessed yesterday afternoon. Or maybe you're one of those who needs it spelled out? He's been acquired by Minister Quell. He's gone."

Finishing off the _mauluke_ , Dee wiped her mouth. Her clothes were damp, and she could hear her grandma telling her she'd catch her death sleeping in wet clothes on the floor. If only that were Dee's worst fear at the moment. But her worst fear was that the hunter would come after her and her grandma would never have another chance to chew her out.

"Did you recently begin this tryst?" Crystal asked. "You can't know Verge very well since he didn't tell you Quell had taken his Essence Stone."

Dee's head started to pound again, but not from running or fear or even sleep deprivation. Her brain was just tired of trying to figure out what everyone meant solely from context.

"What's an Essence Stone?" she asked, latching on to the last phrase she hadn't understood.

"You're not funny, if that's what you think," Crystal said with the hauteur of a woman three times her age and a million times better dressed.

With a sigh, Dee pushed up to her feet and held the cup out. Crystal snatched it away. Her head barely crested Dee's shoulder, but the girl acted as though she were top doll on the shelf.

"I know Verge was taken by Quell," Dee said. "I saw him."

Crystal frowned. "Saw whom?"

"Verge and Quell."

Crystal stepped back, shiny silver eyes darting. "You saw Minister Quell?"

"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure he's going to kill Verge."

"Why would... How do you know that?"

"Because he basically said so," she replied, flopping down on the bed. The mattress was about as hard as the floor. So at least she didn't feel too bad that she hadn't slept there instead.

She unzipped her boots and stripped off her socks, squeezing the remaining water out and hanging them over the metal footboard.

The patch-slug remained fixed to her hand, and so long as she ignored it, she could use her hand normally—without pain.

"You saw Minister Quell?" Crystal asked, incredulous.

"Unfortunately," Dee replied. "What a creep, huh? He had his scuba goons throw some sparkly stuff on me that made me get all... well, anyway..." She kneaded some warmth back into her feet, shocked there were no blisters after all that running in wet boots. "I have to get Nid back. Otherwise, I can't leave."

"Wait." Crystal held up her tiny hands. "You _spoke_ to him?"

"Yeah."

"And he used an extracted on you?"

"An extracted? You mean that sparkling stuff?"

Crystal stared at her for a long time, like she was waiting for the punch line, but Dee definitely wasn't joking.

After warming her toes again, Dee tugged her damp socks back on.

"Who are you?" Crystal asked.

"Dark Star," she said before she realized what she was saying—again. She scowled at herself. Why did that keep happening? "Dee," she corrected. "Call me Dee."

"You're a stealer," Crystal said.

"No, I'm not."

Crystal's nub of a chin firmed. "Yes, you are."

Dee stuffed her feet back into her boots. "I've never stolen anything in my entire life."

Crystal shook her head. "I don't know what sort of game you're playing—"

"I'm not playing, Dollface." She zipped up her boots. "Verge snuck into my house, stole my stuff, and then vanished. This little green worm named Nid told me he'd bring me to this world to get my box back, but then you and Verge stuck him in a bottle. Now Verge and Nid are being held captive by Darth Accountant, and I'm trapped on this world until I can get him back. Unless you know another way out. Do you?"

Crystal was doing her incredulous staring thing again. After a time, she said, "You're telling the truth."

Dee arched her eyebrow impatiently.

"That really _was_ an Unraveler." Crystal's eyes widened. "He brought you here. So, you're not a stealer. You're really an... outworlder." She backed up again. "You _look_ like a stealer."

"Well, I guess my dad was a stealer or whatever," Dee said, "but my mom's not. She's from my world, my true world, my home world, the place I need to get back to."

"Wait... Your father was a stealer and your mother is from another world?"

"That's what I said."

Crystal's frown deepened. "That's not allowed."

Dee frowned back. "What's not allowed?"

"Stealers aren't allowed to breed with outworlders. It's strictly forbidden."

"Breed?" Dee repeated, but shook the thought away. Bad enough that she had to think of her mom having sex, let alone think of it as "breeding."

"Wait a moment..." Crystal said. "You followed Verge to Minister Quell's residence on the Upper Horn?"

"Um... yeah?" She wasn't sure what the Upper Horn was, but apparently, Dollface was set on confusing her further by adding more undefined terms to her Crescent-world vocabulary list.

"He caught you?" Dollface was turning pale as porcelain. "The KETS... they chased you? That's why you were so winded when you arrived."

"The KETS? You mean my personal hunter and his gang? Yeah, they chased me."

"Oh, no. No-no-no-no-no." She pushed Dee toward the window and then snatched her hands back, clutching them to her chest. "I just touched you. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!"

"Hey, ease up, will you?"

Crystal's eyes narrowed to slits. "You don't understand. The KETS—"

Dee's hand flew up between them, causing Crystal to flinch back.

Dee frowned. "You're pretty jumpy, huh?" Before Crystal could respond, Dee asked, "What's KETS?"

Crystal backed away, like the word itself made her want to bolt. "Keystone's Elite Terminal Squads. They're bred to serve the Ministers of the Cap, to protect and defend them."

"Ministers of the Cap. What are those? Like the leaders of this place? And the KETS are their personal bodyguards?"

Crystal butted up against the door. "They're hunters." She looked down at her hands and her clothes. "You have to go. I have to... We both have to leave, now. They'll be here any minute. I don't know why they're not already."

"Who?" Dee interrupted the girl's building panic. "The hunters? I left them swimming in slug slime on a street up on the... Upper Horn? Is that where Quell's place was? All those white houses by the big pyramid thingy?"

Crystal stared at her. "You escaped the KETS?"

"I'm not going to say it was easy..."

Crystal glanced over her shoulder like she expected the hunter and his pack to burst through it at any second. "They'll track you here. They'll know that I helped you."

"Hold up. Track me? Like what? Follow my footprints?"

"By scent," Crystal replied. "They track by scent."

Dee's lip curled. "Like dogs?"

Crystal looked insulted on behalf of the scuba goons. "Like hunters."

"They can smell me?" she asked, shuddering. Then she remembered leaving her blood on Brown Eyes' cheek and how his nostrils had flared. Had he been learning her scent then? "What are they? Mutant hybrids? Genetically modified super soldiers?" Now it was her turn to glance behind her.

Outside, it was still dark.

"I don't know what any of that means," Crystal stated in the taut tone of a put-upon, prickly teacher. "Some hunters are born with gifts, like being able to track by scent. Just as stealers are born with the ability to shift. But now the hunters will be able to scent me too. They'll know I helped you." It seemed the girl was about to crumble into a freak-out, but then, she straightened her spine and shook the heavy fringe of her bangs out of her eyes. "Go out the window," she instructed. "I'll meet you in the alley. We have to go to the market. We have to change our scents, right now."

Dee waited for something the girl had said to make sense. "Change our scents?"

Crystal made a gesture like she was going to push Dee out the window. "Just go."

Dee slung her leg over the sill. "All I want is to go home."

Crystal gave Dee a difficult-to-read look, but didn't comment.

Dee slid out the window and down into the alley. 
Chapter 12

**C** rystal met her at the end of the alley, just as she'd said she would. She held out a hunk of bread with a grim look on her face.

"Thanks," Dee said, taking the bread and devouring it.

Little shoulders bunched up by her ears, her legs locked straight and moving fast, Crystal set off.

The streets were quiet in the cool, gray hours before dawn. While Dee had waited, she'd scanned the street for Dusk, but she hadn't seen the enigmatic kid or anyone else, for that matter.

Though Crystal was walking quickly, Dee had no trouble keeping up.

Dollface led them away from the market square Dee had passed earlier, veering into a narrow alleyway.

"Where are we going?" Dee asked when the last of the bread was gone. "Isn't the market that way?" She gestured back.

The air closed around them, thick and moist, the shadows deep and dark.

"You really don't know _anything_ about the Crescent?"

"I told you—"

"I know. It's only..." Crystal looked Dee up and down. "I've never met an outworlder before." She frowned. "You don't look like you're from another world. Except for your clothes." She gave Dee another once-over, pulling a face, like she was some paragon of fashion. Her dress was little more than an oversized sack and her clunky shoes were like painted tissue boxes.

"So, those hunters are really able to track me?" Dee asked, heart rate doubling at the thought. "How are we going to change our scents?"

Crystal's pace quickened. For someone so small, she moved fast, zipping like a mouse through a maze, staying off the main streets, sticking to the alleys.

"Yes," Crystal said. "They can."

As they took another corner and ducked into another alley, Dee checked over her shoulder. No hunters yet.

"Okay, so... how exactly are we going to throw them off our trail?"

" _Your_ trail," Crystal said.

"You're the one who's running," Dee pointed out.

The girl slowed. "Yes, well... I never would've helped you if I'd known..."

"Known that a bunch of scuba goons with superhuman sniffers were after me?"

" _Scuba_?" Crystal repeated the word, attempting to dissect each letter. She threw a scowl over her shoulder at Dee. "You really are from another world, aren't you?"

"You were serious about changing our scents?" Dee asked, ignoring the girl's stink-face. "How?"

"There are extracteds," Crystal said. "They aren't exactly... Well, this isn't my fault. I had no idea. I was only being... Anyway, we'll change our scents and go our separate ways. We've never spoken. We've never even met," Crystal said, like she was trying to convince herself.

"And what about Verge?" Dee asked. "Quell's going to kill him."

Crystal halted at the end of the alley.

As the day began, the light was turning from dark gray to dusky lilac. The clacking rattle of wheels, the groan of a wagon or carriage, the peculiar sound of a slug sluck-slucking echoed nearby. The small girl with the fine features and silver eyes studied her. "How do you know that?" she asked in a whisper.

"I don't ," Dee said. "Except... I do. Quell didn't exactly—"

" _Deputy Minister_ Quell," Crystal corrected, like she was afraid the hunters might suddenly appear if she didn't use Quell's proper title.

"The evil accountant dude," Dee said, feeling no urge to show Quell any respect, hunters or no, "yeah, him. He made it pretty clear, without making it clear. He and some other guy... Eclipse have some—"

Crystal threw her hands up in front of Dee's face, interrupting her. "His Eminence?"

"His what?"

"Minister Eclipse," Crystal said with a disgruntled sigh. "He's the leader of the Crescent."

"And Quell works for him?"

"Yes, Master Quell is His Eminence's deputy, his most senior advisor."

"So I guess that means Verge is really screwed."

Crystal's eyes narrowed. "Screwed?"

Dee batted the question away. "Okay, so the sniffers work for Quell, and Quell works for Eclipse, and Eclipse is in charge of"—she waved toward the street beyond their shadowed alley—"all of this. So what does he want with Verge? Why send him to _my_ world and make him steal _my_ stuff only to bring him back here to kill him?"

Crystal chewed on her lip for a moment, seeming to think. "Master Quell said he was going to kill Verge?"

"Not in so many words, but that was the gist."

"What did he say, _exactly_?"

"I don't know," Dee said, head aching like she was being subjected to a pop quiz. "Something about needing another stealer to... bring about a new age or something evil and diabolical like that. I mean, is he for real?"

Crystal's gaze turned away. "We can't get involved," she said softly. "Whatever is happening—"

"Can't get involved? I don't have a choice. Verge has my ride—"

"Your ride?"

"Nid."

"Say again?"

"The glowworm he ripped out of my hair. The... what's it called?"

"The Unraveler," Crystal whispered, recoiling. But then she threw her hands up and shook her head. "No, I don't care. This has nothing to do with me."

She charged onto the sidewalk.

Dee rolled her eyes and followed. "Look, I know you're scared—"

"I am not," Crystal snapped, turning into another alley. They continued moving steadily downslope.

"Well, _I_ am," Dee said.

Crystal stopped again. This alley was sinuous, wider than the last, so they could stand face-to-face. Or face-to-waist as it were.

"How do you think I feel?" Dee said to her. "I was brought here by a glowworm. I don't even really know where _here_ is. I was chased by some super-freaky henchmen. And now I'm stuck here."

"If you want to go back to your world, why don't you shift back?" Crystal asked.

"Shift?"

Crystal stared again, but after a moment, blinked her stupor away. "Move between worlds. Use your Spirit Mark to travel back home."

Her stomach sank. "My Spirit Mark?"

"Yes. On your back," Crystal said slowly, as if talking to a small child. "It allows you to access the Unraveler's pathways and travel between worlds."

"Oh."

Crystal folded her arms, waiting.

"I don't have a Spirit Mark," Dee said finally.

Dollface again looked as though Dee were playing some prank on her. "Don't have one?"

"Well, I did, but... I don't anymore."

"I don't understand."

"It was removed."

Crystal's hands flew to her mouth, her eyes widening.

Dee shuffled a bit, uncomfortable. "It's no big deal."

Crystal's hands dropped. "The Spirit Mark is a gift from the Higher Order. Who removed it? How? Why?"

"It doesn't matter. Look, the point is I can't get back home without Nid. He got me here, why can't he just open up another... pathway and get himself out of that jar you gave to Verge?"

The porcelain complexion had taken on a green tinge. "I don't know exactly. If this creature, Nid, truly is an Unraveler, then he should be able to... Well, I don't know. The jar is Weaver's Thread. I didn't realize it could hold an Unraveler the way it holds an Essence Stone or an extracted—"

"Okay, time out." Dee made a T with her hands. "What is an Essence Stone? And what is an extracted?"

"An Essence Stone is bound to a stealer's spirit. The stones are used as anchors, so that stealers won't become lost in the pathways. They can always feel the pull of their Essence Stone bringing them back here."

"And an extracted?" Dee pressed on. "That sparkly stuff that Quell's thugs tossed on me? What was that? Magic?"

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Crystal sighed. "In Verge's bag, there are latents, yes?"

Dee hugged the bag. "They didn't belong to him."

Crystal glowered up at her. "He stole them?"

"Yeah..."

"Because that's what he does. That's what stealers... _real_ stealers, do."

Dee frowned, opening her mouth to cut pretty little Dollface down a couple more inches, but the girl kept talking.

"Latents are objects that have been imbued with an attribute—a force, an energy," Crystal explained. "Most people in other worlds are ignorant of attributes. They have no idea that they have the power to leave energy within objects. Stealers find these objects, latents, and bring them back here. The attributes are then educed—that is, extracted—from the latents. Hence, extracteds."

"Magic," Dee said.

Crystal frowned. "What is maaa... gic?"

Dee touched the damp leather of Verge's bag, thinking about the objects—the latents—inside. "So... you could take the energy out of the stuff in here and what? Use it?"

"Correct," Crystal said. "Educers extract the attribute." She brushed her bangs from her brow. "I am an educer."

"You take energy out of a latent so other people can use it?"

Crystal sagged. "Not yet. I haven't come into my prowess, but I will, soon." Her voice had a worried wrinkle in it.

"So Quell wanted my latents? So he could use their powers?" She shuddered, thinking about Quell ripping the energy out of the latents—energy left there by people she loved. It seemed akin to ripping out one of their organs and eating it.

"I don't know what the deputy minister wanted, but..." Crystal's eyes darted again, to one side and then the other. "It's none of my concern." She charged off again.

Rolling her eyes, Dee followed.

The smell of fish and brine grew. Through the mishmash of houses, the first rays of ruby-tinted sunlight glittered on the water, turning the sea the color of fresh blood. Anxious sweat beaded on the back of Dee's neck as people began to appear on the streets.

Were the scuba goons really tracking her scent? What would they do if they found her?

The farther downslope they traveled, the more pronounced the architectural hodgepodge. To the left, a spiraling rusting tower punctured by sharpened spears like giant porcupine quills. To the right, a squat concrete, prison-like building with narrow, dark-eyed windows. Next door, a rundown assemblage of wooden cubes that was leaning drunkenly, promising to topple on her at any moment. All of it, too crowded, suffocating, alien.

This wasn't her world. She didn't belong here. She wanted to go home. She had to get home. Somehow.

Tears itched at her eyes.

Her elbow bumped someone. He stumbled to the side, crashing into a wall of cloudy, octagonal glass tiles.

"Sorry." Dee stopped, wiping her eyes before she reached out to offer her hand to help him.

Shirtless, the man's ribs were evident under his sallow skin. And he stank, like a spoiled can of sardines. His long, lank hair was steely gray, the deep creases of his face filled with grime. He leaned for a long moment against the door, eyes wide and unblinking.

"I'm sorry," she said again.

He didn't seem to hear her, or maybe he was ignoring her. He pushed himself away from the door, the tendons in his neck straining from the effort.

"I didn't see you," she breathed as he staggered away, never looking at her.

She stared after him. On his back, a black ellipse—the Spirit Mark.

Crystal edged closer. "We should hurry now. We've—"

"He's a stealer," Dee said, watching him drift around the corner out of sight.

"He was." Crystal's lips pursed. "He's a Void now."

Dee frowned down at the girl. "A Void?"

"His gifts are gone," Crystal explained. "He wasn't a strong enough stealer to warrant a place in a house, so he was sent to the Boats."

"The Boats?"

Jamming her hands into her dress pockets, Crystal jerked her head in the other direction. "We must go—"

"What are the Boats?" Dee asked, more strongly.

"They're how we survive," Crystal huffed. "Stealers work together to transport large quantities of goods into the Crescent. Virtually everything is brought in from other worlds—food, building materials, textiles. The Boats move about to find the correct passages."

"He does that by choice?"

"Choice?"

Dee's stomach knotted. "He's no better than a slave."

Crystal's chin lifted, indignant. "He's not a slave. Everyone has to contribute. Everyone has to do the work they're bred to do, one way or another. Otherwise, we'd all suffer. Our civilization would fall apart. That's the way it works."

Dee sneered. "And the way it works is by making stealers into slaves?"

Crystal didn't back down. "What would you know about it? You don't know anything about this world, or how it works, or what it means to be a part of the Crescent. Because if you did, you would know that you have to be a part of it if you want to survive. Everyone working together, staying to their breed, doing their duty, for the betterment of all."

Dee jabbed her finger in the direction of the stealer, but he was gone from sight now. "Did that guy look like he was benefitting?"

"Betterment, not benefit." Crystal took a strident step forward. "It's about the survival of us all, not just the life of one. He used his gifts in the way the Crescent needed him to use them."

"And then what? He gets sucked dry and kicked out on the streets?"

"He will not live long."

"Is that supposed to make it okay?" Dee asked, incredulous. "Does that seem right to you?"

"It's the way things are," Crystal said stubbornly. "I'm certain your world is a paradise, yes?"

Dee's jaw clenched.

"Here, everyone has a place, everyone is made use of, and when they are done with their work, they die. That's the way of it. Even the Tip stealers don't live very long. Better that he contributed, better that he gave—"

"Wait, don't live long? Why not? How long do stealers live?"

"I once heard of a stealer who lived to be almost fifty—"

"Almost fifty?"

"He was very old," Crystal said, "for a stealer."

"Fifty is old?"

"Most live to see their forties."

Dee's head throbbed. "Why do they die so young?"

"Forty is hardly young," Crystal retorted. "Only sages and leaders live much longer, into their sixties, some of them. Many educers reach their fifties, seers too. Hunters, of course, if they're any good, die young—their twenties. Unless they're retired to breed. Some of those reach forty, I've heard. But that seems very old for a hunter."

"But why? Why does everyone die so young?"

"That's simply how long we live," Crystal said with a shrug. "Is that young in your world? How long do your people live?"

"My grandpa is almost seventy."

Crystal's eyes widened. "And what breed is he?"

"Breed?"

"You don't have breeds in your world?"

"Yeah, we do, of dogs. Not people. People are just... people."

"And are dogs not just dogs?" she asked.

"We have people who speak different languages, who look different, but at the end of the day, they're just people."

Crystal seemed to have forgotten her urgency to be rid of Dee and appeared to contemplate what Dee had said. "I've heard of this. This is why stealers have the polylinguistic gift."

"Poly...?" Dee felt like smacking herself. "I'm not speaking English."

"Eng-lish?"

Her fingers dug into her hair. She'd been speaking another language and hadn't realized it. How was that possible? Because she was a stealer? But no, she wasn't a stealer. She couldn't shift and she didn't steal. And she wasn't going to die at forty either, was she?

"My father would've loved to learn about your world," Crystal said, her face falling. "He spent much of his free time studying the nature of the many worlds. He was a brilliant man."

"Was?" Dee was afraid to ask.

Did people die early in this world because they didn't eat well? That _mauluke_ hadn't looked like the best thing in any world, but it had restored her, like a supercharged energy drink.

Was it something in the air that killed them off so young? Poison in the water? It had to be something in their environment, something they did to themselves. It wasn't genetic... was it? Like the Mark or the ability to understand alien languages.

"I have to get out of here," Dee breathed.

This seemed to bring Crystal back to herself. She scanned the street again, but other than a woman in a baggy cloak sweeping the stoop outside a twisted spire of a building—like a unicorn's horn—they were alone.

Without another word, Crystal started down the street again.

Insides still knotting, Dee trudged after her.

She wanted to find a way to throw the hunters off her trail, but even if she could do that, then what?

How was she going to get home? 
Chapter 13

**A** s the day warmed, the air grew stagnant, stinking of dead fish and wet garbage.

Crystal led Dee into a shadowy maze of concrete ruins. Jagged shards of glass protruded from the walls, like thousands of salvaged shark teeth, clearly embedded there to deter would-be climbers. Little lizards—crimson with purple spots—raced between them fearlessly. Dee, on the other hand, kept her arms pinned tight to her sides and did her best not to veer too far from the middle of the alley.

Deep in the twists and turns of this labyrinth, they came upon two brutes.

Clad in heavy, hooded black coats, they stood guard outside the open doorway of a towering, industrial-looking hovel. Faces obscured behind black cowls, only their eyes were visible, highlighted by thick, red smears of paint, like Cloud's had been. From beyond the threshold, a clamorous jangle of activity issued.

Without hesitation, Crystal passed them, submerging into the noisy darkness.

They didn't even glance at her.

They were fixed on Dee.

One had piercing blue eyes, like February ice. The other's were smog-brown.

The weight of their gazes made her tense. Even though she'd been the target of unwanted attention her entire life, this feeling was entirely different from being singled out by Sly Vasquez for a round of pick-on-Freaky-Dee.

Their eyes were so... hungry.

She did not want to be dinner.

But as intimidating as they were, they were nothing compared to Brown Eyes and his pack. The thought that _he_ might find her pushed her past them, after Crystal, into the murk.

Inside, the air was even worse than in the alley, like dropping into a greasy seafood restaurant's Dumpster on a hot summer day.

Below, a sprawling tent city.

Lights glowed dimly under heavy swaths of fabric, concealing whatever might be held within. Above, the ceiling was lost in a haze, shafts of early morning sunlight pushing through broken windows, failing to break the gloom entirely.

Halfway down the metal flight of stairs, Crystal stopped. "Hurry up," she hissed.

A huddled trio hustled up the stairs, pushing by Crystal and then Dee. They didn't stop to apologize. As soon as they were gone, a spritely little kid with a big black mark on his back zipped down the stairs, his neon-green dreads flying out behind him.

"Watch out," he said as he slipped by her.

Crystal wrinkled her nose at him and then impatiently beckoned Dee down.

The steps groaned as she joined Crystal.

"Where are we?" Dee asked in a hush. Not that she needed to whisper, there was plenty of noise to cover her words—furtive murmurs, barking laughter, a blistering argument.

"Mist Market," Crystal replied. "Let's go."

Down into the jumble of stalls. Sidelong glances were cast at them as they wound through the crowds and vendors. Unlike the goods at the Morning Market, on prominent and enticing display, it was difficult to determine what anyone at Mist Market was selling, though there seemed to be plenty of business.

More of those hooded goon types patrolled the close quarters. A particularly massive one with black eyes—highlighted by hasty swipes of sparkling green paint—turned to leer at her.

For some reason, her face flooded with heat. She sidled behind Crystal. Not that the tiny girl offered any protection.

"Who are they?" she whispered to Crystal.

Crystal frowned, pausing to search the chaos. "Who?"

"The thugs."

Crystal's gaze flicked over to the beast in his black hood. His partner slapped him on the shoulder and motioned him onwards.

"Hunters," Crystal said in that matter-of-fact voice of hers.

"I can see that," Dee hissed, legs jittery. "Why do they keep staring at me?"

This earned her a slantwise look. "Why do you think?"

"Because they're creeps?"

Crystal muttered incoherently under her breath and then, with the loudest sigh yet, said, "Hunters and stealers are predisposed to be physically attracted to one another. It's in their natures." She turned, ducking under an oily-looking bit of cloth, joining the steady flow of market-goers.

"In their natures?" Dee stuck even closer to the girl, stepping on her heels more than once. "Is this a breed thing again?"

"That's precisely what it is," Crystal retorted. "Even in the Time Before, when our natures were not as defined as they are now, every band had its hunters and the dominant hunter had a scout. That's what stealers used to be called, scouts. It was a scout who found this world for our people and saved us all when our old world was dying."

"Great." Dee hugged her arms close to her body and let her hair fall over her face. "So you're saying hunters have a thing for stealers."

"A thing?" Crystal repeated, like she was annoyed by Dee's use of undefined words.

Dee knew just how she felt.

"Forget about it," Dee muttered.

They edged by someone whose face was wrapped in brown leather, like a mummy, with huge curving horns on his head. She almost bumped into another scrappy little stealer kid who was haggling with a woman over big glass jars of fiery-smelling powders that made Dee's eyes water. At the neighboring stall, Crystal stopped.

Heavy swags of fabric hung low over the scarred, wooden slab of a table.

Dee hovered behind Crystal, peering into the shadows.

The stall appeared empty except for a pile of rags in the back.

Of course, she now knew better than to assume a pile of rags was simply a pile of rags.

Crystal rapped her knuckles on the table. "Scarp, come out. It's me, Crystal."

A long moment passed.

Dee tucked a few twisted cables of curls behind her ear. She didn't want to think how horrid her hair must look—not that any of those brute hunters had seemed to mind. She'd never been so blatantly eye-frisked before. It made her want to take a shower. That, and the fact that she didn't exactly smell like a dozen roses.

Next to them, the spice woman had finished her business with the young stealer. She plucked a bit of straw from the decorative frill surrounding the face of a wooden clock hanging on one of her tent poles. Instead of numbers, moon phases were carved into the dark, weathered surface. Two rusty chains hung beneath the clock face, one shorter than the other. The woman used the straw to pick at her teeth, giving Dee an appraising once-over before turning away. The stiff iridescent ruffles sprouting from the back of her jacket made her look like a giant, mutant butterfly.

Finally, the pile of rags moved.

"What's that?" a tinny voice asked. "Who's there?"

"You know me," Crystal snapped. "Come out."

"Don't know you." The pile shifted again. "The only Crystal I knew moved up the curve. Doesn't come round here no more. Taken into a good, big knot, she was. Hasn't any reason to come down here into the motley and the rust."

Crystal slammed her fists down, shaking the table. "I don't have time for this." Her voice lowered into a growl. "I've got problems. _Tip_ type problems. So if you can't help me, then I'll—"

The pile rose, proving to be, in fact, a thin-framed man in a saggy, gray robe. His elegant, black walking stick cracked against the stone floor. A gauzy gray veil hung over his face. With the top of his stick, he pushed it aside. The material slid like a shower curtain, attached to something under his hair. He draped it over his shoulder.

His white-blond hair was slicked back from his high forehead, fixed in a knot at the crown. His pouty lips curled into a smirk as he looked down at Crystal.

"You must be in some tasty trouble"—he placed his stick and then his gloved hands on the table—"if you're coming to me."

"Are you still trading for Stream?"

Shrewd, his green eyes touched on Dee and then slid back to Crystal. "Haven't you heard, spoonful? Stream's undone. Atoll's sharpening the blade these days. But I suppose that sort of information isn't much needed up in the big houses, is it?"

"I don't care who's running things in this sewer anymore," Crystal snarled, giving Scarp the same dose of derision he was giving her. "I need to change my scent."

The fine lines of his eyebrows shot up. They were an ordinary kind of pale blond, not like Verge's—that true, pure white.

Pain punched at Dee's chest. Verge. Quell was going to kill him. She felt certain of it.

But that wasn't her problem, no matter how much sunburn he gave her.

_It wasn't. It wasn't. It wasn't._

"Well, my little mouthful," Scarp said with a thin smile. "You have gotten into a stink, haven't you? And how high up on the cut are these dogs that have caught your sweet scent?"

"Does it matter?" Crystal growled.

"It might," he replied.

"It's not me. It's her." Crystal cocked her thumb at Dee. " _She's_ the one they want."

Scarp finally took some interest in Dee, but it wasn't like when the hooded brutes had ogled her. His gaze was clinical, mentally measuring her weight and height and assessing what she might be worth pound for pound.

"Well, now, that makes it a tad tricky, don't it?"

"Why?" Crystal asked. "Business so bad you have to gouge an old friend?"

"Friend?" Scarp rasped out a humorless laugh. "Our fathers were friends, for what it was worth, which wasn't much. As I recall, you were too good for all of us down here in the rust."

"Do you have what I need or not?"

"I have it," he said. "You know I have it."

"Let me see it."

He picked up his stick, spun it around in his hand, and tapped his finger on the smooth black surface. A little door popped open. From the opening, he withdrew a glass vial wrapped in silvery threads. Setting it down in front of Crystal, he snapped the hidden panel shut. He placed the stick once again on the table.

The liquid inside the vial glowed, yellow as a radioactive daffodil.

Crystal picked it up and inspected it.

For a second, the overpowering scents of the market vanished. The air was clean, fresh, untouched.

"That's what we need," Dee said.

Scarp and Crystal looked at her, neither with a very friendly expression.

"How do you know?" Crystal asked.

Scarp's brow lofted higher, his gaze sharpened. Dee had the urge to hide behind her hair again.

"I imagine you're a savory bite for the ones who have that palate," he remarked coolly. "Is that all this is?" He turned back to Crystal. "Stealer's bored with her mutt and wants to put him off her trail?"

"It's none of your concern why and what." Crystal plunked the vial onto the table. "What do you want for it?"

"All depends," he replied, "on how much you need."

"Enough for both of us."

He folded his arms. "That's not how this one's measured."

"How then?"

"It's not about you and her. It's about _him_. The mutt after her. He's got the scent, so he must be high up the curve. But how high? That's the question. That's what matters. No sniffers round here. Don't know too many knot pups that can tail a scent very far or for very long either. All the real trackers, they're purebred, and they're all _chrome_ , aren't they? But how chrome? That'll tell you how much you need."

Crystal shot Dee a dark look.

She wanted to shoot it back, but she was too busy keeping an eye out for lecherous hunters. It was making her so tense her ears had started to ring. She rubbed one of them, trying to blot out the high-pitched whine. Doing so only transformed the ring into a faint, static buzz.

"Polychrome?" Scarp was asking. "Bi-chrome?"

"What would you want for all of it?"

Scarp snorted. "The only reason you'd need all of it is if you had yourself KETS after you. A whole monochrome pack..."

Crystal's hands balled into fists.

Scarp's thin smile melted away. "You haven't ...?"

" _All_ of it," Crystal said, more strongly. "What do you want?"

His eyes darted, as if suddenly sensing danger. "You got your prowess?"

Her shoulders sagged. "No."

The steady stream of bizarre patrons in their alien costumes continued around them—trailing feather skirts, pants of patchwork leather, cloaks of gleaming gold panels. Faces caked in glittering silver, studded with beads, hidden behind boxes and orbs, some glowing, some smoking. Hair wired with metal contraptions, twisted up in Slinky coils, or fanned flat like cutting blades. The air was too thick, too heavy, too oversaturated. Even in nothing but her tank top and hoodie, sweat carved trails across Dee's chest and back.

"So we're weighing out in raw?" Scarp was asking.

Crystal nodded.

"What've you got?"

She turned to Dee. "Show him your latents."

Dee hugged her bag. "What?"

Tight doll lips. "Show him what you have."

"Why?"

Crystal's nostrils flared. She stepped closer to Dee, her voice dropping.

"We have to change our scents, don't we?"

"Yeah, but—"

"That will do it, right?" She pointed to the vial.

Dee nodded. She didn't know how she knew, but she did.

"He's not going to give it to us for nothing."

But Dee's hold remained tight around the bag. "You want me to give him my latents?"

Crystal threw her hands up in the air. "That's what latents are for!"

"If you need a leader to straighten out your stealer there, spoonful," Scarp drawled, "you let me know."

"You know where I can find a leader?" Crystal sneered.

Scarp's smirk deepened. "Oh, spoonful, my tender sensitivities. Ouch."

"Just keep out..."

Crystal and Scarp continued to bicker, but Dee wasn't listening.

The static in her ears had grown to a whining hiss. Sizzling heat built under her skin, like her blood had been set to boil. She started to unzip her hoodie, but then thought better of it. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she blew a breath up over her face, scanning the crowd, leg jogging anxiously.

The green-dreadlocked stealer dodged and weaved through the patrons toward them.

Without stopping, he grabbed one of the chains on the spice woman's clock and yanked.

The clock's hands spun, landing on midnight—new moon.

A deep, resonant bong sounded.

Then the kid was gone and so was the crowd behind him.

Spice woman vanished too, leaving her jars unattended.

Curtains fluttered down over stalls.

Scarp's eyes widened. He grabbed for the vial at the same moment as Crystal. She reached it first. His hand clamped down over hers.

"Give it to me," he said through his teeth.

"What's going on?" Dee's voice was overloud in the swelling silence.

"We need it." Crystal didn't budge.

Dee backed up, grabbing at Crystal.

"Dollface, I think we should—"

And then she saw him.

At the far end of the now-empty aisle, he stalked into view, smooth and silent as a shadow.

Her hunter.

Even fifty yards away, through a dingy haze, in a dark warehouse, behind his mask, and under the hood of his brow, she could see his eyes.

Molten. Brown.

Black and white.

Life. Death.

Hunter and prey.

She snagged Crystal's elbow and yanked.

"Dollface."

But Crystal was looking in the opposite direction. She let out a whimper.

Two more KETS prowled toward them.

The warehouse had gone chillingly silent.

Dee's breath grated in her ears, along with that growing static whine.

A low whistle broke through the stagnant air, like a mournful bird. Echoing all around.

Her heart leapt into her throat. She recognized the sound from Quell's. And suddenly, she understood it.

Not a bird.

The hunters.

They communicated with whistles.

And she knew what this one meant: They had her surrounded.

Brown Eyes had gone still, gaze locked on her.

Then, he surged forward.

Crystal screamed.

Dee snatched Scarp's walking stick from the table.

"Hey!" Scarp pitched forward, grabbing for the stick. As he did, he must've caught sight of Brown Eyes barreling toward them, because he suddenly released Crystal and dashed back into his tent.

Crystal tumbled to the ground, clutching the vial to her chest.

The other two hunters ran at them too—closing in.

Walking stick gripped in her hands, Dee stood over Crystal.

"Drink it! Or whatever!" she barked.

"But, but—"

Dee hooked Crystal's arm and tugged her up to her feet. She grabbed the vial and popped the cap.

"Do we drink it?" she demanded.

Crystal nodded.

She slammed back a shot and then thrust the vial into Crystal's trembling hands once more. "Close your eyes. Try not to breathe in."

Crystal downed the remainder of the liquid.

Brown Eyes came within lunging range.

Dee swung the stick.

But she didn't aim for him.

Instead, she swept butterfly-woman's jars off their table.

Glass shattered against stone.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she spun and seized Crystal again.

Alien spice plumed in the air. The fiery cloud scorched her throat, even though she was holding her breath.

Brown Eyes let out a pained howl.

Dee plunged through the pain-inducing haze, pushing Crystal ahead of her. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense Brown Eyes.

He must've been able to sense her too, because as she slid past him, he swiped and caught her leg.

Her panicked brain yelped, _I'm not ready!_

Swinging the stick around, she clocked him in the face.

The crack made her wince and almost gasp.

Thorns of pain exploded under her skin, razor-sharp barbs puncturing her veins, blooming out from her temple in a dizzying ache. She stumbled, banging into a table.

Crystal pulled her frantically, towing her ahead.

Together, they ran. 
Chapter 14

**W** ere her eyes bleeding? Had the top layers of her skin burned off?

Every breath was a searing exercise in torture. Next to her, Crystal was screaming as she ran.

Okay, so maybe it hadn't been the best plan.

Through her stinging, watery eyes, everything was a blur. Ahead of her, a looming, black structure—stairs?

Please?

In spite of the pain, she kept moving. Not as fast as she would've if she hadn't been dragging Crystal along, but she couldn't leave Dollface to Quell's guards.

At the stairs, she grabbed the handrails, panting and wincing with each scalding inhale and exhale. Crystal hauled her tiny body up the first few steps and then toppled, crying out.

Dee reached for her, to urge her to her feet, when her own shoulder was seized.

She was spun around. A fist slammed into her face.

If she thought she'd been in pain before, she was wrong.

She crumpled to the ground, ears ringing, head spinning. Daggers of agony sliced into her jaw and cheekbones, underscoring the burn that was eating away at her skin.

The pack's whistling calls were bouncing around her skull.

Her attacker—a female from the feminine tenor of her growl—caught Dee's neck and brought her face up so close that Dee could make out the dark slits of her eyes, the blondish tint of her hair. The hunter didn't speak, rather she squeezed Dee's throat until it no longer mattered how painful her breaths were because she couldn't get one in.

And then, the hunter collapsed. Her strangling grip, gone.

Dee gasped. How was it possible that it could hurt to breathe even more than it had before? She didn't know. But unfortunately, it did.

Before she could get her bearings, she was doused with something cold, thick, and sticky-sweet.

More splattering was joined by Crystal squeaking in surprise.

Miraculously, the burning subsided. A grateful breath escaped her throat.

"I should've brought more." A bulky shadow appeared in front of her, a warm hand grasped her arm gently. "We have to hurry."

She blinked. Her vision remained blurred, eyes aching and stinging. "Who—"

"You?" Crystal said with a note of scorn.

"Can you move?" he asked Crystal as he helped Dee to her feet.

Then she recognized the long whips of hair, the earthy scent.

"Dusk?"

"We have to run," he said. "Now."

"I can't ," Crystal whimpered.

"Then I'll carry you," he said.

"No—"

Dee blinked rapidly, willing her eyes to focus again.

Meanwhile, her cheek throbbed, swelling painfully, like a balloon had been inserted under her skin and was rapidly inflating.

The ooze he'd splattered her with was hardening, turning her clothes stiff.

"No time to argue." The brown blob that was Dusk stooped and snatched Crystal off her feet, throwing her over his shoulder. "Dark Star, the stick, bring it." He rushed by her, away from the stairs.

Spotting the long black cylinder on the dark stone floor, she scooped it up and rushed after him.

"Where?" Her voice rasped, half-charred and choked.

"Ssshh," he hissed as he hurried into the shadows ahead of her. Crystal seemed to have resolved herself to her fate of being lugged over some strange boy's shoulder. Though, in truth, she didn't have much choice.

Every step jarred Dee's vision back into clarity; or more precisely, each step hurt, bringing tears to her eyes, which cleared them. Dusk crouched by a hole in the floor. He slid Crystal off his shoulder. She sagged at the edge of the hole and then disappeared into it.

Grasping Dee's arm, he gestured toward the opening. He moved so close that his lips grazed her ear.

"Jump."

She nodded, scooted to the edge, and plummeted.

"Stop here," Dusk said finally.

Huffing, Dee leaned heavily against the curved wall of the sewer tunnel.

Dusk, carrying Crystal piggyback as they slogged through ankle-deep water, set the girl down in a raised opening that appeared mostly dry—at least as dry as anything could be in a sewer.

Dee slid down the wall to her haunches.

Her clothes were plastered to her skin, stiff and itchy. But whatever Dusk had dowsed her with had eased the worst of the spice bomb's effects, so she wasn't complaining.

"Give me the minceman's stick," he said.

She held the stick out to him without looking up.

Though her vision had improved, she couldn't seem to focus.

It wasn't as though she'd never faced death. She knew it was going to happen. A kid couldn't spend as much time as she had in the hospital and not deal with some hard realities. While she'd come to accept that death was inevitable, she'd never felt its presence as keenly as she had when the blonde hunter had seized her throat.

At least she'd escaped—she glanced back down the dark tunnel—but for how long?

"Here, Crystal," she heard Dusk say.

A moment later, he crouched beside Dee and put a half-full vial in her hand. "Take this."

Dim light shafted from an opening not far down the tunnel. By it, she could make out a soft pink liquid swirling in the silver-veined glass vial. Just looking at it made her feel better. She downed it quickly.

A silky cool sensation flooded her mouth, soothing her scorched throat and relieving the legions of agony trampling through her.

She panted—full, wonderful, not-burning breaths.

Unfortunately, whatever extracted Dusk had given her also healed her temporarily wounded sense of smell. The stench that greeted her almost made her lose what little she'd eaten earlier.

Swallowing back the sour bulge, she stared again in the direction they'd come.

"They're not following us," Dusk said softly.

"How can you be sure?" she asked.

"The spices," he said. "They damaged the KETS tracking senses... temporarily."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

But before he could answer, Crystal stirred from her perch above them.

"You knew we would be attacked," she said down to him.

"I had a vision," he confirmed.

"You saved us," Dee said.

A smile played around his lips and honey-hued eyes. Even in the weak light, she could see their warm, clear color. "Of course I did."

"You had a vision?" she asked. "You can really see the future?"

"You're not trained. You're not licensed," Crystal said. She, like Dee, must've been feeling better, because her voice was brash and strong.

"You're right," he said. "I'm not."

Dee turned over the vial in her hand. Clearly, it was some kind of healing potion. Its cooling effects continued to spread, easing her aches, the burns, the swelling throb of her cheek. Even if people in the Crescent didn't know the word, it _was_ magic.

Her hand tightened around the vial.

What would people back home give for this kind of magic? Anything? Everything? Yet... it was stolen. Verge's bag hung limply at her hip, concealing her latents. They weren't simply objects imbued with attributes, like Crystal had said. They were pieces of the people she loved—pieces of their souls.

The thought that she'd drunk a bit of someone's grandpa or neighbor churned her stomach. She whipped the empty bottle away. It splashed into the muck.

"That was wasteful," Crystal chided. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to make a Weaver's Thread vial?"

"No," Dee said. "And I don't care." She surged back up to her feet. "You two should get out of here. Go... wherever. We've changed our scents. The KETS are disabled, for the moment. You don't want to be around me."

"At least you're right about something," Crystal grumbled.

"We can't leave you, Dark Star," Dusk said, rising slowly.

"Speak for yourself." Crystal sneered, though he couldn't see it with his back to her.

"You've got some way of showing gratitude, you know that, Dollface?" Dee said. "He just carried you all this way. He saved us from those hunters—"

"For now," Dusk said. "But we'll see them again when we break into the Apex."

A long silence followed this announcement.

Mentally flipping through her Crescent dictionary, Dee failed to locate _the Apex._

Crystal glared at the back of Dusk's head. "You truly are warped." She dropped down. Her nose wrinkled as her shoes splashed into the stinking water. "I appreciate your assistance, but to suggest—"

His smile remained unperturbed. "We're a plexus, Crystal."

Plexus... searching, searching... nada.

"What's an Apex?" Dee asked. "And a plexus? And do either of those things have anything to do with me going home?"

Crystal was too busy gaping at Dusk to reply. "You're skewed, that's what. Completely."

"Maybe." Dusk shrugged. "But it's true."

"A plexus." Crystal shook her head, laughing derisively. "I'm not going to sit here and listen to your mad ramblings." She turned one way and then the other, stirring the fetid sludge. "How do I get out of here?" she demanded finally.

"We have to help Dee," he said with saintly patience. "She's our stealer."

Crystal's porcelain face looked like it was about to crack. "She is not—" She pursed her lips, nostrils flaring. "Which way out?"

"You can't get out of a plexus," he replied. "You should know that."

With a growl of frustration, she stormed away toward the dim shaft of light.

"What's a plexus?" Dee asked again. "And the Apex? And why did you say I have to break in there?"

"Because that's where they're holding Verge," he replied. "I don't know why. But I do know that you have to help him. We have to go there."

Standing in the beam of light, Crystal's pale face was ghostly thanks to the residue of whatever Dusk had thrown on them, like she'd been dusted in flour.

"Verge has Nid," Dee said. "Unless Darth Accountant took the jar from him. That's why I have to find him, to get Nid back, so I can go home."

"Home." His eyes gleamed brighter. "That's right. That's what this is about—finding your way home."

Goose bumps prickled up her arms.

"Right..." She cleared her throat. "So..."

Suddenly, his shoulders sagged, his brow furrowed.

She reached for him. "Are you okay?"

He bowed, hands covering his face. "No."

"Hello!" Crystal was calling toward the opening above. "Hello!"

"Are you crazy?" Dee snapped at her. "Those brutes are still out there."

"I have to go home," Crystal said. "It'll be bad enough for me as it is."

Shuffling back, Dusk bumped into the wall, doubling over.

Dee scowled at Crystal, though she doubted Dollface could see her through the gloom.

Crouching beside Dusk, she wrapped her arm around him. "What's wrong?"

"It's her," he said, breathlessly through his hands.

"What did you do to him?" Dee shot over her shoulder to Crystal, who was trudging back toward them.

"Me?" Crystal sniped. "I didn't do anything..." She frowned down at him. "He's untrained, that's the problem. _Untrainable_ , that is. He can't control his visions, so he's useless. I've seen him... He's always outside the market, begging."

Whatever had afflicted Dusk seemed to pass.

He placed his hands on his knees, still doubled over, like he might vomit, and looked up at Crystal. "Not the market. Bog House," he said. "I have to stay close to you."

Crystal's eyes widened, like she'd been slapped. "What?"

Straightening up, he said, "You're my anchor."

Her cheeks sucked in. "I am _not_ an anchor."

"Anchor?" Dee asked, hoping that this time she would actually receive an answer.

"The sight catches me, like a storm wave, and tosses me, drawing me from shore," he said.

"Huh?"

"His visions." Annoyed-teacher tone again. "He's a seer. His gift—the sight—is extremely difficult to control, which is why he's untrainable, because he _can't_ control them. It's caused him to lose his mind. Now he's brought us down to this foul, disgusting place and trapped us here. I have to return home, at once."

"So you need Crystal to be your anchor to keep you from getting lost in visions of... what? The future?" Dee asked. "That's how you knew where we'd be and that we'd need help. And how you knew my name on the street."

He nodded wearily. The glow of his eyes pulsed faintly. Or maybe it was just her imagination.

"Your father is there too," he said softly.

For a second, Dee thought he was talking to her. Her heart skipped.

"What did you say?" Crystal said, tone daring him to say it again.

"Moss, your father," he said. "He's at the Apex. He's been there all along."

Crystal's brow furrowed. "What if he is? It doesn't matter to me. I have to go home now. I'm a part of a knot."

"You're a part of a plexus."

Crystal stamped her foot, splashing brackish gunk up onto her legs. "Stop saying that!"

And then, for a long moment, they were silent.

Crystal glared at Dusk. Dusk gazed sedately back at her. Dee just wished they could get out of the sewer already.

"There is no such thing as a plexus," Crystal stated in a hushed, flat tone.

"Then how did I know about this?" He reached into one of the many bulging pockets of his ratty pants and withdrew... something that looked like curved, metal calipers wrapped in leather.

Crystal's silvery gaze seemed drawn to the contraption in spite of herself. Her voice came out breathy. "What's that?"

"You know what it is."

She looked away again, and then back, and then away, chewing on her lip all the while. "They won't work. It's a trick. You're as warped as a wet board, that's what."

He held them out to her. "Try them and see."

Crossing her arms, Dollface turned away again. Dusk's arm dropped back to his side.

"Apex?" Dee asked one last time.

"The great black pyramid," Dusk replied.

She recoiled. " _That's_ where they have Verge?"

But what was she saying? _Of course_ that's where they had Verge.

Dusk's eyes were losing their glowing sheen. "First, you have to repair the connection between Crystal and me, then—"

"There _is_ no connection between us," Crystal said through her teeth. "There is no such thing as a plexus. They don't happen."

Dee's fingers raked into the stiff snarls of her hair. "A...?"

"A plexus," Crystal spat. "It's a myth. Back at the beginning of Time, when our people first arrived on this world, there was a plexus, a group whose threads were bound together—a leader, a sage, a seer, an educer, and a scout. Together, they led our people and acted as an intermediary to the Higher Order."

"Threads?"

"Each of us is made up of threads," Crystal replied, exasperated. "All of us are connected, to one another, to the world, to everything in the universe. But it is said those in the plexus are... _more_ connected."

"And it's true," Dusk said.

"It's not! It's a story," Crystal insisted, though her gaze kept flicking to the bundle in Dusk's hand. "I'm not connected to either of you. Not like that."

Dee let out a sigh. "Look, I don't care about stories or threads or any of that. Not unless it's going to get me home, okay?"

"She's not even a real stealer," Crystal said, like Dee hadn't spoken. "Her Mark was _removed_."

Dee's hand curled into a fist. She wasn't normally a violent person, but this world seemed to bring out all kinds of new inclinations she hadn't been aware she possessed.

"You'll see." Dusk pushed away from the wall. "Once the connection is repaired. You'll know it."

Crystal sneered. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Stay down here if you like," he said, not looking back as he climbed into the dry opening and ducked out of sight.

Dee hefted herself into the tunnel after him.

"You can't believe him," Crystal said after her. "He's not stable. He's not sane."

Over her shoulder, Dee smirked. "Everything about this world seems insane to me, Dollface." 
Chapter 15

**T** hrough the dark, narrow shaft they crawled until they reached a ladder. Up they climbed, Dusk, Dee, then Crystal, out of the sewers, Dollface grumbling the whole way.

At the top, Dusk cranked a lever and pushed open a hatch.

A warm gush of air sluiced over them. Crystal's endless torrent of complaints ceased. Dee was more grateful for that than the fresh air.

Dusk offered her his hand, which she took.

Only then did she realize she'd lost Crystal's patch-slug somewhere along the way. Where it had been, there was now a thin scar.

He reached down for Crystal.

"I don't want your help," she snapped at him.

Dee stepped away from the hatch, boots scraping over dust and debris.

Obviously abandoned, the building might've been a factory in a previous life. Squat metal support columns stood at attention in two rows before the many empty windows. Gaping holes in the ceiling exposed sagging metal mesh where the original surface had fallen away, much of which lay strewn underfoot. Chunks of the floor were missing too.

Treading with care across the spongy floorboards, she edged toward a huge rupture in the outer wall.

She blinked against the sunlight and warmth of the day.

Beyond, an expanse of amethyst water—the bay. And half a dozen boxy ships—the Boats, she guessed. Her guts twisted when she remembered the stealer she'd bumped into earlier—the Void. Away from the ships and the water, the terraces hugged the mountainside. Nearby, the buildings were a mottled jumble. Those higher up, farther off, gleamed white as bleached bones under the noonday sun. And in the greatest distance, the greatest height, dominating all, the smooth black planes, the sharp edges, the piercing point—the Apex.

Her blood chilled.

Dusk sidled up next to her.

"Nice view." Her throat sounded like it was full of sand.

"We don't have much time," he said.

"Of course not." She chuckled weakly. "Why would we?"

His fingers brushed hers, and she relaxed a bit. "Don't worry."

Lingering near the hatch, Crystal scanned their derelict surroundings. "This is the old pumping station," she said, more to herself than them. "We're not far from home." But whatever relief had been in her voice was replaced with a tight tremor of anxiety. "I'm late. I'm going to be in so much trouble."

"You're not going back there, Crystal," Dusk said.

She took a few threatening steps toward him. Chalky white residue flaked off her clothes. Her lower half was soaked with brownish muck. But she'd lost none of her hauteur.

"And how do you plan on stopping me?" Crystal challenged.

"By proving to you that you don't belong there." He grasped Dee's arm for a brief moment, and then notched his head for her to follow as he picked his way across the soft, groaning floor.

"There is nothing you can do that would prove anything to me," Crystal retorted.

"Why are you so mean?" Dee asked.

They moved into a shadowed corner, where there were no windows and the floors were still intact. There, a gray lump that might've been a mattress, strewn with rumpled blankets. Dusk rested Scarp's stick against an overturned crate that held a variety of bizarre objects. A clutch of rusted bolts, a jar full of rocks, a little pyramid constructed of tightly rolled bits of paper. Like the scraps of this and that were knotted into his hair, they seemed to have no rhyme or reason. Maybe Crystal was right. Maybe Dusk was a bit... warped.

"I have to get out of here," Crystal said. "I don't want anything more to do with this."

Crystal's words stung, mostly because Dee knew how she felt.

Once again, Dusk dug into his pocket. "And what about this?"

He held out the metal calipers.

Crystal's eyes touched on them and then flicked away. Her jaw hardened.

"I'm leaving," she announced.

She spun around, back toward the hatch.

"Wait!" he cried, too late.

The wood under her cracked and broke.

She yelped, plunging.

Dee leapt forward and snagged Crystal's arm, crashing hard, flat on her stomach.

Crystal dangled, clutching desperately at Dee's forearm.

The planks under Dee moaned in protest.

Dee's shoulder burned. The splintered board bit at her biceps.

Below, Crystal's legs swung over an expanse of ruined floor littered with fallen girders and piles of jagged, deadly-looking debris. Dusk knelt next to Dee, reaching out for Crystal. She grabbed his outstretched hand.

Together, they hauled her up.

Dragged clear, Crystal wrenched free of them, gasping for breath.

Dusk placed his hand on her back. "I'm sorry. I didn't know that was going to happen. Not even a trained seer can see every possible future. That would drive anyone mad."

Crystal sat back on her heels, but if she had any sharp remarks, she didn't share them. Tears hung on the rims of her silver eyes but didn't fall.

Dusk took her petite, pale hand in his large, dark one and placed the caliper contraption into her palm. He closed her fingers around it.

"This _is_ yours. Please take it."

Breathless still, Crystal gazed down at the lump of leather and metal.

Standing, Dusk shook back the ropes of his dreads. "First, we'll have Dark Star repair our threads, then I'll take that"—he pointed to Scarp's walking stick—"and trade it for clean clothes and supplies. Then we'll go."

"Go?" Dee asked.

"To the Apex. It's tonight."

"What's tonight?" Dee asked.

His eyes were glowing. More than that, they were swirling, like molten gold. She couldn't help but stare.

"Whatever Eclipse is planning," he said.

"You don't know?" she asked.

He shook his head.

As she inspected the calipers and leather, Crystal lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

"I've told you almost everything I know," he went on. "We have to break into the Apex. You have to save Verge. And... you'll need to use what you have in there." He gestured to Verge's bag.

Her hand pressed against it protectively. "I'm not letting anyone educe these. They're not mine. I didn't steal them. They were given to me."

He crouched before her. "Which is why you won't have to extract them to use them."

Crystal frowned. "What are you talking about?"

At least she wasn't flat-out calling him warped again.

"Dark Star was given those latents, which means the people who gave them to her also gave her the attributes within them. They belong to her. They don't have to be forcibly removed, like most. With that"—he pointed to Crystal's contraption—"you can draw the attributes to the surface, where she can access them, without removing the attributes entirely."

Crystal stared at him, looking like she might return to questioning his sanity.

Instead, she said, "That's not possible."

He grinned. "Isn't it?"

Dollface worried her skirt.

His smile widened. "You know it is. Just like in the Beginning. In the Early Time. When people still followed the old ways, when there was still a plexus."

"I wish you'd stop using that word."

"Let's just see." Lambent and churning, his eyes were like two pools of low-burning flame. He turned back to Dee. "You have a needle."

She sighed. "I guess I shouldn't ask how you knew that."

"You can ask whatever you need to ask."

The girls exchanged a look. Dee was sure that she and Dollface weren't likely to agree on much, but she had to admit she shared some of the girl's skepticism... and trepidation.

Dusk settled down on the floor again, cross-legged, face serene.

Dee pushed to her feet. "You swear we're not going to remove the attributes from the latents?"

"Not at all," he said. "Right, Crystal?"

Usual Dollface response—scowl.

"And this is going to help me get home?" Dee asked.

"I hope so," he said.

She glanced down at Crystal. "That's all I want."

"You don't understand." Crystal rose to her feet as well, edging farther away from the hole.

"What don't I understand?"

Crystal's brows arched. "Anything."

"Give her time," Dusk said. "Imagine how you would feel if you were dropped into the Waste World without warning."

"Waste World?" Crystal's eyes widened. "You never said you were from the Waste World."

"Waste World?" Dee repeated. "I'm not from—"

Crystal's head bowed. "This just keeps getting worse."

Dusk looked on, unflappable. "Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," Crystal snapped. "I'm angry. I don't even know why I'm still here."

Breaking through a seal of crust from her most recent misadventure, Dee opened the flap of Verge's bag.

"Let's just do this." She knelt by Dusk.

Out came her grandma's needle. Nothing but a dull needle, except... it wasn't. It glowed, like Nid glowed and Dusk's eyes glowed—but silver instead of green or gold.

"What do we have to do?" she asked.

"Crystal will draw the attribute out of the needle," he said, "and then you'll use it to repair the connection between us—"

"I don't want to be an anchor," Crystal said. "I don't want..."

"To be connected to Dusk?" Dee finished for her.

Dollface glowered.

"We're connected already," he said. "Most seers don't have a person as an anchor. People die. When that happens, I can never be grounded again. Most seers have objects as anchors, like latents. I didn't choose this. It's because we're a plexus. If you were an object, I would have been grounded a long time ago. Since you're a person, our connection isn't one-way, like most anchors. You're difficult to hold on to."

"I am not," Crystal snapped, seemingly just because she wanted to snap.

The weight of exhaustion pressed down on Dee. "So the threads that connect the two of you..."

"Are not secure," he said, "like a strand that's not wound right."

Holding up the contraption, Crystal said, "Even if I _can_ use this, and I can draw out the attribute without extracting it fully"—her tone suggested she didn't believe this was possible—"it doesn't mean we're a plexus or that I'm your anchor or that you're not completely warped. Because you are."

"Maybe," he said. "But I won't be quite as warped after our connection is mended."

Turning her face away, Crystal seemed to think. "And we have to do this... to help Verge?"

"Yes," Dusk answered.

Dee suppressed an eye roll. Had Verge consumed an attribute that made girls obsess over him or what?

Petite doll shoulders drew back. "All right. What do we have to do?"

Dusk's eyes flashed a brilliant gold, made all the more dazzling by the black frame of his lashes. "First, you need to educe her grandmother's needle."

Crystal grumbled, but was quick to slip her hand into the leather—a glove. The calipers, delicate curved prongs, attached to the palm of the glove with wire. A small key on the back tightened the wire, securing the contraption to Crystal's hand.

"It's just like I imagined it," she said, apparently to herself. Looking up, she shot them both dark looks. "It doesn't mean anything."

She eased down to her knees and held out her un-contrapted hand to Dee.

Hesitating, Dee looked to Dusk, who nodded. Grudgingly, she placed her grandma's needle in Crystal's open palm.

Tilting her head this way and that, Crystal studied the needle.

"You're looking too hard," Dusk said. "Relax."

Her little mouth pushed to one side, like Dusk had shoved it with his advice. Scrunching shut her eyes, she then opened them again slowly. A small smile appeared on her face.

"I see it."

Wrench-glove hovering over the needle, she began to turn the calipers ever so slightly. Her hand shook and her face pinched, like she was trying to loosen a stubborn bolt. The sharpness Dee had always seen in the needle grew sharper, gleaming like a knife's edge.

"Dark Star." Dusk drew her attention to him.

Her eyes met his.

Suddenly, she was falling into a radiant, honey-hued whirl.

Then Dusk took her hand and she stopped.

The world swirled around her in rich golds and burnt yellows. No sounds. No scents. She was standing, but couldn't say on what, as though she were balancing on thought alone.

Before her, Dusk, dreads knotted up away from his face, clean of the street grime. He wore nothing but a pair of leather trousers. And he was completely there. Somehow he seemed more real in this unreal place than he had anywhere in the Crescent.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Nowhere," he said.

"O... kay."

He smiled. "Don't worry. You understand more than you think you do."

"That's good, I guess."

His smile faded. "It's not only Crystal and I who are connected. You and I are connected. And you and Crystal. All of us. Everyone in the Crescent. The Crescent and the world you call home, they're connected too. Everyone here and everyone there."

"Does that mean I'm connected to the Vasquez brothers, because if it does—"

"Life is connected," he said. "And death. They aren't separate the way we think. We see, too often, only what we see."

"You're losing me."

"You will have a decision to make and it will affect... all." He clasped her hand and brought it to his chest, where she could feel the steady thump of his heart.

"All?" she repeated.

"It's more than that. Much more. You're the one upon whom the weight falls, even though you are a part, you are also separate. It will be hard for you. But I want to tell you now, before it happens. When the time comes, you must say my name."

"Say your name?"

"You and I are very much alike," he said. "We live between worlds. Without Crystal to anchor me, it's been so easy to get lost. You're going to help me fix that. Then I'm going to help make it easier on you, as much as I can, which isn't as much as I'd like. My visions, they only take me so far and after that..."

"After that...?" She started, forgetting what she wanted to ask.

"Can you feel your heartbeat?" he asked.

She couldn't tell if it was her heart she felt or his.

"This is why I brought you here," he said. "I needed you to feel this. Our fates are intertwined. If your heart stops beating, so does mine. I know you'll say my name when the time comes and that you'll remember, after..."

And then, as abruptly as she'd been swept away, she was back in the shadowed corner of the crumbling pump station, gazing into Dusk's eyes.

Leaning back from him, she blinked away the afterimages of gold light, but they wouldn't fade. Instead, they settled around Dusk and Crystal, streaming between the two of them.

With a wide smile, Crystal held up the needle. "I think I've done it."

The needle shone—blinding, white.

As Dee squinted at it, she could hear her grandma's voice. A cadence smooth and steady, so unlike the stern tones Dee was used to. Once, her grandma had believed she could fix any problem between any two people. That belief still existed in the needle.

Dee plucked the needle from Crystal's hand.

The silver-shine slid down her fingers and up her arm. The gold glow between Crystal and Dusk grew more defined.

Thousands of tiny luminescent threads flowed between them. Most thin and broken.

The needle seemed to move on its own.

Silver light lashed around the multitudes of gold threads, binding them together.

Her grandma's scent, rosewater and fresh-baked bread, enveloped her. Her grandma was the one weaving silver around gold, making a rope as thick as Dee's thigh. Her grandma was the one tying the knots tight. Her grandma was the one who said,

"There. All done now."

And then the light faded, and it was just the three of them, cross-legged on a gritty, dusty floor in the gloom.

Except now Dusk was fully there, and he was breathtaking. 
Chapter 16

**"T** hank you," the newly grounded Dusk said, "both of you."

Amber eyes clear, his expression was both calm and calming, his entire demeanor steady and centered and reassuring. It made Dee realize how off-kilter she'd been and how much she'd longed for someone, anyone, to give her the feeling Dusk was giving her now—that someone in this warped world had some control, that someone was on her side, that everything would be all right.

"Now, I'll take this"—he reached over and snagged Scarp's walking stick—"and find you both new clothes and food. We'll have to leave soon. Try to rest now."

"I can't stay here." Crystal's voice was small. Her eyes flicked up to him and then away just as quickly. "Master Bog..."

"We need your help," Dusk told her, "with Dee's latents. We can't do this without you."

He knelt and embraced her. She stiffened, shiny silver eyes big and startled. Grasping her shoulders, he drew back slightly. They gazed at each other for a long moment—so long that Dee felt compelled to look away, like she had walked in on a private moment. Then he stood and left.

From the corner of her eye, Dee watched Dollface. Finally, Crystal met her not-stare.

"All right, but I'm not staying because I believe we're a plexus," she grumped.

Dee didn't argue. She crawled over to the ragged pile of Dusk's bed, took a heavy blanket from the mattress, and tossed it at Crystal.

"Try to sleep."

Dee took another blanket and tucked it under her head. She curled on her side, hugging the bag to her stomach, and stared at the dark, fractured wall.

Dusk returned, tiptoeing around Crystal, who had actually managed to fall asleep. Handing Dee a stuffed canvas bag, he pointed her toward metal rungs mounted on the wall behind her.

"Rain barrels on the roof," he whispered. "Wash."

She slung the bag over her shoulder and climbed the ladder, sliding away a thin metal panel at the top.

The sun's heat pushed against her, as if trying to force her back down. Defiant, she climbed out, startling a group of rainbow-feathered birds that bore a striking resemblance to pigeons. They fluttered off the roof's ledge, taking flight with annoyed squawks.

Loose gravel covered the roof. Metal pans and buckets and a few wooden barrels were scattered around. The buckets were dry. After sliding the panel shut, she picked her way across the roof. Testing for weak spots as she went, she reached the nearest barrel. A fine mesh covered the top, sagging with dirt and debris. Placing her hand against the barrel, she gave it a little shove. Inside, water sloshed.

Near the bottom of the barrel, a spigot.

She scanned the area around the pump station. It ran up against the foot of the terrace behind, which hosted a sad, drooping clump of plant life. Clods of broad leaves were strewn over the roof, wilted and shriveled. On the opposite side, the shimmering sea, the terraces, the dreaded black pyramid—the Apex. The thought of Verge, and maybe her father, locked up in there, made her chest constrict.

She crouched next to the barrel, removing the contents of the bag and spreading them out. New clothes—stealer clothes. She recognized them now—the strappy leather, exposed stitching. She could just imagine what her grandma would've said. _Who wears anything like that? A cave woman?_

New boots, tall and leather. And a grayish hunk of sweet, herby smelling stuff that might've been soap. A small folded square she'd first thought a washcloth kept expanding as she unfolded it—a towel. A smaller sack held fruits, bread, stuff wrapped in stiff paper that was pungent and salty. Finally, a flat canteen of water, which she promptly drank down.

Retrieving a relatively clean pot, she picked the bits of dried leaves from it and then set it under the spigot. A twist of the crude wooden handle started the water gurgling out. She stuck her fingers under it. The water was cool, but not cold. Better than using the backyard hose.

Setting aside Verge's bag, she peeled off her clothes, discarding them in a heap against the ledge of the rooftop.

Once the pot was full, she stuck the chunk of soap in the water and then lathered it against her skin. The soap had something coarse in it that scraped away the dried residue. It felt wonderful. Her hair took an especially long time. After she scrubbed her soapy fingertips against her scalp and through every knotted tangle, she dumped the water over her head. She refilled the pot and rinsed again. Washing outside like this reminded her of the last time she'd been on the patio, washing dog shit from her hair. And of her grandpa, how much she missed him—the deep lines of his smile, the familiar woody scent of his aftershave.

He would be so worried if he came home to find her gone. They all would. A guilty pain twisted around her heart. If she'd just gone with her grandpa... but it was too late. She was here. But she still had time to get home before anyone knew she'd ever been gone.

As she dried her hair, her gaze turned toward the Apex.

The black peak punctured the sky. Sunlight bled down the steep planes. Verge and Nid were there. Crystal's father and, perhaps, Dee's own father... and Quell... and the hunter.

Her skin prickled, like a cloud had slipped in front of the sun.

She could feel the hunter out there, searching for her. His thoughts—thoughts about her—were a tangible presence, like a storm front. Dark clouds on the horizon, winds changing, the distant growl of thunder.

One of the rainbow birds landed on the ledge in front of her, startling her out of her trance.

Her pulse thrummed. A fresh sweat had dewed on her clean skin. Her breath had grown ragged.

She turned away from the pyramid, wiping the perspiration from her forehead.

Eyeing the clothes, she hesitated. She was less worried about the fit than how she'd feel wearing them, as if simply dressing like one of _them_ would draw her more firmly into this world. But they were only clothes. A costume. She could've dressed like a police officer, or a queen, it wouldn't have made her one. No more than dressing like a stealer would make her one.

At least that's what she told herself.

The lacing on the outer seams of the pants didn't close, leaving an inch of skin exposed along the length of both of her legs. Still, they fit perfectly and weighed much less than she would've guessed for their primitive style. They also sat ridiculously low on her hips, leaving her scars totally exposed, but then, all stealers showed their Marks. The shirt, if that's what it could be called, slipped over her arms and head and covered her shoulders, but had no sleeves. The moment the leather touched her skin, it molded itself to the front of her body, like cling film. No back. Her grandma would've hated it—a lot.

A warm breeze brushed over her spine and the knot of scars on her lower back, sending shivers through her.

_Just a costume_ , she reminded herself.

But a panicked convulsion gripped her. She couldn't wear these clothes... She just... couldn't .

About to peel off the shirt, she noticed another piece of clothing she'd overlooked. She shook it out. A jacket. She slipped it on. More winding bits of leather sealed to her body, over her back. A belt fastened across her stomach, not actually closing the jacket, but that was okay. Her back was covered. Somewhere in her mind, she could still hear her grandma grumbling.

The boots, too, conformed to her feet and calves, up to her knees. Once she was finally dressed, she had to admit they were the most comfortable clothes she'd ever worn.

Nibbling on the cakey, sweet bread, she repacked. She left her discarded clothes. If she was really going to break into the Apex, hauling a bunch of stinky laundry along probably wouldn't earn her a very high score in stealth.

She picked her latents out of Verge's bag, as well as the little bundle she'd taken from him. She'd almost forgotten about it. Again, her gaze drifted to the pyramid. The thought of facing the hunter again made her want to crawl back into her crusty, filthy clothes and jump back into the sewers.

Actually, it made her want to run home, as fast as she could. Maybe her life back home hadn't been ideal, but it had been predictable; it had been safe.

Why had she come here? Why hadn't she just let Verge take the latents? What had possessed her to make a deal with a glowworm?

As she slid open the panel to the shadows below, she wished she could go back in time and tell herself to let Verge go. Her grandma would never miss her needle; Laura didn't need her real laugh; Danny had left his pencil behind. _He'd_ left it. So why couldn't she?

"About time," Crystal grumbled when Dee finally rejoined them.

Dusk was slouched in the corner, apparently asleep. Crystal rose from where she'd been huddled, as far from Dusk as possible, but not too close to the hole she'd nearly fallen through earlier. Wide shafts of sunlight broke through the shadows, dust dancing languidly in the panes of light. Inside, the air was cooler, but stuffy.

"Stealers travel the pathways, right?" Dee asked softly.

" _Real_ stealers, yes."

She ignored the jab. "So... do they ever take other people with them?"

Crystal's gaze turned shrewd. "I see. Don't believe we're a plexus after all?"

"I don't even know what that—"

"It doesn't matter, because we're not." Crystal leaned close, her voice a fierce whisper. "I may be his anchor. That much... I suppose I have to accept, but this plexus business—it's not true and it's dangerous, besides."

"Dangerous?"

"You needn't worry about it," Crystal said. "I know what you're thinking. You want to find another stealer to take you home."

"Is that possible?" She felt terrible for asking, leaving Verge and Nid... but she had to get home.

"It _is_ possible." Crystal picked up the bag Dusk had brought for her. "But unlikely."

"Why unlikely?"

"Because you don't have anything they'd want." Her gaze skimmed over Dee for a moment. "Well, maybe you have something one or two of them _might_ be interested in, but you're from the Waste World, aren't you?"

"Why do you call it that?"

"Because it's full of trash," Crystal replied. "Or that's what I've heard. But it doesn't matter, because few stealers can even travel there. The paths are said to be fraught with Weavers."

"Verge traveled there," Dee pointed out.

Crystal's brow peaked. "That's right, he did. Because he's one of the best. And you just want to leave him—"

Dee's shoulders tensed. "How is it my responsibility to save him?"

"I thought you two were trysting. Is it over already?"

"Trysting? What _is_ that?"

"It's when two stealers come of breeding age and—well..." Even in the dim light, the pink flush on Crystal's cheeks was obvious.

Dee shifted, trying to hold back her own creeping blush. "Look, just because I'm attracted to him—"

"A tryst isn't attraction, exactly," Crystal cut in. "It's a biological phenomenon peculiar to the stealer breed—"

"Would you please stop saying breeding and breed?"

"Why? That's what it is and that's what we are," Crystal replied. "Stealers in the grips of a tryst are overtaken by physical desire. They become illogical and single-minded. All they want is to be with the subject of their desire. But if it makes you feel better, it doesn't usually last very long. A few months at most." Crystal sniffed, taking a deep breath. "I don't blame you for wanting to run. That's in your nature too. Going after Verge is... madness. If the deputy minister... if _His Eminence_ intends to kill him, for whatever reason, then there's nothing we can do."

Dee's hands curled.

Yes, she wanted to run. She wanted to go home—to get as far from this world, and this situation, and _that hunter_ , as she could. But thinking it made her insides twist in a queasy knot.

Was she actually going to leave Verge to be killed? Even though Quell hadn't said it outright, she knew that's what he intended. She could feel it deep down in her gut. And what about Nid? What was happening to him? And even if neither of them could take her home again, how would she feel about herself if she turned her back on them?

Her gaze slid to Dusk.

He was a seer. He'd known her name and helped them escape the hunters. What if his plan could work? What if there _was_ a way to save Verge and Nid? What if she could find Crystal's father and her own?

"You're probably right," Crystal said in soft voice. "You're probably better off looking for a stealer, as minute as the possibility is that you'll find one who can take you back home. Because Verge..." Her voice caught, the silver surface of her eyes trembled. "Anyway, you're not bound to him. Or to any of us. To this world. Run away, stealer. That's what your breed does best." Wiping her eyes savagely, she turned and climbed up the ladder.

Dee's teeth ground, her fists bumped anxiously against her legs. She looked over at Dusk again. His eyes were cracked open—two golden vortices—watching her.

"What's the plan?" she asked. 
Chapter 17

**"T** his doesn't mean I'm helping you," Crystal said as she educed the lighter.

Her pale face was clean, bobbed hair gleaming, stiff mint-green jacket buttoned primly over a high-necked, powder-blue dress. Her new boots covered her little legs, her knees. Only her tiny hands and face were exposed. It was an outfit Dee's grandma would've approved of, unlike her own.

But the oddity of the Crescent's fashion mores was the least of her concerns. Or should have been... considering what they were about to do.

Dusk had settled behind Dee and was twisting her hair into tight coils, pinning them up off her neck. In them, he hid the educed latents. Her mother's broken glasses. Her cousin's melting guitar pick. Laura's giggling Felix key chain.

The needle, he'd pinned through her shirt, partially hidden under her jacket.

"Why can't I just put them in my pockets?" she asked.

As she'd waited for Crystal to return, she'd discovered dozens of hidden pockets in her clothes. Now, her grandpa's knife was in one, Verge's bundle in another. She'd feared they might bulge in her skintight pants, but they didn't. They seemed to disappear.

"They might search you," he replied.

He secured her hair in place with wooden clips, like small versions of the old-fashioned clothespins her grandma used to hang laundry.

Her heart lurched faintly in her chest. But the building fear, which had been making her hands sweat and tremble, seemed to subside. A new sensation overtook her.

Anticipation? Eagerness?

She ran the heels of her hands over her forehead. She really was out of her mind. How could she be eager to break into the Apex?

Crystal laid the lighter down on the ground between them. Instead of winking in and out of visibility as it usually did, it was now a phantom, barely visible at all.

Danny's pencil was last. But Crystal didn't move to pick it up.

"I'm not sure—" she started.

"Yes, you can," Dusk said in a gentle, yet firm, tone.

Uncertainty evident, she lifted the pencil with the tips of her fingers. Allowing it to roll into her palm, she shot Dusk a shadowed look and then moved her gloved hand over it. When she did this, the curved prongs gave off silver-blue light. Crystal seemed to go into a trance. Occasionally, she would move her hand, a centimeter this way or that, up or down, but for the most part, she remained motionless, focused.

"Okay," Dee said as Crystal worked. "What happens once we reach the basement? You're sure it leads to the Apex?"

On his knees, Dusk shuffled around to face her, picking up the lighter.

"I'm sure," he said. "I've already gone in and disabled the lock."

"Great," she said, fixing on him, as unnerving as that was. Now that he was fully anchored, it wasn't just his eyes that glowed. He seemed to glow all over, and something about him was... overpowering. His presence was at once reassuring and discomfiting. "You can see the future, right? So you know what's going to happen?"

"I've been given glimpses of what _might_ happen," he hedged, "up to a point."

"Up to what point?"

"As soon as Crystal is finished educing the pencil, we'll need to leave. It will take us a few hours to reach the Apex."

The sun was low in the sky. The afternoon was already growing long.

"Did you see something bad happening?" she asked.

His eyes shone. "Bad things _will_ happen," he said, " _if_ we do nothing. Very bad things."

"Like Verge dying?"

"Much worse than that," he said.

"Like all of us dying?"

"Do you think dying is the worst thing?" he asked.

"I'm not interested in doing it anytime soon," she replied.

"There are things much worse than death."

"Like what?"

"Like breaking into the Apex and being captured and locked up in a cell where they'll do who-knows-what to you," Crystal offered. Her shoulders drooped as she laid the pencil carefully on the floor, shying away from it.

Unlike the others, which had grown brighter and sharper—her mom's glasses gleaming like polished crystal, Felix practically bouncing off the ground—the pencil appeared darker. It no longer glowed or floated.

Dee frowned. "You removed the attribute."

Crystal scowled back at her. "No, I didn't ."

Dee looked again. It appeared to be an ordinary black, mechanical pencil, except... really black, much more so than normal. The darkness pulled at her, as if it possessed its own gravity and was drawing her down. Not a pencil at all, but a pencil-shaped well, a black hole, a tunnel to...

Dusk plucked it from the floor and held it out to her.

"There's a pocket inside your jacket sleeve. Hide it there," he instructed.

When she took the pencil from him, it bit at her fingertips, like a piece of ice on warm, wet skin. She slid it into the hidden pocket inside her left sleeve.

Standing, Dusk palmed the lighter. "Time to go."

She joined him. She had the strangest urge to run—not away—but all the way to the Apex, right up to Quell. Then she would kick him in his bland face.

She really _was_ losing it.

"I can't believe you two are going back into the sewers." Crystal removed her glove and tucked it into the pocket of her new jacket.

"We're not," he said. "We're taking one of the old cave tunnels. There are dozens beneath the city. It's dry," he said this to Dee, like he was reassuring her.

"Who cares?" She bounced on her toes. "Let's just do this, huh?"

They looked at each other and then over at Crystal. Brushing the dust from her skirt, she rose to her feet.

She frowned at them. "I'm not going with you."

"Good," Dee said.

Snotty Dollface sneer.

"You can't go back to Bog House," Dusk said.

"You can't tell me—"

His eyes brightened, like gasoline had been tossed on the fires blazing within them. "He hurts you."

Her face blanched.

"He what?" Dee said.

"You cannot go back there," Dusk said again.

"I have to." Crystal's voice was taut. "I belong to him."

"Wait," Dee said. " _How_ does he hurt you?"

Crystal's nostrils flared.

"I can't let you go back," Dusk said. "If you do, it'll be the worst punishment yet."

Stubborn chin jut. "I _know_ what will happen."

"He's going to hit you?" Dee asked. "What? Like beat you?"

"I told you!" Crystal shouted. "I _tried_ to tell you. I couldn't stay here. I had to go home. Master Bog will be angry, and he'll be right to be. I'll be fortunate if he only belts me. He could throw me out, and then where will I go? No respectable house will take me if that happens. And if you think I'm going to stay here, in this hovel—"

"Dusk is right," Dee cut in. "You can't go back there."

"You can't tell me what to—"

"You want to be beaten?" Dee cut in.

"Of course not!" Tears trembled on the edges of Crystal's eyes, but they weren't pained, they were angry. "He doesn't hurt me any worse than anyone else when we've broken the rules. And I've broken the rules. And it's _your_ fault."

" _My_ fault?"

"If you hadn't come here, if you hadn't —"

"I didn't want to come here. I don't _want_ to be here—"

"Then leave!" Crystal spat. "I don't know why you're arguing with me. You don't care about me! All you want is to get back to your trash world. Well, go then! You're not even a real stealer. You're... a Void! Worse than a Void. Get out of my way, both of you—"

She moved to push by Dee, toward the hatch they'd climbed through, but Dee snagged her arm, flinging her back onto the lump of Dusk's mattress.

"We'll tie her up," she said to Dusk.

"That's hardly better," he said.

"Then what are we going to do?"

Crystal surged to her feet again. "You two are unbelievable! Here, I've been helping you, only making things worse for myself, and you think—"

Dusk wrapped his arms around Crystal, stunning her into silence. "Don't go back there, Crystal, please." Dee was sure Crystal was about to push him away, but Dusk disengaged first. "If you go back to Bog House, then I'm going with you."

"You can't —"

"What about Verge and Nid?" Dee interrupted.

"Crystal is my anchor. We're bonded. If she's hurt, I'm hurt—"

"We are _not_ bonded." Crystal stepped back from him, though the anger from moments before had drained from her.

"There are many types of bonds," he said.

She covered her face with her hands. "I knew I shouldn't have stayed. I shouldn't have helped either of you."

Dee groaned. "Fine. I'm going to save Verge and Nid and _your_ father by myself." She turned.

"You don't know my father is there," Crystal said to her back.

Dee stopped, both fists rapping against her thighs.

"He _is_ there," Dusk said.

"You're only telling me what I want to hear so I'll go with you," Crystal said.

"Why would we want you to go with us?" Dee shot back. "All you're going to do is slow us down and complain."

Crystal glowered. "He wants me to go because he's skewed, and he thinks we're a plexus."

Dee crouched beside the metal hatch, and heaved it open. "I don't know what a plexus is. But you're stupid if you go back there to get your butt whupped. You don't belong to anyone. And you don't have to put up with that. I don't care what world we're on. So either come with us or stay here and pout, but don't be an idiot and go back to a place where people hit you for being late. _That's_ warped."

She descended the ladder, not looking back to see if either of them joined her.

But they both did. 
Chapter 18

**"S** top here," Dusk said.

Panting, Crystal leaned heavily against the wall. Dusk handed her the glowing orb he'd brought to light their way through the dark, silent tunnel. Though they'd been walking for hours, Dee had trouble stopping. She wanted to run, but Dusk set the pace. Even though they'd been moving steadily uphill, she didn't feel overexerted, not in the least.

"We're close." His voice was low, as if he feared someone might hear, even though the only sounds they'd heard were the occasional muffled scurrying and far-off dripping. "The ladder is around that corner up there," he said, placing the lighter in her hand. "It's time to use this."

"Use it for what?"

Dusk snagged Crystal's arm and pulled her closer. She made a froggish face at him, but didn't speak. She hadn't spoken since they'd started, like her spiteful silence was some kind of punishment for coercing her into this journey. Dee should've been glad Dollface wasn't grumbling anymore, but the girl had a way of complaining even when she wasn't making a sound. It was all in the jut of her chin and the plodding shuffle of her feet.

"You're going to make us invisible," Dusk said.

Dee turned the lighter over in her fingers. She could feel its weight, the smooth, worn brass, just like always, but down in the tunnels she couldn't see even a ghostly glimmer of it. "Okay," she said. "How?"

"Flick it," he said.

"Wait." Crystal broke her recalcitrant silence. "What _is_ the plan?"

"We go in and..." She swallowed. She'd been experiencing a pronounced lack of anxiety, but now a cold wave of fear swept through her. Her hunter wouldn't _necessarily_ be there, she told herself again, and again. "I'll turn myself in. Invisible Dusk—and you—scope the situation, find Verge and your father, and then bust all of us out." She looked at Dusk. "Right?"

He smiled softly, but didn't answer. She was starting to hate when he didn't answer, almost as much as she hated Crystal's stubborn silent treatment.

Crystal mulled this plan over. "We'll be caught."

"No, _I'll_ be caught," Dee said. "That's the plan." Flipping the lighter open, she placed her thumb to the flint wheel. "Ready?"

"But how are we going to get out?" Crystal asked.

Dee's arm dropped to her side. "I'll make us all invisible. They won't know where we are."

"But—"

"Do you want to find your father or not?"

Crystal chewed her lip, resuming her loud silence.

Dee lifted the lighter again. "I'm not sure what I'm doing."

Crystal snorted, but made no further comment.

Dusk smiled. "The lighter knows what to do," he said. "Direct its power toward us. Think of it like... throwing a veil over us. You have the veil bunched in your hand, when you flick the lighter, let go of the veil, at us."

"Will it hurt?"

"Not at all."

Before she could thumb the wheel, another thought occurred to her. "Won't they smell you?" A lump formed in her throat, but she swallowed it back. "I mean, this is KETS headquarters, right?"

"It's the Keystone's headquarters, where the sages and leaders of the Crescent govern," Crystal said. "But yes, it will be crawling with KETS."

A chill slid over Dee.

"The power of the lighter doesn't just obscure us from sight, but to all senses, except touch, we'll just have to take care not brush up against anyone," Dusk said reassuringly.

Crystal did not look appeased, but she didn't argue.

Raising the lighter, Dee focused on Dusk and Crystal and flicked the wheel. A faint swell passed through the air, like when a door is blown open on a breezy day. But Dusk and Crystal were still there.

Her arm fell. "You're not invisible."

Dusk smiled. He cupped his hands around his eyes, like a pair of binoculars. Crystal frowned up at him. She opened her mouth, apparently speaking, but Dee couldn't hear anything.

Dusk was still making a binoculars gesture.

"My mom's glasses?" Dee touched the twisted coil of hair concealing her mom's glasses. "That's why I can see you?"

He nodded. Then he took Crystal's elbow and pointed beyond Dee to the dark tunnel ahead. To the Apex.

"Here goes nothing," Dee muttered.

With both hands, she pushed the grate upwards. Dusk held her waist as she balanced on the metal rungs. She shoved the heavy grate aside. It thunked and scraped against the stone floor. Above, it was even darker than in the tunnels.

Dee climbed out. Dusk and Crystal followed. Her super-stealer eyes adjusted to the darkness. The basement of the Apex was cavernous. A deafening grumble of machinery battered her ears. Hundreds of pipes of all sizes gridded the walls.

Dusk tapped her shoulder, then her thigh, right where her grandpa's knife was hidden. He held out his hand. She wanted to pretend she didn't understand what he was asking for, but she did. With a sigh, she handed over the knife. He clipped it to one of the numerous low-slung belts crisscrossing his hips.

Then he gestured toward the hulking machinery.

As they moved, she turned her attention to Verge, trying to sense him as she had before, searching out that sunburn tingle his presence exerted on her.

After a moment, a faint itchiness, not nearly as strong as before. What did it mean that the feeling was so weak now, when it had been so intense earlier?

They came to a massive door—it was already ajar, the handle broken off, just as Dusk had said it would be.

The shadowed hall beyond was quiet and empty.

She led them into the damp corridor which inclined up toward a faint beacon of light at the far end.

Under the radiant globe—tethered to the wall with a chain—was an elevator. The doors were the same glossy ink-black as the outside of the Apex. In other words, ominous.

Stairs continued upwards to her right.

Her gut was telling her to take the stairs, but her gut was trying to keep her safe. She needed to be caught.

She pressed the button.

When the doors opened, she stepped inside and focused on the triangular buttons as Dusk and Crystal boarded and slid to the back. She didn't know who might be watching, and she wanted to give no hint of their presence.

The elevator was large, the gray walls scuffed in places. The buttons glowed blue-white, like the bobbing globes overhead. Her finger traced the raised numbers. They weren't numbers from her world, but she understood them anyway. She had to remember to ask Dusk how that was possible.

She located the highest number, stomach knotting as she pressed it.

Floor twenty-eight. The _tip_ top.

Her ears were ringing, probably from all the noise in the basement. And she was growing warm too, perspiration filming her skin like condensation.

Out of nowhere, all the questions she'd been avoiding flooded into her mind.

How could she understand their numbers and language? Why did she have super-vision? If her father was from the Crescent and her mother wasn't, how was it that they could have children? Is that what Dusk meant when he'd said they were all connected? If people were the same, then why didn't anyone on her world have super-senses? And how did the multiple worlds coexist anyway? How did stealers travel between them? If they traded with other worlds, did they trade with _her_ world? Did people on her world know about the Crescent? Did her mother know about the Crescent? How _much_ did she know?

This thought stopped the cascade of questions dead.

Reaching back, her fingers brushed her scars. Surgery after surgery, years of physical therapy and recovery... Her mother wouldn't have put her through all of that if it hadn't been absolutely necessary, right? Even if she _had_ known what the Mark was, what it could do... But then, maybe _that_ was why.

Crystal had said Essence Stones helped stealers find their way home. Dee didn't have an Essence Stone. She didn't know anything about being a stealer. If she'd had the Mark and shifted and gotten lost, she might not have been able to get home again. If her mother had known _that_ much, then maybe it wasn't so far-fetched to think she would've wanted to remove Dee's Mark.

But still...

Not yet at the twenty-eighth floor, the elevator stopped.

Her heart pounded against her ribcage, breath quickening.

The doors slid silently open.

Before her, a pack of scuba-suited, blindfolded KETS.

At their head, Brown Eyes himself.

She took a step back.

Four rushed in and slammed her against the wall.

She braced for the pain, but it didn't come. Her back should've been splintered with it. Instead, nothing but a vague pressure.

"Hi, guys," she said, surprised at her own nerve. "Miss me?"

Two of the KETS held the elevator doors open.

Brown Eyes stood there, glowering.

The light sprinkle of sweat grew to a sheeting downpour. The ringing in her ears, to a deep static hum.

Two of the KETS kept her shoulders and arms pinned while the other two patted her down. They stuck their fingers into about half the pockets she actually had, but didn't find Verge's bundle or the two latents in her sleeves.

Brown Eyes' glare kept knocking her pulse out of rhythm.

"I don't believe it," one of the KETS holding open the doors said to Brown Eyes. "You were right. What is she doing here?"

On his other side, Blondie, the one who had almost choked Dee to death at the market. "She's trysting with that other one," she said. "That's why you came, isn't it?"

"Actually, I was with the tour," Dee replied. "I got lost."

_Flying slug-sleighs_.

What was wrong with her? Why was she antagonizing them?

One of the KETS slammed her against the elevator wall again. But again, she barely felt the impact.

Blondie's lips pulled back, baring her teeth. She took a threatening step forward. But Brown Eyes threw his arm across her chest, stopping her.

"She goes to the Cap," he stated in a deep rumble that reverberated all through Dee, drying up all the reckless, smart-aleck bravado she'd been inexplicably exhibiting.

Then she figured that if her mom's glasses allowed her to see Dusk and Crystal, maybe her lack of a filter had something to do with the Felix key chain—Laura's courage. Once upon a time, Laura had been pretty snarky. One of the reasons Dee had liked her. And the lack of pain... Did that have something to do with her cousin's guitar pick? He'd always acted like he was invincible.

Though Dee couldn't see Blondie's eyes through her mask, nor any of the others' except Brown Eyes', she could tell Blondie was giving Brown Eyes the staredown.

The other KETS shuffled, anxious.

Brown Eyes' jaw clenched, as if he were restraining Blondie's murderous inclinations with the force of his will alone.

The air grew still and heavy. Finally, Blondie's head bowed slightly—submissive.

He stepped into the elevator, facing Dee. Blondie and the others followed.

Dee was plastered against the wall.

As the doors slid shut, she found it hard to breathe. The air too hot and stifling.

Her hunter's eyes narrowed—questioning, demanding. He didn't speak, but he didn't need to. She knew what he was thinking. She could hear him asking, just like the last time, _How can you see through my mask? How can you see my eyes?_

"Maybe it's broken," she murmured, not realizing she'd spoken aloud.

Though his face remained stony, he blinked.

Her heart felt as though it were digging deeper into her chest, trying to tunnel away from his unswerving gaze, his sweltering, indomitable presence.

Life. Death.

Hunter. Prey.

The elevator moved silently up and up and up.

"How did you get into the Apex?" Blondie stood next to the control panel, her back to the wall, her chest toward Brown Eyes.

Dee smiled again because she knew it would incense Blondie, and because, apparently, she had a death wish. "You left the back door unlocked."

Blondie's hands fisted. "I'm going to rip your smart tongue out of your pretty mouth."

She started forward again, but Brown Eyes spun and shoved her against the wall. The elevator car shuddered.

The other KETS tensed.

"She goes to Master Quell," he said.

Blondie sneered at Brown Eyes. Though there were more muscles evident in his back than Dee had known existed in the human body, Blondie was built too, every taut swell clear beneath her painted-on uniform.

"Do you have something you want to say, Wave?" Danger lurked in his voice.

The others shifted back.

Dee dared a glance toward the corner where Dusk and Crystal were flattened, trying not to brush up against the nearest hunters.

"We all know what you're thinking," Wave said in a suggestive, provocative tone.

"You don't know anything."

And then they started growling at each other. Literally. Like two dogs. Like two wolves.

As soon as the doors opened, the rest of the pack surged out into the dim corridor.

Dee was hauled out with them.

Dusk and Crystal slipped clear too, just before Brown Eyes threw Wave out and she crashed into the wall. 
Chapter 19

**W** ave was up again in a second, barreling at Brown Eyes.

They slammed into each other and tumbled to the floor in a snarling tangle.

Transfixed and tense, the remaining KETS filled the end of the corridor where it met with a perpendicular hall, forming an L.

Brown Eyes picked Wave up and rammed her into the wall, pummeling her kidneys.

She cracked her elbow down on the top of his head.

Dee winced. A dull ache spread through her skull. Just what she needed—sympathy pains for her would-be killer.

He was jarred long enough for Wave to push him away and kick him in the face. Blood splattered the wall. He staggered.

Dee's nose throbbed, her legs suddenly weakened.

_What... the... bleep?_

Spinning, Wave's leg shot out, aiming for his temple.

He seized her ankle before her boot connected and threw his fist against her leg.

Bones cracked.

Wave howled but didn't fall, though her calf was no longer the shape it should've been.

On one leg, she hopped back and then let loose a volley of punches, throwing herself into him.

More blood flew.

He blocked, but he was still getting battered.

And for some reason, pain seized Dee. Her ribs, her face, it was as if her bones were fracturing, her blood spilling. Each hit he took echoed through her. She had never liked watching people hurt each other, but this was deeper than sympathy. This felt real.

Wave was slowing.

When her arm moved a split second less quickly than it had before, Brown Eyes locked his elbow around it and threw his fist upwards into her jaw.

Her eyes rolled and then Wave crashed to her knees.

He swung her around, lifting her off her feet and slamming her into the wall.

This time, she dropped, sprawling upon the floor, limp.

The fight had taken no more than a minute.

His body pulsed visibly—at least visibly to Dee.

Straightening his bloody nose with a growl, his pretty brown eyes slid over to the pack of KETS and then fixed on her.

She ached all over. Even her heart throbbed, bruised. So much for her cousin's guitar pick working pain-muting magic.

He stepped over Wave. "Get her out of here," he said to the two KETS who weren't holding Dee.

They rushed forward, picked Wave up between them, and punched the elevator button. The doors opened immediately, and they hauled her away.

Brown Eyes approached, blood gushing from his nose.

As he drew closer, another dizzy swell swept over her.

"Join Tephra and Strat in the Cap," he told her guards. "I'll take this one to Master Quell."

His gaze challenged them to defy him, dared them to even blink. They didn't .

They released her and jogged down the corridor through the splatters of blood.

Her legs trembled, but she managed to stay upright.

She could sense Dusk and Crystal hovering in the corner behind her. More than anything, she wanted to grab them and run.

But she was locked in a staring contest with Brown Eyes.

"You have..." She reached out to wipe the blood from his face—from his cheek, his lips—but stopped before her fingers touched him.

Her hand hung in the air for a second.

And then it fell. She stepped back, bumping into the wall.

She had to get out of here. She had to get away from him.

Snagging her arm, he hauled her into the adjoining hall, which sloped upwards.

His fingers burrowed into her arm, like he was trying to pierce the leather and her skin, all the way through to the bone, but again, the pain was distant.

Yet, she could feel the ghosts of _his_ pain echoing through her with each thump of her pulse.

Her gaze slid back to his mouth, to the crimson smear of blood. Above it, the air distorted in rippling heat waves. She could see his breath stirring the air. The tang of hot iron flooded her mouth. The heat spread upwards, through her cheeks, tingling her scalp.

The faint susurration that had been filling her ears grew louder and louder.

"Aren't you going to ask me—"

"I don't care," he growled through his swelling lip and the flow of blood.

A massive portal-like door rose up before them. He slammed his hand against the button beside it.

"Whatever you're doing," he said to the door, not looking at her, "it won't matter once His Eminence is done with you."

"I'm not doing anything."

His eyes slid over to her. Dark. Burning.

The doors opened—an inner gray circle slid left, while the outer white one moved right. On the other side, a narrow metal catwalk, tunneled in glass, overlooked a laboratory-type area below.

As they crossed the catwalk, Dee craned her neck. Overhead, the walls rose at steep angles, meeting at the peak—the top of the pyramid.

One of the walls was open to the starless, indigo-ink sky.

Just below, big black rectangles like solar panels were mounted on the walls in a haphazard manner.

And beneath these, tied with silvery rope to metal racks, splayed, were nine stealers.

Arranged in a semicircle, their backs faced a slender metal post at the center of the room that was topped by a silvery gyroscope... thing.

She tried to get a better look at them, but her hunter was pulling her too fast.

"What are they—"

"Shut up," he snapped.

Another set of sliding circular doors, another button. After a moment, the doors opened.

He hauled her into a white, sparsely furnished room.

When they entered, Quell registered no hint of emotion.

Next to him was a stranger. Taller, more attractive.

His long, top-knotted hair was glossy black, his eyes steely gray. The few deep lines on his face could've been placed by an artist's hand. His clothes were all white—stiffly exaggerated shoulders, floaty, gauzy fabric around his legs. A magnetic energy surrounded him, at once repelling and attracting. She didn't have to be told his name. She knew.

Eclipse.

They stopped just inside the door, which was fine with her. That was about as close as she wanted to get.

Her hunter bowed his head deeply, dripping blood onto the mirror-polished tile.

Eclipse held her gaze and didn't let it go.

"Hunter, what have you brought me?" His voice was forceful without volume and melodic, like a crooked finger, enticing her to come closer.

She glanced over at Brown Eyes. "Hunter? That's original."

He glowered.

"This is the stealer we've been pursuing," Quell reported.

Eclipse smiled and she momentarily forgot why she was there.

"You've been quite a headache for my poor deputy," Eclipse said. "Breaking into his home, evading his KETS, giving his party guests more excitement than they've had in years. I've heard about nothing else for the last day. Wherever I go, people want to know who you are." His hands opened toward her. "Well? What shall I tell them?"

Was he asking for her name?

What _was_ her name? That hardly seemed important. She wasn't important at all. She was no one, really... insignificant—that was the word.

A strange voice came into her mind, like her thoughts were a radio signal being interrupted.

_Not so cocky now, are you?_

Had those been her thoughts?

"You can tell them I'm the one who foiled your evil little plan, whatever it is," she said, Laura's mouthy courage taking the reins.

Eclipse's smile widened—entrancingly. "Wonderful."

"You don't believe me."

"Oh, no, I do," Eclipse said. "I believe _you_ believe it. What an extraordinary young woman you are. Such unusual audacity, for a stealer." Eclipse raised his eyebrows at Quell.

The deputy frowned slightly, which Dee figured meant he agreed.

"You must know what a compliment that is," Eclipse said. "You see, I have met all of the greatest stealers our fine city has produced. Here, look." He gestured toward the wall of glass behind him.

Shrugging Hunter off, leaving him behind, she stepped forward until she was between Quell and Eclipse, gazing down at the stealers trapped like insects in spiders' webs.

Verge was there, his back to her. His half-shaved head hung, dispirited, resigned. Her eyes caught on another stealer though.

He was placed just below her. Black curls, sheared short. His eyes flicked upwards, the same violet hue as hers.

Her heart caught in her chest.

_That's my dad._

Her fists clenched. He'd been held here this whole time. All these years.

Anger tremored through her. "What are you doing to them?"

"Why should I tell you?" Eclipse asked, unfazed. "Since you've already declared you're going to stop me, what difference does it make? But if I were you, I wouldn't wait too much longer. The moment the full moon comes into view, you'll be too late." He pointed toward the open panel above.

The white curve of the moon peeked into view.

"Her father is one of the stealers," Hunter announced abruptly.

Everyone turned to stare, including her.

"Is that so?" Eclipse asked.

"Of course," Quell said. "River, it must be. I knew she looked familiar."

She stared at Hunter. And he glared right back.

That radio signal whine flooded her head.

_You're not going to succeed, stealer_.

"Don't be so sure," she hissed through her teeth.

Hunter's eyes widened. And hers must have too. She stepped back, touching her temple lightly. Had she heard him _in her head?_

"He's _not_ your father?" Eclipse asked.

"Clearly, he is," Quell said. "That explains it."

"Does it? I don't see anyone else's family breaking into the Apex." Eclipse's voice took on a deadly edge.

"As you said, Your Eminence, this one is exceptional," Quell said.

Her eyes narrowed at Hunter. Was he really reading her thoughts? She focused her mind, attempting to send her thoughts to him.

" _Hey_!"

His right eye twitched.

_"Get out of my head, you overgrown lapdog!"_

A sudden flare of heat licked up the back of her spine. It subsided as quickly as it had come, like someone had grazed her with a blowtorch.

Hunter was tensed, giving her the same look he'd given Wave when she'd challenged him.

Sure, he'd already beaten one girl nearly to death, what was one more? He wasn't a hunter, he was a coward.

"Coward?!" he blurted out.

Eclipse and Quell returned their attention to Hunter.

Hunter's eyes dropped, obsequious.

She smirked.

_"What? Not going to tell your masters how you're sneaking around in my head?"_

His eyes rolled back up to meet hers.

_"How are you doing this_?" he demanded. " _Did you take an extracted to read my mind_?"

_"_ Your _mind? Why would I want to read_ your _mind? You're just the muscle. Besides,_ you're _the one doing this to me_."

"Are you feeling unwell, Hunter?" Eclipse asked. "You do look as if you've had a difficult day. Trouble in the ranks?"

"Forgive me, Your Eminence—"

_"Forgive me, Your Eminence_ ," she mocked.

He growled. "Would you like me to gag her, like her father, Your Eminence?" Hunter offered.

"May as well," Eclipse said. "Take her down. If we should need her, I want her ready to be moved into place immediately."

Hunter strode forward, took her roughly by the arm again, and dragged her back toward the door.

"And Hunter," Eclipse called.

Hunter paused, looking back.

"If... by some bizarre circumstance, she should manage to interfere this evening," Eclipse said, smooth as slug slime, "I shall expect a stunningly convincing explanation."

Hunter was growling again as he shoved her ahead of him, across the glass-walled catwalk, and back out into the dim corridor.

The moment the doors slid shut, he whipped her around, throwing her against the wall and pinning her arms.

He pressed against her, his blood smearing her face, tingling and burning, making her head swirl and dance.

"Talk," he demanded. 
Chapter 20

**S** he licked her lips, tasting the copper heat of his blood.

Gross. She hoped he wasn't diseased.

"Because you liked hearing my thoughts so much—" she started.

He yanked her close and then slammed her against the wall again. "How are you doing this?"

"I didn't steal somebody's ability to read minds," she said through her teeth, "if that's what you think."

He pressed his forehead against hers—hard.

Her thoughts started to pull apart. _He_ was tearing into them.

"Hey!" She shoved against him uselessly. "Knock it off!"

She focused hard, attempting to kick him out of her head.

Crystal sidled up, wide-eyed, slipping her hand into Dee's sleeve and removing the lighter.

"Tell me what you took," he snarled. "Where you got it. Who educed it." He sounded like he was putting together a hit list.

And then Dusk appeared next to them, pressing her grandpa's hunting knife into the soft exposed flesh under Hunter's jaw.

"She didn't take anything," he said calmly. "Release her."

Hunter's grip slackened, until finally, he let go.

Dee sidestepped, sliding along the wall, away from Hunter, edging closer to Dollface.

"About time you two showed up," Dee said to her and then grinned. "Did you get that? Showed up?"

"It wasn't funny," Crystal said, handing the lighter back. "And this isn't good."

"The fact that Verge and my father are spider bait or that this bleeping-bleeper can read my thoughts?" Dee motioned to Hunter. "What _is_ up with that?"

Backing away from Hunter, Dusk kept the knife up between them. "I'm sorry, Dark Star, I didn't see him. I told you I couldn't see everything."

Hunter's eyes tracked the knife as Dusk moved. "Who are you?"

"I'm Dusk, and she's Crystal."

"Now what?" Dee asked. "Can we knock him out or something?"

Hunter sneered. His eyes never left Dusk or the knife—waiting for the right moment to attack.

"No," Dusk said. "We can't." Dusk's own gaze never wavered from Hunter either. It looked as though he could see through the mask too, maybe. " _He's_ your hunter."

"Say what?"

"He knows," Dusk said. "He can tell."

"You're warped, seer," Hunter said softly. "She's nothing to me."

"She's your scout," Dusk stated. "The first rite of blood has already occurred."

Hunter went rigid. She hoped Dusk _couldn't_ see Hunter's eyes, because they were vicious and deadly.

"Rite of blood?" she repeated.

"It's a bond," Crystal explained, sliding behind Dusk and Dee. "The strongest, the most ancient, the first. The blood-bond, between a scout and a hunter, but— "

"It doesn't happen," Hunter growled. "It's a myth. And _this_ is a trick."

But he didn't believe what he was saying.

His thoughts were cutting in and out of her head.

Pressing the heels of her hands to her temples, she wished she could push him out completely.

A bond with _this_ guy? This killer?

She didn't want to be bonded to anyone, but _especially_ not him.

"Feeling's mutual," he sneered, never looking away from Dusk.

"Stay out of my head," she nearly screamed. She held her hands out to Dusk, pleading. "What does this mean?"

Crystal let out an exasperated huff. "Hunters and scouts worked together in the Time Before. A blood ritual was performed to bond the lead hunter with his band's scout, since scouts are weaker than hunters, and hunters are prone to attacking the weak, especially during the hunting rites. Hunters were induced by seers to heightened predatory states before going on a hunt. The lead hunter had to protect the scout when they were away from the greater community. In the early days, this bond took on an even deeper, more important meaning due to the influence of the Higher Order's gifts, including shared thoughts and emotions. Now can we go save Verge and my father?"

"Nobody believes in those old stories," Hunter said.

He was lying.

His eyes flicked over to her.

A terrible pressure crushed down on her chest—smothering, suffocating.

She backed up, bumping into Dollface. "Let's knock him out and leave him here."

"Now you know how I feel," Crystal muttered. "But we don't have time for this. The moon will come into alignment soon, and if Eclipse is doing what I think—"

"What? What's he doing?" she asked.

"You're skewed. All of you." Hunter tensed, about to pounce on Dusk.

"Don't!" Dee threw herself between them, her gaze burning into Hunter's. "Don't touch him."

"What are _you_ going to do?" He bore down on her. "Annoy me to death?"

" _That_ was funny," Crystal said, though she wasn't laughing.

Dee backed away. She didn't want to hear his thoughts or feel his pain or have anything to do with him. She bit back a scream and the urge to hit something.

Dusk seemed confused. "The first rite is supposed to be blood of the hand."

"He's bleeding all over the place," Crystal pointed out. "Does it really matter where it comes from?"

"But Dark Star isn't bleeding."

Dee froze. She wasn't bleeding now, but she had been when she'd slapped Hunter after he'd caught her on the street.

Her gaze met his again. His emotions crashed against her—furious, incredulous.

"I'm not bonded," she said stubbornly. "Not to him. Not to anyone."

Dusk's fingertips grazed her arm, his calming presence working weakly against her. "He can help us."

"I don't want his help."

"Dark Star, do you want to find your way home or not?"

She looked over at Hunter again.

His thoughts were full of curses, most of them relating to slugs in some way. He didn't want this any more than she did.

He was just as worried, just as upset, just as afraid.

"I am _not_ afraid," he snapped.

She held his glare.

Life and death.

Black and white.

Hunter and...

"We have to hurry," said Crystal.

"I am not helping you, any of you," Hunter spat. "Whatever your plan... You're in the Apex. You two, leave." He stabbed a finger at Dusk and Crystal. "I'll pretend I never saw you. Her..." He glowered at Dee. "I'll take her to the Cap. If everything goes as planned, they won't need her, then..."

"Then what?" she challenged. "Eclipse will let me go? You think I'm going to stand around and watch him kill a bunch of stealers? My father?"

"If they're about to do what I think," Crystal said, "then they couldn't use her anyway."

"How do you know what they're going to do?" Dee asked.

"We were outside the doors, when some KETS came out and I saw..." Crystal's voice cracked.

Dee could feel Hunter picking around in her head, it was like a headache trying to take root.

She spun back toward him. "Stop that."

"Your Mark was removed?" He stared at her like she was a freak.

A black wave of rage welled up in her, blotting him out from her head—temporarily.

"I don't believe this," he muttered.

"I saw my father in there too." Crystal drew Dee's attention back to her.

A glossy tear-ripple disturbed the surface of Dollface's eyes.

"I remember," Crystal went on, "he used to talk about how to extract the gifts of the Higher Order, but he'd given up the work, because he realized success would mean..." Her hands twisted in her coat. "He's going to do it. He's actually figured out how."

"Do what?" Dee attempted to calm her quaking fury at Hunter. How dare he look at her like she was a mutant? Just because she didn't have her Mark. She couldn't remember the last time someone had made her feel so... hurt.

"He's going to steal the stealers' Marks." 
Chapter 21

**"I** bleeping hate this world," Dee grumbled. "You know that?" Her fist thumped her leg as she battled the anger and worry and fear.

Crystal hung her head, like she was somehow responsible for what her father was about to do.

"Will your squad scent the bond?" Dusk asked Hunter.

Hunter stared silently at him.

"Answer him!" Dee raised her fist like she might punch Hunter, like _that_ would've hurt him.

"I don't know," he growled. "They could tell..."

He whipped around and slammed his own fist into the wall, cracking the smooth surface.

"They could tell what?" she pressed.

"We have to do something _now_ ," Crystal said.

Dusk nodded. "Make us invisible again."

"Then what?" Dee asked as Crystal handed her the lighter.

"Then Hunter takes you in, just as we planned," Dusk said. "We'll be close behind. Once we're inside, we'll find a way to disrupt whatever is about to happen. I'll cut down the stealers. You'll have to make them invisible. That should give them enough advantage to escape. Take them back to the tunnels. Once the stealers are out of the Apex, they should be able to shift away."

"You're all warped," Hunter said. "That's never going to work."

"Got a better plan?" she asked.

"Get out of here," he said. "Run now, and you might live."

"You almost sound like you care."

His gaze bored into her. "If you attempt to interfere, I will _have to_ kill you—"

"You would," she said, "wouldn't you?"

He lapsed into glaring again.

"He won't," Dusk said. "A hunter protects his scout."

But Dee wasn't so sure.

Hunter's thoughts were obscured by a black veil of anger. But his emotions continued to ply her, and they were a tempest.

He wasn't on board, at all. The only reason he wasn't killing them was this blood rite thing, which she was completely unprepared to grapple with.

But if she were going to save her father and Verge and find Nid and get home, then she was going to have to deal with _her_ hunter.

She squared off with him. "Your boss is going to kill my father. I'm not going to let that happen."

His thumbs ran over his fingertips. Blood dried on his face. His nose swelled.

"It's Verge you need to save," Dusk said gently.

"We're saving all of them," she said. "We're not going to let this happen."

"I could incapacitate all of you," Hunter told them, "in seconds."

"Then do it," she said. "Just go ahead and kill us. That's what your friends will do if you turn us over to them. And you _know_ that, which is why you haven't whistled for them, because this blood rite—bond, whatever—is for real. Fine. We'll deal with _that_ later. Right now, you're supposed to be taking me in there, right?" She pointed down the corridor. "Don't you think your _masters_ are going to wonder what's taking you so long?"

She flicked the lighter at Dusk and Crystal. Dusk reached out for Crystal, and she took his hand without hesitation.

Dee assumed they were invisible again, as she saw Dollface's mouth move, but heard nothing.

"This is going to get us all killed," Hunter told her.

Tucking the lighter into her sleeve, she held out her arm for him. "Lead the way."

The doors slid open.

A gust met them—clear, cool night air.

Hunter tugged her into the chamber.

It was oddly silent.

As Hunter escorted her, Verge's eyes widened. She met his gaze, but kept her face neutral.

Beyond him, through the open panel above, the moon, bone-white, three-quarters in view. Directly ahead and above, Eclipse and Quell behind the glass wall. Eclipse's suave demeanor was gone. He was pointing rigidly at Quell, his mouth contorting in big, biting motions.

She pushed her thoughts at Hunter. " _Where are the rest of your goons?_ "

" _Securing the lower levels_."

He dragged her around the perimeter of the room.

Underneath the catwalk were numerous machines and three skittish adults in brown jumpsuits. When Hunter approached, they recoiled. Their eyes darted around as if looking for someplace to hide. One of them, an older man with fine features and gray eyes, rose from his chair.

Crystal's father.

"This is the extra," Hunter told them.

His wariness of Hunter slid away as he looked Dee over. He was thin and ashen—defeated. His pale eyes like gravestones.

"Yes." His voice was a sigh. "Turn her around. I need to inspect her Mark."

Hunter hesitated.

Dee's rage rose again.

She turned around and flipped up the back of her jacket, flashing Hunter a vicious smile.

" _That's right. You're bonded to a freak. But I'd rather be a freak than a mindless slave to Darth Accountant._ "

Crystal's father stammered. "Wha—what...?"

His female assistant gasped.

"What is this?" he asked. "What happened to you?"

"I told them I wasn't a stealer." She glanced in her father's direction, but he was half-hidden behind the closer stealers.

"Signal the deputy minister at once," he said to one of his assistants. "He'll want to see this for himself."

"Yes, sir," the male assistant said. Leaning over his control panel, he pressed a button. "Deputy Minister, please join us."

"What is it?" Quell snapped through a speaker.

"Um... There's ah..."

Eclipse's voice interrupted. "Is there a problem?"

"Well... It's the extra. She's not... Well she's..."

"Stop your sputtering," Quell barked. "I'll be right down."

Hunter turned Dee around.

She didn't have to read his thoughts or feel his emotions to know how pissed off he was.

Crystal's father had returned to his chair and was gazing fixedly at a screen in front of him. His female assistant circled the stealers. The male assistant wiped his hands on his suit and then sat down and began hurriedly fidgeting with the dials and switches.

The machine looked like it had been stolen off the set of an old, cheesy sci-fi movie. But a few of its parts—the screen flashing nonsensical colors and forms—looked more like magic than science. Dee was sure if she tried to touch the screen, her fingers would've gone right through.

"Take her to the holding room," Crystal's father said to Hunter. "We are about to begin."

Hunter pulled Dee past the machines and her father, but he was looking the other way.

If he'd just turn his head—

She was tempted to call out to him, but her voice lodged in her throat. And then Hunter was hustling her into the room. The doors slid shut automatically, but the glass wall gave her a clear view of the horror show.

Hunter released her and then leaned over a flat disc of metal mounted to the wall. A jet of water poured out from the wall into his hands. He splashed water on his face, rinsing away some of the blood.

His thoughts broke through her wall of anger. " _This is warped_."

She ignored him, searching for Dusk and Crystal, but she couldn't see them. Her gaze kept returning to her father, but his attention was over his shoulder, head canted to watch the moon slowly filling the open panel behind him.

" _We're both going to die_." Even Hunter's thoughts growled.

" _Remind me not to call you when I need a pep talk_."

He stormed over to her, trapping her between his body and the glass.

" _Is that your father out there?_ "

She glared up at him. " _Why are you such a bully?_ "

_"Someone is going to have to fight. Is it going to be you? The seer? The educer?_ "

He backed away and then spun, stalking to the far side of the room.

The storm surge of his thoughts flooded her.

All the years he'd trained, he'd worked, he'd done everything right—to become a leader of a Keystone squad, of the deputy minister's personal detail, building his body, his mind, his pack, and for what? To have it all taken away by a bond left over from an irrelevant age? Now he was going to lose it all and die, because of some neutered stealer—

"I'm not neutered." She pressed her forehead against the glass door, watching her father, willing him to look at her. But he didn't. "I'm just..."

What was she?

Gazing out at the semicircle of stealers, the perfect black ellipses on their backs...

Something had been taken from her and she hadn't even known it. A part of her wished she'd never discovered the truth. Now she was a freak in two worlds.

Suddenly, Hunter's thoughts and feelings vanished, even the residual echoes of his pain from the fight with Wave left her.

She shivered a bit. "How did you—"

"Quell should've been here by now."

She turned back toward the glass wall.

The stealer directly in front of her was a woman, the first one in the semicircle, Verge being the last on the opposite side of the room.

The stealer's hair was scarlet red and her eyes, aquamarine.

She met Dee's gaze. She might have been the same age as Dee's mother, but the resignation in her eyes made her look much older. Dee wanted to tell her to hang on, in a few moments Dusk would free her—all of them.

Just as she was thinking these hopeful thoughts, Quell strode through the doors.

Behind him, six scuba goons and two captives. 
Chapter 22

**D** usk and Crystal looked as though they'd had buckets of teal-blue paint dumped on their heads.

Grasping her arm, Hunter drew her back from the wall.

The door slid open.

An electric hum, like a small exhaust fan, blasted in from the room beyond. Quickly, the sound grew into a drilling whine.

Crystal's father and his assistants were scurrying, lights flashing all around them. It seemed he hadn't noticed Crystal. Not that she was terribly recognizable—a blue-dipped head, the lower half of her body invisible to him.

Quell entered along with two of the KETS, who pushed Crystal and Dusk ahead. The others waited outside. The doors shut, muffling the noise of the machines.

Dee sank back against Hunter.

The guards shoved Dusk toward Dee and Hunter, but kept hold of Crystal.

Quell's gaze shifted between Hunter and Dee, back and forth, finally settling on Hunter.

"This is rather... unfortunate," he remarked to Hunter. "You really were my best."

The guards shifted uneasily.

Hunter tensed, but his thoughts and emotions remained his own. Somehow, he'd blocked Dee out.

A limp smile bent Quell's lips. "Who would've guessed the blood rite remained possible? And still so powerful. Powerful enough to alert our seers, who also sighted your friends skulking in the corridor"—he gestured to Crystal. In the massive hands of a hulking brute, she really did look like a doll—"when they came to warn me about your situation."

Dee looked over at Dusk.

Too bad he hadn't seen any of this happening. Or had he? His face, even covered in thick blue dye, was smooth, unperturbed, his eyes bright and swirling.

Crystal was mouthing something at Dee. Dee slipped out the lighter and flicked it.

"We're too late," Crystal was crying.

Quell glanced fleetingly over his shoulder. "Ah, yes, your small friend is correct."

A blinding flash filled the chamber.

Silver light reflected off the black panels, weaving an ever intensifying beam over the stealers—a web of moonlight.

The beam zipped to the center of the room, to the gyroscope.

Dee couldn't see the gyroscope, but she _could_ see the scarlet-haired stealer.

Her head snapped back as she lurched, stiffening, her fingers and eyes clenched. Tears spurted and then rolled, almost reluctantly, down her cheeks.

"No!" Dee surged forward, but Hunter caught her waist and held her back.

"A small sacrifice," Quell replied, "which will benefit all."

"Benefit?" She twisted against Hunter, but his hold was adamant. "You're out of your mind!"

"By extracting their gifts, we will gain unfettered access to the pathways," Quell said.

Behind him, the scarlet-haired stealer convulsed.

"Once the citizens see how we are freed from reliance upon the least reliable of our people, His Eminence is confident all qualms will quickly be quieted. When you think about it, it's quite logical," he went on. "What wasn't logical was the manner in which the stealers acquired their gifts in the first place. A random event gifted entire generations of stealers with the potent ability to travel to other worlds, rendering the rest of us dependent upon them to an unacceptable degree. We are merely returning said gift to those who should, inherently, be the ones to utilize it. For all memory, leaders have been trusted to do what was best for the people. And that is what we are now doing."

"Except for what's best for those stealers." She threw her elbows into Hunter's stomach, though she knew he wasn't going to release her.

"His Eminence is concerned for the welfare of all our citizens," Quell said. "The sacrifice of these nine means no stealer will ever again have to work the Boats. Their forfeit will free this, and all future generations of stealers, from that most taxing and painful drudgery. Once the cycle is complete"—he gestured faintly toward the torture occurring behind him—"the people of the Crescent will have access to a self-sustaining portal, independent of life, capable of opening all the passages to all the worlds, which can be passed on... for as long as the moon continues to rise."

Beyond Quell and through the gaps of the four guards lined up outside, the female stealer with the red hair hung slack in her bonds. Next to her, a silver-haired stealer jerked as a swirling black stream was pulled from her body.

Dee's father was next.

Her throat constricted.

Six killers and Quell stood between her and the door.

Suddenly, Hunter was in her head, trying to wrangle in every crazy thought she was having.

She would rush Quell. Once she had him, she'd force him to open the doors. Or she'd pick him up and throw him through the doors. She'd throw herself through the doors. Hunter would help her; he'd have to. She thought all these things, even as Hunter told her, " _No. No... NO_!"

Her body was taut as a rubber band stretched to the point just before it either breaks or snaps back. _"I have to do something!_ "

His response was cool and hard. " _No, you don't. Do you know how many stealers die working the Boats? He might not be wrong._ "

" _This isn't the answer!_ " She strained away from him. _"I'm going to do something, and you'd better help me."_

_"It's nice you think I can take on six of my own squad at once, but—"_

_"But what? I'm supposed to stand here and do nothing while my father dies? You may be able to read my thoughts, but if you think that's going to happen, then you_ really _don't know me._ "

She ceased struggling when a hand slid over hers. Dusk. His fingers slipped up her sleeve, withdrawing the pencil and placing it firmly in her hand.

She frowned into the spiraling gold wells of his eyes. In her hand, the pencil was heavy, like it was made of stone, and a thousand times larger.

"What is that? Take that from her," Quell ordered.

The two guards surged forward.

Hunter shoved Dee aside and launched at them, knocking the first down with a single square blow.

The other rushed past him and clamped down on Dee's arm.

Hunter whipped around, broke the goon's hold on her, and shoved him away, into the wall.

The first was back up again. He and Hunter grappled.

Dee pointed the pencil at Quell. It quaked in her hand.

"What do you think you're going to do with that?" Quell chuckled. "An unextracted latent? Am I supposed to be—"

"Do your stuff," Dee murmured to the pencil.

A gush of white smoke blasted out of the pencil.

She was thrown against the wall, hitting her head. Her cousin's guitar pick deadened the pain of the impact, but her head spun, her thoughts drifting from her grasp.

A cloud filled the room. Sculpted by an inexplicable wind, it took the shape of a giant tree.

Branches sprouted, spreading up to the ceiling and then curling back down, touching its own roots. It built and built. Huge flakes of snow fell. Kissing her face coldly.

She plucked one from her hair. A snow leaf. It melted in her fingers, numbing the tips.

Hunter, Quell, and the rest were obscured behind the tree-cloud.

Her mind felt packed with leaf-shaped snow. She reached up to touch the back of her head, to check for blood, but she froze.

A bird had flown out of the clouds—or was the bird a cloud, like the tree?

It landed on the floor next to her, solidified, and turned black.

A raven. As big as Crystal.

One penetrating eye gazed at her inquisitively.

Then a massive foot emerged from the tree-cloud.

As the creature stepped out, it shrank to fit into the room and took shape.

A man in primitive leather and a fur-lined cloak, spear in hand, with another raven on his shoulder. He looked down on her with one sparkling, storm-blue eye. His hair and beard remained as white as the cloud still swelling behind him. His other eye socket was an abyss, a deep, dark, unfathomable well. Two massive wolves peeked around his legs.

He spoke in a rumble like mountain thunder. The walls shook.

And she didn't understand a word—so much for the polylinguistic gift.

Dusk scrambled over to her. "Say 'Quell.' Now."

Her head was swimming. "Quell?" she repeated.

Why was Dusk blue? She'd hit her head too hard.

The cloud man spoke again, the reverberation rattling her insides.

"Say my name," Dusk said. "Now."

"Huh?"

He clasped her face in his hands. "Quell is running, he has Crystal. And he will kill her if you don't stop him, now. _Say my name_."

"But my father—"

"Say it!"

"Dusk...?"

He smiled.

The branches of the cloud tree whipped out and encircled him.

"We're always connected, Dark Star," he said as he was enveloped. "Don't forget."

"Dusk?" She reached into the swirl of white. Her hand moved through the cloud, chilling her skin.

Dusk was gone.

The cloud-man was on the move.

Glass shattered in a deafening crash.

She yelped and ducked.

The cloud swept out of the holding cell. The high-pitched screeching of the machine pierced the lingering haze in her head.

As she pushed to her feet, she spied her grandpa's knife on the floor.

Hunter's thoughts sliced into her mind.

" _Scout, you'd better get up before they do!_ "

The remaining wisps of the cloud cleared from the holding cell. Hunter was bashing one of the guard's heads into the wall, repeatedly. The second crawled on his hands and knees and then sprang at Hunter's back, putting him in a choke hold. In the chamber beyond, glass was strewn everywhere. The remaining KETS had been thrown to the ground but were picking themselves up.

The silver-haired stealer was limp.

The cycle had moved on... to her father.

His eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth bared.

From him, a black mist funneled toward the gyroscope.

Her heart leapt.

She staggered to her feet and snatched the knife off the ground.

The room appeared to break apart, one half moving up, the other down.

She struggled to focus on her father.

She _could_ reach him. She _had_ to.

Glass crackled under her feet. She ripped the sheath off the knife. He was just a few feet—

A guard's arm flicked out in front of her, at her collarbone. She slammed into it and was flung onto her back.

A crunch—her mother's glasses. Luckily though, her cousin's pick was still working.

The guard stomped his boot down on her stomach.

She huffed, but suffered nothing more than a dull, albeit uncomfortable, pressure.

She swung the knife up and then down onto his boot, but the blade bounced off.

He sneered down at her. His cheeks were nicked with multiple cuts. A small shard of glass protruded from one of the wounds.

Grabbing his ankle, she tried to throw him off balance. Glass glittered on the sleeves of her jacket, but none of them had cut through.

"Get off!" As she shoved, her gaze flicked beyond him.

She stopped fighting.

Her father was limp.

The cycle had moved on.

The guard stepped on her wrist and ripped the knife away from her.

The pencil remained in her other hand, but only because her fingers were involuntarily locked around it.

He hauled her upright.

She staggered as he dragged her forward, over the field of broken glass, closer to her father, who hung slack in his fetters.

She willed him to look at her. But his skin was violet-gray, his chin rested on his chest.

He didn't move. He didn't look at her. He never would.

"You two find Master Quell," the guard holding Dee ordered.

"What about Hunter?" one growled, picking himself off the floor.

Hunter was still fighting in the far corner, fending off two at once.

"We'll take care of him." He lifted the knife—her grandpa's knife—looked at it and then back at her. "Sorry, beautiful."

He drove the knife toward her throat. 
Chapter 23

**W** ith stealer swiftness, she ducked the blade.

Swinging around, she cracked her elbow against the knife wielder's nose.

He snarled, grip loosening enough that she was able to yank free.

Another lunged for her. She swung wildly at his face. One of her fingers jabbed his eye.

He roared, stumbling.

Dodging around him, she bolted toward the door. Crystal's father and his two assistants were huddled against the wall.

"You have to stop this!" she shouted at them.

Crystal's father stammered. "Once the cycle has begun... it won't ... we can't ."

Verge's eyes widened at her—big black circles of panic. The cycle had already moved on to the fifth stealer. Verge was the ninth.

A scream tugged her attention toward the gaping hole in the wall—where the door had been.

Crystal. Quell had her.

" _Hunter! You have to figure out how to stop the machine!_ " she cried in her head as she raced into the corridor.

" _Busy here_ ," he growled back.

She dashed up the sloping hall, through the darkness, and around a corner.

She stumbled to a halt.

Quell was there.

Skewered to the wall. A wooden spear in his gut. Blood pooled beneath him.

Crystal huddled in the corner by the elevator.

Normally, Dee wasn't squeamish about blood, but she'd never seen so much. She'd never seen it dripping from a dead man's body.

In a daze, she crept toward Crystal, keeping her eyes only on the trembling girl, not on floors covered in blood or walls mounted with corpses.

At the edge of the pool, she held out her hand. "Come on." Her voice sounded weak and wispy. "We have to go."

She tried not to breathe, but that hot metallic tang snuck up on her anyway. How much blood was she going to have to smell today? Unlike Hunter's blood, which had pumped through her like adrenaline, tingling and heating and invigorating, Quell's left her head spinning and her stomach heaving.

Had _she_ done this? Somehow? She couldn't quite recall. Where was Dusk? He'd been there, but then... All she could remember was a thick white mist... smoke?

Crystal didn't move. She was splattered in turquoise and red—Quell's blood. Her eyes were glassy, shocked. She looked like she'd been pinned to the wall too.

"Crystal!" Dee took a step into the crimson puddle. "Dollface! We have to go! We have to save the stealers—Verge!"

_"Grab her and run!"_ Hunter barked in her head.

Despite the assertion that he couldn't take on six hunters, he had successfully incapacitated five of them. The last was giving him trouble because the guy still had Dee's knife—and because Hunter was so battered and exhausted he was about to collapse.

Spurred by Hunter's urgency, she surged forward, into the slick of blood, and seized Crystal's hand, dragging her away from the wall.

"Wait!" Crystal jerked away.

She turned to Quell.

"We don't have—"

With tentative fingers, she gripped Quell's hand and yanked at a ring on his finger.

The ring came off and so did Quell.

The spear groaned as Quell dropped to the floor. Blood splashed. All over them.

Dee didn't know whether to scream or puke. Maybe both.

Then the elevator doors opened.

She spun.

The two KETS who had carried off Wave froze. Behind them, four more guards—the rest of Hunter's squad, minus Wave.

Dee slid back, groping for Crystal. "Go! Help the others!"

Crystal hesitated only a second before she raced away, back down the corridor, toward her father and Verge.

Dee grabbed the spear that protruded from Quell's body and yanked. It slid easily from him, without a sound. She pointed the spear at the KETS. They tensed, but didn't move.

She was about to tell them to push the button for the basement when Hunter interjected.

" _Say what I say._ "

" _What good is—_ "

But his words plowed into her head.

Trying to keep up, she stammered, "Chase, Tagger."

The two at the front of the pack flinched back from her.

"I know what you're thinking," she said in a rush. "But I've been blood-bound to Hunter. You can tell, I know you can. Listen to me, my words are his. Chase, you've always had doubts about what has become of our people..." She fumbled with the stream of Hunter's thoughts. "You were right. The old ways have been corrupted. Whatever they were, they aren't anymore. They probably won't ever be again. But what is now isn't right. Quell is dead. This is one of those moments you called... huh?" Hunter's thoughts were coming so quickly they began to bleed together.

Chase took a step forward. "The sacrificial keystone."

"Right, that..." She huffed. The spear was heavier than it looked. "His point is things are changing. He thinks you might help us stop Eclipse."

"Why would we do that?" Tagger asked.

Hunter was grumbling. Her mind was too muddled to work out the muddle of reasons and threats pouring from him.

"Because..." She pushed Hunter's thoughts aside with a shake of her head. "I'm going to win. Don't believe me? Ask him." She cocked her head at Quell. "Help us or stay out of our way. Hunter doesn't want to hurt you, but he will."

"And what does he think _I_ will do?" a voice said from around the corner—the hall leading up to Eclipse's observation room.

Her grip on the spear tightened. She backed up, out of Quell's blood.

Eclipse strolled into view, stopping outside of spear-thrusting range. He gazed at Quell, tears in his gray eyes. The sight of Eclipse grieving nearly made her drop her weapon.

"No more loyal a man will you ever meet," Eclipse eulogized.

She had to remind herself Eclipse had almost killed her and _had_ killed her father—and was about to kill Verge.

She called out to Hunter. He didn't answer her.

Wanting nothing more than to race back to him and Crystal, she hoped they were working out a way to free the last of the stealers. Apparently, she and her spear were going to have to hold Eclipse and the KETS back on their own.

His attention swung back in her direction. "Arrest her."

Some of the KETS started forward, but Chase and Tagger flung out their arms, stopping them.

"Impressive," Eclipse said. "The power of the blood rite sways them. The rituals of Before continue to resonate, no matter how obsolete they've become. You're clever to exploit them."

"I'm not exploiting anything." She slid out of the blood, keeping one eye on the KETS and the other on Eclipse. " _You're_ the one murdering people."

"A noble sacrifice, not murder," Eclipse said. "They give so the rest of us may thrive."

She desperately tried to tap into Hunter, but received only a hazy, pained sensation—everywhere.

"And from what I see, you're the one holding the weapon," he said. "You're the one covered in blood. Did you know that Quell had a wife and children? How I dread having to tell them what violence was inflicted upon him... and when he was defenseless."

"Your hunters were going to cut my throat!"

"Is it any wonder? Look what you've done. You've broken up the finest squad in the Crescent, brought to this peaceful place unprecedented violence and bloodshed, and you've murdered one of our most respected leaders and one of my dearest friends..." His voice broke. "Aren't you ashamed? Are you so selfish and coldhearted that you feel no remorse for the unrest you have incited? And to what end?"

Dee thrust the bloodstained spearpoint at Eclipse. "You killed my father! You held him here against his will and you tortured him. You stole his Mark! Are _you_ ashamed? Do _you_ feel any remorse?"

He held up his hands as if surrendering.

"Of course, I am. Certainly, I do," he said, seeming sincere. "Do you think this decision came easily? Do you think that I do not, every night, lose sleep? How much more complicated life has become, here, in the After. The Spirit Mark saved us from extinction, and yet"—he shook his head ruefully—"we were irrecoverably altered by that salvation. Distinctions that had once been less defined—leader, sage, hunter, scout—have become divisive. Once they served us. Now they separate us. This decision came after long counsel with seers and sages and leaders alike. It came from hearing the cries of pain and suffering endured by the stealers at the Boats year after year. Finally, I realized what had set us on this path and brought us to this place. The Mark. That gift of a spirit—an Unraveler, the undoers of existence. Why should it be surprising that a gift from such a creature should bring us here, to this?"

He gestured to her, spear-grasping and blood-spattered.

He pressed his hands together in front of him. "For the loss of your father, I am culpable. You are right to judge me guilty. But before you pass sentence, know that his life lost means many more will be saved. I did what was deemed best for the many, at the expense of a few. That is the burden I bear. Can you say what choice you would have made in my place?"

From behind them, Crystal's voice was hard and clear. "I would've chosen not to defile the gift of the Higher Order."

Dee glanced back. Crystal and her father stood behind her.

Had they saved Verge? What about the others? Where was Hunter? Dusk?

Eclipse's face hardened. "Moss, shouldn't you be attending—"

"My daughter's right." Moss cut in. "I should've allowed you to end my life, as you threatened to do, rather than submit. But the Higher Order will render justice upon us for what we've done."

And then he rushed at Eclipse.

Crystal seized Dee's arm, tugging, as Moss launched at Eclipse. The KETS stood by, watching, not interceding.

"Hurry," Crystal said.

"Did your father stop the cycle?" Dee asked as they raced back.

"He can't !" Crystal huffed. "We tried. But listen, there still might be a way—"

"Did you try to cut them down?"

"With what?"

Dee growled. "There has to be something!"

"Oh, just shut up and listen!"

They entered the chamber again, the eighth stealer sagged.

The gyroscope spun toward Verge. 
Chapter 24

**C** rystal shoved Dee forward. "Go! Put your back between it and Verge!"

"Are you warped?"

Crystal's eyes were both hard and pleading. "You have to trust me!"

Hissing, Dee leapt forward, dropping the spear, and grabbed hold of the metal frame that secured Verge's bonds.

She whipped around, slamming into Verge's back, throwing her arms over his shoulders.

The Mark-thieving beam struck her.

Warm pressure prickled over her back.

The whirring buzz pitched into a higher register, like a scream. Then it dropped into a low, winding-down groan.

Had her lack of a Mark somehow broken the cycle?

Sometimes insanity works.

And then again...

A rumbling roar, like the approach of a house-thieving tornado, filled her ears from the inside out.

She screamed, or she thought she did.

Then she wasn't thinking anymore, she couldn't.

Pain—being cored by gnawing rodents or having all her organs vacuumed out. It pushed her to the edge and beyond... Darkness.

Endless, silent.

And then, slowly, sound began to return.

The high-pitched whine was drowned out by a throat-tearing scream.

_She_ was screaming.

She collapsed.

Agony echoed through her. Her mouth tasted like ash. A deathly chill rocketed through her in icy blasts.

Eclipse stepped over her to the gyroscope. His hands were outstretched.

"No," he pleaded. "No."

She flopped over onto her side.

The fallen spear rolled against her.

Verge still hung from the ropes, his Mark intact.

Somehow, she picked up the spear and rose to her feet, moving like a marionette, hovering over her own body, pulling the strings.

Lifting the spear, she sliced through Verge's bonds with four sure, quick swipes.

So much for Weaver's Thread.

"You." Eclipse shot the accusation at her back.

She turned, seeing him from above and below and all around, but not quite through her own eyes, which were too blurry to be of any use.

He strode forward and slapped her once and then twice. Again. And again.

He struck her until she was on her knees and the strings between her hovering self and her body were disconnected.

Tearing the spear from her hands, he turned the point to her throat.

"For interfering with the decree of the Keystone and the Sage's Council, I sentence you to death," he pronounced. "A death too swift and painless in light of the crime you have committed."

He drew the spear back.

From seemingly very far away, Crystal screamed, "No!"

She watched from outside herself, unable to reattach the strings that might've allowed her to move.

Someone pushed her aside, landing hard on top of her.

Verge's shoulder crushed against her sternum.

In his other shoulder, the spear.

She could feel her heart beating again—zipping like a spooked slug.

Verge pressed a silver jar against her chest.

He grimaced around the gag in his mouth as he fell onto his back, tears running down his cheeks.

She groped for the jar. With fumbling fingers, she tugged out the stopper.

Green light fell over her face.

"No latent is going to save you." Eclipse tore the jar from her hand. "No matter how potent."

"Too true, Your Eminence." Nid inched out of the bottle and onto Eclipse's finger. "If only I were able to leave you to your business, but alas, a promise has been made and so it must be that this scout is returned safely to her home world. As she's already been damaged, I'm compelled to intervene to prevent any further injury that might interfere with the fulfillment of my vow."

Motionless, Eclipse stared down at his finger, as if Nid's presence alone were paralytic. A faint squeak slipped from His Eminence's throat.

"And as I'm sure you know, Your Eminence, a promise," Nid said, cat-curl smile in his voice, "is a bond, even I cannot break."

Nid vanished.

Eclipse stood there, gaping.

A second later, Nid reappeared, clinging to Eclipse's earlobe.

"Run, Your Eminence," Nid said, "your part is played."

Winking out, Nid appeared again on Dee's knee.

Eclipse took a step back, his eyes round as quarters.

And then he turned and ran.

The room seemed to shrink.

Dee's chest constricted. She sucked in sharp spikes of air, each one hurting more than the last. As pain began to well up from within her, dark shadows ate away at her vision. Verge lay beside her, groaning through his gag. Crystal was calling to her. But Dee couldn't answer. Her mouth was full of iron shavings.

Where was Hunter? She couldn't hear him. She couldn't feel him.

At last, she allowed her eyes to close, as they'd been trying to do for what seemed a very long time.

Nid's voice came to her in a smiling whisper. "Little scout, little scout, what is _this_ ... all about?"

Her vision was bleary, cloud-streaked, her tongue sluggish in her mouth. She tried to lift her head, failing.

But the attempt dispelled the heaviness weighing her down, though it left her as limp as cut thread. Then the aches began. One after another, they piled upon her like snowfall—the kind that buries a person and suffocates them.

She groaned. " _Blar gar be_."

"What?" Verge's voice sounded distant.

"She wants to know where we are," Hunter said darkly. "We're nowhere, scout." His voice dropped. "Worse than nowhere."

Grimacing, she finally lifted her head.

At the end of the hard, wall-mounted cot, Hunter. He was sprawled, his arms crossed and his legs thrown wide. The blood had been cleaned from his face, which was bruised but not swollen. She couldn't tell if the relentless ache she felt was her own or his.

The room was clearly a prison cell—if white walls, no windows, and a door with no handle were any indication.

On a cot opposite, Crystal was huddled, peering at Dee over her arms.

Beside her, across from Dee, and as far from Hunter as he could be given the confined space, Verge.

Her head began to throb. Hunter's flurry of emotions pounded against her. Luckily, he was keeping his thoughts to himself. His rage and frustration were enough.

"Why shouldn't I be angry?" he growled. "Look what you did!" He flung his arm out at the room, at the others.

Crystal tucked deeper into the corner.

"Have you forgotten that you're in here with us, meathead?" Verge said. "Not out there with them? Maybe you should pull that Unpenetrate up over your mouth."

Hunter's anger flared to a blistering temperature.

Dee groaned as the conflicting emotions toward Verge, hers and Hunter's, clashed like two cars in a head-on collision.

"Watch it, stealer," Hunter snarled at Verge. "I may not be a KETS anymore, but I can still smear you into slug slime."

"You should be thanking me for saving your scout."

Crystal let out a heavy sigh. "Would you two please...?"

Hunter snorted at Verge. "Saved her for what? Execution?"

The words started as a gurgle in the back of Dee's throat and burst out like a geyser. "Shut up!"

They fell silent.

Squeezing her eyes shut, the last of the pain settled. Every part of her hurt, even her hair. Her skin felt like it had been stripped off and then reattached in a size too small. And yet, after what she'd been through, she was surprised it wasn't worse.

She started to sit up.

Verge reached out to help her, but Hunter growled at him, and Verge sank back, hands balling into fists.

She met Verge's gaze.

No more sunburn tingle. Did that mean their "tryst" was over? Although... he _was_ still cute.

Hunter's head fell into his hands. A fresh torrent of frustration poured off him.

She tore reluctantly away from Verge's gaze. "What's happening? Where are we?"

"We're waiting for the Sage's Council," Crystal replied. Splotches of blue paint stained her clothes, but her hair and face were clean.

Dee scooted to the edge of the cot. Her clothes were crusted with dried blood. It looked like someone had washed their skin, healed their wounds, and then put them back in the same dirty clothes.

"We're in a holding room," Verge told her. "Nice, huh? I spent a little bit of time here after you assaulted me and unfairly came away with my box."

"It wasn't _your_ box."

"I stole it," he said. "It _was_ mine."

"They were going to make a dream catcher out of you," she said. "The box had nothing to do with it. Besides, I didn't take it—"

"You didn't properly steal it," he cut in, "you jumped on me."

She was about to say he was a sore loser, but Hunter grabbed her arm and yanked her around so they were eye to eye.

"Don't make me get inside your head," he said through clenched teeth.

"Aren't you already?" she asked. "Did you turn it off? How?"

"It's called focus," he said.

"Great." She pried at his fingers. "Want to ease up?"

Gradually, he released her.

"How long have I been out?" she asked.

"Six hours," he said.

"How can you tell?" Verge asked. "It feels like we've been in here for years."

Hunter's lip curled, though he never looked away from Dee. "I can tell."

"The Sage's Council has been waiting for you to wake up." Crystal uncurled slightly. "They want to hear what you have to say."

"What _I_ have to say?" She looked from Crystal back to Hunter.

"They've been withholding judgment until they hear your testimony," Crystal said.

"Testimony about what?"

"About the insurrection you led," Hunter said in a flat tone.

She gazed at him blankly.

"Insur-what?"

"Insurrection, it means—" Crystal began.

"I know what it means!" She raked her hands into her hair, realizing then that it was loose. All the pins were gone, along with the latents. "Where are my latents?"

"The council took them," Crystal said.

"Your latents are the least of our problems," Hunter said.

She sat up straighter. He was right. "Where's Nid?"

They recoiled, even Hunter.

Just then, a shiver-inducing tickle on her back.

"Hope you don't mind." Nid inched over her hip and onto her thigh. "I was exploring your new depths."

Hunter slid to the other end of the cot. Verge and Crystal pressed into their respective corners.

"My new depths?" she asked.

"I required a hiding place until you were once again conscious. I did promise to see you home. Although I'd say you are more than capable of transporting yourself now. Your Mark is quite... unusual."

"What are you talking about? I don't have..." Then she realized she wasn't wearing her jacket anymore. She stood, twisting, and caught a glimpse of something black on her lower back, where her scars had been.

A Spirit Mark. 
Chapter 25

**S** he ran her hand over the smooth skin on her back.

Goose bumps raced over her.

The scars were gone.

The Mark felt like skin, but was more sensitive—much more. She pulled her hand away, her breath short and her head hazy.

"How...?"

Nid worked his way up her body, settling on her shoulder.

"You interrupted the cycle"—Crystal sat forward, suddenly animated—"when you saved Verge."

She stared at Crystal. "You knew?"

Crystal blushed. "Not exactly. My father. He knew your Mark had been removed. He said it was possible since the access point to your gift—the Mark—was gone, but the gift remained, that the beam might respond by reversing and—"

"Restoring my Mark." She dropped back onto the cot. Her words turned thick, her eyes stinging. "The Marks that were stolen from the others."

From her father.

A vicious wave of grief rose up, choking her. Taking a deep breath, she swallowed it back, brushing away the tears that had broken through.

"Okay, so... I have a Mark." She fixed on Verge. "And you have a Mark. Why don't we just shift out of here?"

"Can't," he said grimly, waving his hand at the walls around them. "Weaver's Thread cell."

"There are ways," Nid said. "These threads are not so potent as the ones you bound me with earlier."

Verge's face paled and he flattened against the wall. "Sorry about that."

Nid ignored him. "Do you still wish to return home, little scout? Or can I consider my end of our agreement fulfilled? If I linger here much longer... Not that I wish to conceal my involvement. It's important they know I was here. That this was me." That unnerving curl turned up the edges of his words again, making Dee want to brush him off her shoulder—quickly.

"Of course I want to go home," she said. "I _have_ to go home."

"You're going back to the Waste World?" Verge's white brows lofted.

"Of course I am," she said. "That's all I've been trying to do this entire time."

He made a face at her.

"Well, I saved you, didn't I?" she said.

"And what about...?" He tipped his chin up toward Hunter.

She gripped the hard edge of the cot. "What about him?"

"Well... you're blood-bonded, right?" His dark eyes gleamed. "So..."

"So what?"

He leaned his elbows on his knees. "They're going to execute us, you know that?"

Dee glanced at Crystal. The girl's face was as white as the walls. Her silver eyes, half-hidden under her bangs, were red-rimmed.

She didn't look at Hunter, even as she spoke to him. "Is that true?"

He'd shut her out. She couldn't hear his thoughts or feel his emotions. She should've been happy to finally be alone with herself again, but she wasn't, and that just made her hate him all the more.

"I didn't do this on purpose—" she started.

Hunter spun on her, eyes boiling. "Yes, you did. You came here for _him_ "—he thrust his arm in Verge's direction. Verge flinched back—"and for _that_." His gaze narrowed at Nid. "You came here to destroy His Eminence's work."

"His _work_?" Grief compressed the anger, making it hotter and harder. "You mean killing people? Killing my father?"

"Killing your father to save hundreds, thousands, of others," Hunter spat, not backing down. "Have you ever been to the Boats? Do you know what they do to stealers?"

Her gaze flicked to Crystal, who was staring hard at the floor.

The memory of the dying stealer they'd met came back to Dee—his empty eyes, his gaunt face, the Void... But the image of him butted up against the one of her father, the man she'd never known because Eclipse had locked him up for the last seventeen years, only to kill him before Dee even had a chance...

"I'm sorry," Hunter said tightly, like he didn't want to be saying it, "about your father, but—"

"But what?" she cut in. "Too bad? You're telling me that killing my father was the only way to put an end to what your people do to the stealers on the Boats?"

Hunter growled, frustrated, threatening, but she wasn't intimidated.

"I don't accept that," she said.

His jaw bunched, his cheekbones grew sharper.

"You want to stop enslaving stealers on the Boats?" she said. "Then stop. You don't need to kill my father or anyone else to do it."

"You don't understand," Crystal said.

"You're right," she said. "I don't understand this world, and I don't want to. I don't want anything to do with it."

"Is it time then?" Nid asked, sounding bored.

"Go then," Hunter snapped. "Run. That's what a stealer does best."

"Actually, we steal best," Verge said.

Hunter's glare turned deadly. Though Hunter still wore his mask, and Verge couldn't have seen his eyes, the stealer shrank.

She wanted to leave. She wanted to go home. She'd helped Verge, like Dusk had told her...

Her chest hitched. "Dusk."

Crystal straightened up. "What happened to him?"

She shook her head. "I don't know." Straining, she searched her memory. But it was too much a blur. She turned to Hunter. "You don't remember?"

He shook his head. "There were clouds and then... he was gone."

Clouds... and snow. But that couldn't be right... could it?

Tears slipped down Crystal's cheeks. She swiped at them viciously. "We're all going to be executed anyway—"

"You're not going to be executed," Dee said.

"I thought you were leaving," Verge said, sprawling lazily on the cot, eyeing her.

"I'm not going to leave you all to be executed," she said.

"What do you think you can do about it?" Hunter asked. "I knew you were going to get us all killed. Your seer friend is already dead—"

Crystal hugged her knees tighter to her chest, letting her forehead fall to them.

"Now the rest of us are about to join him." Hunter's shoulders drooped. "Maybe it's better..."

Furious tears. "Better than what?"

He turned his face away.

Crystal lifted her head. "Maybe if you speak to the Sage's Council, explain to them, everything—"

Verge was grim. "She killed Quell."

" _She_ didn't do it," Crystal said. "I told them that. There was... a man... I think." Her brow furrowed. "Or something. It's all so hazy now."

Verge sat up straighter. "Let's face it. We're all going to have our necks broken. Quell's dead. Somebody has to pay. And it's going to be us."

Hunter surged to his feet and slammed his fist into the door.

Crystal flinched.

Dee stood up too. "Would you stop punching things?"

He glowered at her. "Would you prefer I punch people?"

"Go ahead, punch me," she said. "I'm the one you want to hit anyway, right? I'm the one who ruined your perfect little subservient life. Not that I came here to ruin anything or hurt anyone. All I wanted was to find what was _stolen_ from me"—she shot Verge a scathing look, which made him grin for some infuriating reason—"and go home."

"Then go!"

"And what? Leave the rest of you here to die for something I did, even if I didn't mean to do it?"

Hunter spun, head and fists pressing against the wall. Every muscle under his painted-on suit flexed.

Guilt-sauce. They all looked so helpless, so hopeless. Dollface and Verge. For some reason—blood-bond?—Hunter's despair was the worst of all.

"Would it make a difference if I went to these sage guys and told them that it was me?" she asked. "All me. My idea, my plan, my mistakes?"

"Not for me," Verge muttered. "They'll probably kill me regardless."

Hunter spoke to the wall. "I don't have anything I want to live for."

His words hurt—a lot.

"Well, if the rest of you are going to die, then"—she plunked back down onto the cot—"I guess I am too."

"Unfortunately, I cannot allow that to happen," Nid said. She'd almost forgotten he was there. "I have a promise to keep, if you recall?"

"Well, can't I release you from it?" she asked.

"Oh, I suppose, you could... But why don't you ask me to help you? Why don't you ask me to help all of your friends here?"

"Help us?" she asked. "How?"

"I promised I would get you home safely, did I not?"

"Yeah."

"And you're determined that you will stay here and be put to death, along with your friends, unless you can be assured that they will not be harmed by this... council."

"Yeah?"

That curled-edged smile was in his voice again. "Then it's settled."

Hunter swiveled around, hands raised in a halting gesture. "Wait—"

But Nid was gone.

Hunter's hands raked into his hair. "What have you done?" 
Chapter 26

**H** unter's glare turned her blood to ice water. Crystal huddled in the corner, tighter than ever. Verge was perched on the cot, gaze darting between Dee and Hunter.

She stood with her back to the wall, thumping her fist against her thigh, waiting for Nid to return, waiting for someone to come take her to the Sage's Council, waiting for... something.

But nothing happened, other than her bond attempting to reach out to Hunter, to reconnect, which it did whether she wanted it to or not. But it kept running up against a cold, black wall.

She wondered how he'd managed to shut her out, even while she could feel him in her head, picking through her thoughts and emotions at will.

Her ears started to ring.

For a moment, she thought she was starting to hear Hunter's thoughts again.

The most twisted part? She was relieved.

But it wasn't her ears ringing, or the incursion of Hunter's thoughts.

It was a bell. A far-off tolling.

She tilted her head. "Do you hear—"

A flash of Hunter's rage speared through her, cutting off her words.

"Hey!" she cried.

Verge stood. "I hear it."

Hunter was flooding her with black poison—the worst kind of cold rage, freezing her from the inside out.

"The bells," he said in a voice that made every part of her lock up. "They're ringing."

Crystal scooted to the edge of the cot. "The bells? But that can't be—"

"Someone's coming," Verge said.

Hunter stepped away from the door.

The lock thunked. The door opened. When it did, the bells were much clearer—a deep chorus of steady, drawn-out clangs. The entire Crescent must've been able to hear them.

Hunter backed up as another KETS filled up the doorway. "Tagger?"

Tagger, the stouter member of the duo who'd held back the squad in the elevator when Dee had confronted Eclipse, stood charily in the door.

"What's happened?" Hunter asked.

"The Sage's Council," Tagger said. "They're gone."

"Gone?" Crystal stood up. "What do you mean 'gone'?"

Tagger shook his head, seeming to look at Hunter. "What do we do?"

"The other ministers—"

"They're running," Tagger said. "Everybody's running. Chase is trying to keep the squad together, but... the bells are ringing."

"If you don't mind." Verge slipped through the narrow gap between Hunter and Crystal, brushing by Tagger, who moved aside without a word, allowing Verge into the hall. "I'm not hanging around." He turned, facing them, still backing up. "Crystal, you can come with me if you want."

She looked from him to Hunter and then to Dee. "I have to find my father."

Verge nodded, then met Dee's gaze again. He winked at her. "Maybe I'll see you in the next world, Star. When Time starts again."

Then he bolted.

The air around Hunter seemed to tremble. "Get the squad together. Meet me at Nine Yard, got it?"

Tagger nodded, vaguely, dazed.

"Go. Now."

Tagger winced, gave a more definite nod, and took off down the hall. Then the corridor was empty, the air trembling with the bells' rising and falling peals.

Crystal edged out the door. "I need to find my father," she repeated.

Hunter turned, slowly, to Dee. He was stone-faced. Nothing was coming through, not even a whisper... and then...

Pain.

She cried out, crumpling.

Agony sliced through her. Her veins... They were being eaten, split apart, infested with barbed worms—burrowing, twisting, gnawing.

"Dee?" Crystal's voice was far away, like it was coming from another room, behind closed doors. "Dee?"

Her heart couldn't find its rhythm. Her throat closed. She couldn't breathe, not even to scream.

"Hunter?" Crystal asked. "What are you doing? Stop!"

Is that what this was?

Him? Inside her? Using their bond?

To kill her?

Shadows crawled across her vision. And then a glowing green speck appeared.

The glow grew and grew, chasing away the darkness. Not just chasing it, consuming it, destroying it.

Green light coursed through her. But it didn't stop the pain. It replaced Hunter's—pain defeating pain. But the new one was worse.

It was emptiness.

It was... unraveling.

Her body, her mind, herself, they were nothing but ropes and knots, waiting to be undone. _She_ could undo them. She could rip right through them. Not only hers, but all of theirs and everything. All of the bonds holding the entire world together—so fragile, so easily destroyed.

Hunter was using their bond to hurt, to kill. The bond in her blood.

Either she could bleed or he could.

Making him bleed was so simple.

The binding of his skin was loose and flimsy.

All she had to do was think it and his skin would dissolve... unravel.

Hunter's attack ceased.

But the pain of it remained. Every vein, bruised. Her very heart...

And then she felt him, writhing, screaming, because of her. She was attacking him, grasping at the fabric of his being, at the threads.

From some dark, dark well within her, hollow whisper told her to finish it, to undo him.

Unravel him.

She shut out the voice, turned away from the green light flooding her vision.

Gasping, she came back to herself.

Once again, she was flat on the floor. Arms shaking, she pushed up, panting.

Hunter was on the floor too, his chest heaving, sweat rolling down his face.

His eyes were cold and hard and... terrified.

"You're a monster," he breathed.

He shoved up to his feet, pushed past Crystal, and ran. 
Chapter 27

**T** here was something very twisted about this blood-bond thing.

Even though Hunter had tried to murder her, she wanted to find him and apologize.

But what did she have to apologize for?

Defending herself? Not that she was entirely sure what she had done... In truth, she was trying hard not to think about it.

It was time to go home.

That tingle-tug of her "gift" led her through the empty corridor of the Apex—to her latents.

Trailing behind her, Crystal was a tiny pale ghost spattered with blue paint and blood.

As Dee strode through broad, circular moonlike doors, down and down winding stairways, Dusk's voice haunted her.

_We're all connected._

They were all knotted threads. Somehow, she'd been able to see those threads, like she had when she'd mended the ones between Dusk and Crystal. Except these new ones were different, more complex, yet more fundamental, just... more. And she hadn't been mending them.

A nauseous tremor passed through her. A cold sweat on her palms. She hadn't come here to kill anyone. She hadn't meant to. And it wasn't her fault, what had happened with Hunter. _He'd_ attacked _her_.

Tears built in her throat, around her eyes, but she tensed against them, stubbornly refusing to feel any remorse.

She was done with this world. So very done.

Then she was at a wide-open doorway. Beyond, a dimly lit rotunda.

Radiant orbs were lodged in the otherwise black dome above, like stars. More pale light rose up from the seams, shadows running from the great heights, down the smooth gray walls like water stains. In the midst was a black, crescent-shaped table. Behind it, nine empty chairs. On its glossy surface, her latents: the broken glasses, the pick, the sewing needle, the lighter, Felix, and the pencil.

She hurried forward to collect them.

"It's true," Crystal said.

She turned. "What?"

Crystal leaned against the doorjamb. "The bells."

"What about them?"

Silver eyes fogged by exhaustion. "The bells ring at the end."

"The end of what?"

"Time."

"You mean, like... the end of the world?" she asked.

"Yes," Crystal said, "and no."

Her fingers twitched to gather her latents. Her head was one clanging bruise. Hunter was gone. Dusk was gone. Her father was gone.

Everything hurt. She was nothing but ache.

She didn't belong here. She'd never belonged here. This entire mess was proof of that.

"But you'll..." Dee swallowed. "You'll be okay, right?"

Crystal gazed at her for a long moment.

Dee didn't know how she could feel worse than she did already, and yet...

"I have to go home." She began picking up the latents, tucking them into her pockets hurriedly, like someone might stop her. But there was no one to stop her. Except Crystal.

Guilt swelled in her chest, pressing heavily upon her heart.

"I have to. I—"

"Run away, stealer." Crystal pushed away from the doorjamb. "That's what you're best at."

"Dollface—" Dee turned, but the girl was already gone.

Nid's voice sounded from all around her. "Finally."

A green circle appeared beneath her.

And she fell and fell and fell.

"Oh, my goodness! Where on earth did you come from?" Mrs. Jensen clunked her walker around and peered at Dee behind cat-eyed, jewel-studded glasses. "Why you just—I just—What are you doing there?"

Dee grimaced and pushed up onto her elbows, squinting against the shafts of light slipping through the gaps in the lilacs. "Sorry, Mrs. Jensen."

"Well, you did startle me." Mrs. Jensen adjusted her glasses. "My gracious! What's happened to you?"

Dee sat up. "I fell."

"Do you need help? I should call your grandfather—"

"No, it's all right." Dee stood. Her body felt heavier than before, and she struggled to stay upright.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm fine," Dee said, tottering.

Mrs. Jensen gasped. "What is _that_ on your back?"

For a second, she thought Mrs. Jensen was referring to her scars. She touched her back. The hollow pain inside redoubled, sucking at her, threatening to pull her down into the black well where all things came undone.

"It's paint." She quickly staggered away, toward home.

Sunlight shone glaringly over the neighborhood. A terrible acrid stench ate at Dee's nose and tongue, like she'd been licking burnt tires. The air reeked of melted plastic and too-sweet chemical fertilizers. Everything was smudgy as if it were all faintly glowing and slightly melted. She squinted to keep the world the way she remembered it, without the wavering auras and the house-of-mirrors effects.

Finally, she made it home.

Fumbling, she picked up the fake rock by the steps, removing the hidden key.

She grabbed at the doorknob, but then everything hit her all at once.

Slumping onto the front step, she sobbed.

The pain and grief, and the relief. She wasn't certain she'd ever be able to stop crying.

"Dee?" Danny's voice was so soft she probably wouldn't have heard him without her stealer-hearing.

She lifted her head, wiping her eyes.

Danny pulled back, like he wished he could go back in time and avoid her.

"Hey, Danny," she said.

"Hey." He rocked his bike back and forth between his legs. "Um... are you okay?"

"No."

"I was thinking," he said, after an awkward moment, "that maybe I could get my pencil back?"

She reached into one of her many pockets and pulled out the pencil.

It sat on her palm, dark as an empty well, heavy as a broken heart.

"Of course you can have it back." She held it out to him. "It was always yours."

Flipping down his kickstand, he left his bike and approached her tentatively. He plucked the pencil from her hand and scurried back. Once it was in his possession, he relaxed and smiled a little.

"Thanks for picking it up." He cleared his throat. "And for... you know, sticking up for me."

She attempted a smile, but couldn't tell if she was successful or not. "No problem. And you know, I wouldn't throw that pencil away, even if you can't get it to work again."

He cocked his head. "Did you get new contacts?"

"I don't wear glasses."

His brow pinched. "You must be wearing contacts."

"Why?"

He frowned. "Are you making fun of me?"

She shook her head. "I wouldn't..." She hesitated. "Is there... something different?"

He looked her over. "What have you been doing?" His nose crinkled in a way that reminded her of Crystal and nearly made her break down in tears again. "What are you wearing? Is that blood?"

"Paint." Her stomach knotted at the thought of all of Quell's dried blood on her clothes. "I've been painting."

"Oh." He mounted his bike again and turned it back toward the road. "You look... different. Not just your eyes."

"My eyes are different?" she asked weakly. But seeing his annoyed frown again, she added, "I mean, of course they're different. I was just... waiting to see if anybody would notice."

"Hard not to notice," he said. "I've never seen eyes _that_ green before." He smirked. "Radioactive."

Her head felt as though it were emptying out. "My eyes are green?"

He gazed at her over his shoulder, thoughtful. "Did you get in a fight?"

Tears threatening to spill out again, she ducked her head. "Yeah."

"Are you okay?"

She shrugged.

"You want me to find someone for you?" he asked. "Your mom? Your grandpa?"

She shook her head.

"It wasn't Sly, was it?"

She shook her head again.

"Did you win?"

She stared blankly at the crack in the concrete between her feet—a black fissure in white stone. "I guess."

"Oh," he said. "Good. You just... You don't look like you won." 
Chapter 28

**"L** ast day of school." Laura grinned as they walked out of the building into the warmth of the afternoon. "I thought it would _never_ end."

Dee gave Laura a tight smile.

"Aw, come on," Laura said. "If the last day of school doesn't make you happy, what will?"

"I am happy," Dee said.

"Oh, and I believe you." Laura rolled her eyes. "When are you going snap out of this?"

Dee stepped back from the rowdy flow of traffic spilling around them. A gaggle of freshmen hooted, running full speed out of the front doors and into the parking lot, testing the driving skills of the upperclassmen. The buses hadn't arrived yet. Taking shelter in the shade of a nearby tree, Dee did her best to blend into the shadows—which, thanks to her stealer abilities, she was pretty good at. Laura let her backpack fall to the grass. Attached to the zipper was a rubbery, giggling Felix.

"Honestly, Dee, it's not healthy, this... whatever this is." She moved closer, lowering her voice. "What _is_ this?"

"It's nothing."

"It's been nothing for months. You act like somebody died... Did somebody die?" Laura's eyes widened with concern. They were darker than Hunter's, but every time Dee looked at a pair of brown eyes for too long, she choked up.

When would the ache go away?

"No one died," she said. Except Quell, and nine sages, and eight stealers... including her father.

Sunlight glinted off the cars, a line of fiberglass in every color snaking up the hill to the stop light—and summer beyond. Dee hated to admit it, but she was going to miss school. At least in school she had something to distract her. Lately, she'd been a perfect student. All A's. She accepted every bit of extra credit offered and spent hours on her assignments. Anything to keep her mind off Hunter and Dusk and her father—all of it.

She hadn't been able to tell her mom what had happened, not really. And though she'd thought she wanted to talk to her mother, about a million things, when the time had come, she hadn't been able to. But she couldn't hide her new eye color or the Mark. Her mom had figured it out. She knew enough about the Crescent to guess. And her mom had admitted that removing Dee's Mark had been to protect her from becoming lost in the pathways, or worse, captured by a hunter and forced to work, the way River had been. It had all spilled out, punctuated with tearful apologies. But Dee hadn't been angry. Forgiving her mom had been easy. All she had to do was think about all her own guilt.

As much as she'd wanted to, she couldn't tell her mom about what had happened. Not specifically. Not even about her father. She tried... but every time she choked. The words wouldn't come.

Dee's grandma, on the other hand, _wanted to talk_. She wanted to call the authorities. Which authorities exactly, she never said, but she was persistent. She wanted to take Dee to the hospital, but Dee refused. She wanted to know what had happened to Dee's eyes. But Dee wouldn't say. She'd screamed her head off when she saw the Mark. Sometimes, Dee thought it would be nice to scream _her_ head off—cathartic—but she couldn't bring herself to try.

At home, she mostly sat with her grandpa on the back patio. He never asked questions or screamed. She could sit next to him and cry. He never asked why. She was grateful for that.

Besides school, there was only one thing that kept her distracted, and strangely enough, it came from the Crescent.

A rumble of a motor grew louder, drowning out the shouts of glee and squeals of bus brakes.

Laura squinted at the road. "What the...?"

The students milling around the front of the school, waiting for their buses, turned.

A leather-clad figure on a black motorcycle raced at teeth-biting speed down the hill, past the line of exiting cars. He whipped around the parking lot and pulled up in front. Dee felt a wonderful surge of pure irritation.

"Who is that?" Laura asked, but Dee was already stalking over.

Verge took off his helmet.

"I told you not to come here," she said.

He grinned. "Yeah, you did."

"You can't park here. More buses are coming." Every single person behind her seemed to be watching. The weight of their stares only made her annoyance grow hotter.

The bike gleamed, the chrome polished to a mirror-finish, the paint as black as his eyes and almost as wicked.

"Did you steal this?" she asked.

His mouth fell open in mock offense. "What do you think I am?"

Of course he'd stolen it. She knew that, she just wanted to argue with him. Verge was good for that and for spending long hours tangled up with. Other than that, well... There was no other than that.

"I told you not to steal vehicles," she said.

"You said not to steal _cars_ ," he corrected. "From what I can tell, _this_ is not a car. Even though"—he hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her against him—"we had so much fun in the last car."

He kissed her. With effort, she pulled back.

"I'm not done yelling at you," she said.

"Save some for later." He kissed her again.

"Look, Freaky Dee found another freak to make freak babies with!" Sly cracked into his snickering laugh.

She half-turned. Sam and Tony stood by, smirking. A few of the other kids in the crowd were snickering, but fewer than would have been months before. Sly was one of the last to continue making fun of her—to her face anyway.

"Stuff a stick of butter in it, short-stack." Laura smacked Sly upside the head. Everyone within earshot laughed. Everyone except Sly, who scowled. He opened his mouth to say something, but seeing that Sam and Tony were laughing too, he turned and shoved Tony instead. The two grappled, distracting everyone else as they wrestled into the grass.

Laura sidled up to Dee and Verge. "Are you going to introduce me?"

Dee looked from Laura to Verge and back again. How could she explain Verge to Laura? She didn't even really understand why she let him come around. It was all too complicated.

"Maybe later," she said.

Verge handed her the helmet. She pushed her hair back. Since she'd gotten back from the Crescent, the curls seemed much more manageable, or maybe she just didn't care. A freak with coiffed curls was no less a freak. And she most definitely was. It didn't bother her anymore. What people in this world thought of her was the furthest thing from her mind. They didn't know anything about her. They couldn't even begin to imagine. Sly and Sam and Tony, they were like shadow puppets. Playacting their slapstick dramas in their flimsy, cardboard-box world. But she wasn't fooled. Not even when she wished she could be. And she did wish it, often. No matter how hard she tried to deny it, this world... It wasn't quite as real as it had been.

But it was home. She just needed more time. She'd find her way back again, fully. She had to.

Pulling on the helmet, she climbed onto the back of the bike. Verge grabbed her thigh and nudged her closer.

"Do you even know how to drive a motorcycle?" she asked.

"I'm learning," he said.

The engine growled to life.

She held on tight as they sped past the traffic and out of the parking lot.

Verge pulled away. She frowned at him.

They'd ditched the bike and walked to a park at the edge of town, near the shore of the old quarry pond—not too far from her neighborhood. They lay in the warm summer grass together, and Dee had forgotten all about her guilt and her ache and everything. Verge was good for that—usually. But at the moment, he had one of those rare serious expressions on his face. Dee tried to kiss him again, but he leaned away.

She sat up.

"Star—"

She grabbed her backpack and purse. "Whatever you're going to say, I don't want to hear it."

He rolled onto his back, his hands behind his head. "You don't know what I'm going to say."

"I don't want to talk. If that's what you want to do, then you'll have to do it by yourself." She started back up the trail.

"When are you going to shift?" he called after her.

In spite of herself, she slowed and turned.

He pushed up and trekked up the hill toward her.

She waited, twisting the strap of her purse.

Two weeks after she'd returned from the Crescent, he'd found her.

From the beginning, she'd made it clear she didn't want to talk about the Crescent. For the most part, he hadn't pushed her on the issue.

She spent countless hours trying not see the world as a stealer, not staring too hard at the shining, glowing, shimmering of latents, pretending she couldn't see as far or as clearly as she could.

Shifting, on the other hand, was harder to ignore. She sensed them, even when she couldn't see them—the passages.

Whenever she came too near one, her Mark reacted. A thousand tiny hooks buried in her skin yanked taut at once. But it wasn't painful. Just the opposite. Nothing had ever felt so exhilarating, a breathless rush, even better than finding a new latent.

The first few times she'd run. But after bolting out of class and all the way back home, she'd realized she needed to take a more practical approach. Walking away served as well as running and didn't earn her a detention. The passages weren't truly what she was running from, although the thought that she might become lost in them was terrifying. She could tell... they were vast, endless.

No. What scared her the most was the power underlying the euphoric thrill of brushing up against a new passage... the "gift."

The one that had made Hunter call her a monster.

Being a freak, she could handle.

But a monster...?

No matter how hard she tried to forget it, the word stuck in her head.

Verge slung his stolen leather jacket over his shoulder. "Well?" he asked.

She strained to keep her tone cool. "I'm not going to shift."

He barked a laugh. "Sure."

"I mean it," she said more strongly.

"You're a stealer—"

"No, I'm not."

"You have the Spirit Mark. You have to use it."

"No, I don't ."

"Not using the Mark is like not using your lungs," he said.

"I can live without the Mark. I did for seventeen years."

"You can't pretend nothing's changed."

"I'm not," she snapped, shying away from him. " _You're_ here, aren't you?"

"You know why I'm here?" he asked.

She gazed past him, toward the calm, sparkling, gray water. "Because I'm a good kisser?"

He smiled. "Because you followed me and you saved me and recovered my Essence Stone," he said, "and you gave me back this." He dug into his pocket and pulled out the little leather bundle that she'd taken from him and returned, which was why she'd initially thought he'd come to find her again.

He unrolled it. Inside, a braid of white hair.

His smile softened, wistful. "My mother's." He tucked the braid away again. "And now that I have my Essence Stone and no handler, I can go wherever I want," he said. "And I want to come here, to be with you. But we don't have to stay here, Star. There are so many worlds—"

" _This_ is my home."

"You can come back. I'll bring you back," he said. "Aren't you curious? Don't you want to know what they're like?"

"I've seen one too many worlds, thanks."

"You're afraid," he said, daring her.

Her teeth ground. Most of the time, arguing with him was good, almost as good as the kissing, but she wasn't enjoying this argument.

"You're right. I am afraid," she said. Heart tremoring. Pain prickling behind her eyes. "I'm not at all curious to find out how many other worlds I can destroy."

She spun and stalked up toward the main path.

"They need you!" he called.

She stopped, but didn't turn around.

Breath hitching.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She wouldn't feel guilty. She wouldn't feel remorse. She wouldn't ...

"Why don't you ask me?" he said over her shoulder.

Her throat clenched. "Because I don't want to know."

"Slug slime."

"I don't."

"You don't care at all? About Crystal?"

She pressed her lips together—hard.

"How about your hunter?"

A couple of traitorous tears scalded her cheeks. Her veins ached... bruised. Still.

"You don't want to know how he is or... if he might have a message for you?"

She faced him again. "He tried to kill me."

"And _you_ tried to kill him." Verge thumbed the tears from her cheeks. "But that was Before."

A part of her wanted so badly to ask, to find out what had happened after she'd left, to be assured that Crystal was okay. And Hunter...

She couldn't admit how much she ached for him. How empty she felt whenever she thought about him. How cold her heart seemed inside her.

Because it was only the stupid bond—nothing more. A sick, alien magic that had tied her to a ruthless murderer. What he'd done to her, what he'd called her, leaving that word echoing through her...

She _wouldn't_ forgive him and never could—bond or no bond.

And yet...

"Does he? Have a message?"

_Like how he wants to beg forgiveness for attempting to use our bond to kill me and calling me a monster?_

Not that begging would get him anywhere.

Verge's eyes darkened. "No."

She shoved him away. "You—"

He stumbled back a few steps. "Crystal does though, but I didn't think that would be enough to get you to listen."

"Why didn't you just tell me?" she asked. "It's not like I can un-hear something, even if I don't want to hear it."

"Because..." He looked away.

"Because?"

"Because _he_ said not to tell you unless you asked. He said you wouldn't be ready to listen until you asked... Meathead."

Hunter was with Crystal? And Verge had been with them? They'd all been together, talking about her?

"They're not _my_ plexus," he grumbled. "And I'm not a messenger, you know?"

So what if Crystal had something to tell her? What did it matter? Dee wasn't going back the Crescent. She wasn't going to see them again, ever. It was better not knowing. Whatever they wanted or had to say, it had nothing to do with her anymore.

No matter how anxious her heart.

"Just ask," Verge said.

"No," she said. "I don't care."

"Don't lie, Star."

What if she did ask? Hearing the message wouldn't change her mind about returning. And if it stopped Verge from giving her _that_ look—like he was daring her...

"All right, what's the message?"

"Shift," he said.

"Say huh?"

"Shift," he said. "Crystal wants you to start shifting."

"Why?"

"Because she thinks it might... help."

Her eyes narrowed. "Help what?"

"Help you. You're stuck. I told them you've been—"

Heat flared up her spine. " _What_ did you tell them about me?"

"Only that you haven't been shifting. They're concerned."

"Concerned about me?"

"Yeah."

"Well, they shouldn't be," she said. "You can give them a message from me: I am never coming back. Forget about me." 
Epilogue

A Dark World

**V** erge arrived right where he'd left from two weeks before—a forested slope on the northern ridge.

The passage was still open.

Strange.

Normally, after a couple of days, it would've been sewn up by the Weavers.

Over the treetops, the sun was melting upon the horizon, staining the clouds pink and orange. Down below, through the gaps in the trees, a haze of smoke collected over the city. This was a time of mourning. Starburners were packed away, covered. Only candles and fires burned. In another month, when the Dark Time was over, the orbs would be uncovered and set free and then things would _really_ change.

Wading through the ferns, he whacked them aside, making sure the meatheads heard him. Not that they couldn't smell him. Hopefully, he was all they scented. He'd stopped off on another world, scrubbed clean and changed his clothes—stripping away all traces of Star as best he could without an extracted.

The dense foliage broke at a small clearing. Perched on the mountainside, what had been little more than a shack of fronds when he'd left had been expanded and fortified. Now more of a cabin. The walls were partly stone and partly lumber, roof still thatched with palms. From the stone chimney, grayish smoke trickled.

Outside, the two hunters were making rope out of grasses. They stood when Verge emerged.

The taller one, Chase, banged on the wooden door. Then he sat down on the ground again and resumed twisting. Tagger remained on his feet.

The door opened.

The round head of Crystal's father, Moss, poked out. He squinted through the shadows at Verge. "Oh, it's you." He waved Verge inside.

Inside, the wet aroma of fresh-cut wood, the salty funk of the fish broth boiling in a pot over the fire.

On a stool in the shadowed corner, right where Verge had left him, Hunter, dominating the space with his grim presence.

He, like all the KETS, continued to wear his uniform, though for the moment, there was no such thing as KETS. But maybe that was a good enough reason to keep wearing the protective suit and deceptive eye mask.

Things were going to be even rougher once the Dark Time was done—of that, everyone was certain.

Even though Verge couldn't see Hunter's eyes, his gaze seized Verge like a cold hand to the throat.

Moss retreated to the workbench along the back wall, where a nonsensical array of odds and ends were scattered.

Crystal rose from a cot next to the door, where she'd been reading. She'd grown taller in the last three months and was too thin. "Where have you been?"

He shrugged. "You know."

"Did you bring anything?" she asked.

Opening his bag, he handed Crystal the latents he'd stolen. A magnifying glass. An earring. A fishing hook.

She examined each one, setting them on her father's workbench. She glanced back at Hunter, then over at Verge, her words tiptoeing. "Did you see... her?"

He gave Hunter a wary glance.

The wolf didn't stir.

Still, that didn't mean he wouldn't, in a heartbeat. He was unpredictable, his moods swung from dark to darker. If he got wind of what Verge had been doing with Star... Well, _that_ was part of her appeal.

Not that Star didn't have appeal of her own, but he got an extra rush, knowing he was touching something, someone, he wasn't supposed to be touching—just like stealing.

That being said, something wasn't right about the way Hunter acted, like he didn't really want Star to come back, like he didn't care what she was doing or who she was doing it with.

Verge knew enough about the old ways, about the blood-bond, to know something was seriously off.

Even if Dee had killed Quell and set an Unraveler on the Sage's Council, ending Time, and then bailed... All right, so maybe he could understand why Hunter might be leery.

"Yeah, I saw her."

"Has she shifted yet?" Crystal asked.

"Not yet," he said.

"Verge—"

"I know," he said. "She will. Give her time."

"We need her to master shifting, now. If we're to have any hope of—"

"She's not coming back."

The silence in the room was choking.

"She said that?" Crystal asked.

He nodded. He kept his eye on Hunter. Moss went on tinkering. After working for Eclipse all of those years, it seemed he had perfected the art of being unnoticed.

She smoothed her dress. "She doesn't mean it. Once Dusk returns—"

"You don't know Dusk is alive," Hunter growled, making Verge wince and slide closer to the door.

Crystal's eyes glinted, furious. "I do so." Apparently, she had no fear of the beast.

Verge, on the other hand, reached for the door handle.

Crystal claimed that she, Hunter, Star, and that skewed seer, Dusk, were part of a plexus.

If he hadn't known Crystal so well, he would've thought she was warped too, but he _did_ know her. And she wasn't one to lie or to believe in anything without plenty of evidence.

Besides, he knew Star and Hunter were bonded, which was key to the formation of a real plexus. And he couldn't see any other reason why Hunter would've stuck around to guard Crystal or let her talk to him the way she did—a way that would've gotten her a fat lip and black eye from Master Bog. But Hunter only growled and barked back at her. The possibility they might be a plexus was primarily what kept Verge coming back. That, and Crystal.

He didn't have many friends—none, actually—besides her.

"Then where is he?" Hunter asked.

"I don't know—"

"Because he's gone."

"Stop saying that!" Crystal stamped her foot. "He is not. I would know. Just like you would know if Dee were—"

Hunter leapt off his stool, knocking it aside. "I told you not to—"

"Dee," Crystal spat. "Her name is Dee. Or Dark Star. You call her whatever you want, but she's your—"

Hunter barreled toward the door.

Verge backpedaled out of his way, bumping into the wall.

"—scout!" she shouted after him as he ripped open the door and charged into the night.

Letting out a guttural groan of frustration, she threw her hands in the air.

Moss turned toward them, his voice gentle. "He'll come around."

"I don't know." She crossed her arms, glaring out the door after Hunter.

"He must." Moss turned back to his workbench. "They're bonded. They will find their way to each other again."

"And kill each other," she muttered, sagging.

"Are you really all right here, Crystal?" Verge asked. "I can take you someplace else. Another world. There are some real nice ones out there. You wouldn't have to worry, you wouldn't have to deal with"—he gestured toward the open door—"that."

"He's _my_ hunter too. I can't leave him."

"You're sure? Once the bells toll again... things are going to be... Honestly, you'll be safer on another world."

"Thank you, really," she said. "But all I need you to do is convince Dee to shift."

She settled onto a stool next to her father.

"She'll shift," he said, "but getting her to come back here..." He shook his head.

She fixed him with a hard look. " _You're_ not helping."

"I'm doing what I can—"

"Kissing her? And... who knows what else. I don't want to know." She held up a deterring hand.

His stomach knotted. "Wha...? I don't know what you're talking about." He eyed the door, making sure Hunter was really gone.

Wolves had ways of sneaking up, even on stealers.

"Chase told me," she said. "He said he could smell her on you."

His heart bolted for the door, though he was frozen in place. "Chase could smell it?"

She nodded, grim-faced.

"So that means...?"

His gaze flicked again to the door.

"Hunter knows," she confirmed.

"So... why hasn't he murdered me?"

She knotted her hands in her skirt, staring hard at the dingy, dark corner where Hunter usually lurked.

His every instinct told him to find the nearest passage, shift, and never look back. A passage was not far from the corner where Crystal's troubled gaze lingered. It didn't smell like it led to a particularly hospitable world—hot tar and piles of steaming feces—but any world without Hunter thirsting for his blood was a better world.

He really should've been more careful, found a couple of latents that would cover a scent or erase it completely.

"Crystal?"

"Just... help her learn, okay?" she said finally. "Please. We need her."

"Hunter doesn't act like he needs her," he said. "I should be flattened into paveglass. And Star? She cries anytime I even think about mentioning him. They tried to kill each other."

She chewed her lip. Her eyes were full of tangles, like she was caught in a Weaver's Trap.

Night was falling, sliding through the open door and darkening the room, pushing back against the weak glow of the fire.

Time had ended. A new era was about to begin. A plexus had started to form, the first one since... forever.

Except its seer was missing and its hunter and scout were on different worlds.

Verge was considering making a permanent move to another world himself when Moss's voice broke softly into the heavy silence.

"He needs her," Moss said. "If she doesn't come on her own, he'll find her. Remember the old stories?" He brushed his finger along the fringe of Crystal's bangs, away from her worried eyes. "A hunter always finds his scout." 
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 _Hunter_
**HUNTER**  
 _Stealer #2_

A.M. Yates

Copyright 2016 © A.M. Yates

Cover by Clarissa Yeo/yocladesigns.com

Editor Julie MacKenzie/freerangeeditorial.com 
Prologue: The End of Time

**"H** ello, lover."

He knew she was on his trail, but hearing her voice made his shoulders stiffen, like slug mucus hardening into rock-solid paveglass.

Gently, he laid the satchel down. At his back, a pitted wall, fifteen feet high. Two others loomed on either side, forming a narrow alley. To his right, a broad door, securely locked.

No escape.

A stupid place to be, it seemed.

And from the cocky grin tilting Wave's lips, she thought so too.

Behind her, his old squad. They looked healthy and fit. Their Unpenetrate uniforms clean and well cared for.

Wave tossed a shaggy hank of blond hair off her forehead. Though her eyes were obscured by her mask, he knew the weight of her gaze—where it was, how it felt, how it moved. He'd spent his entire life learning it. She'd always been there, either nipping at his heels or trying to lick them. But of the things he missed about his old life—nearly everything—he didn't miss her. Not even a little.

"Nothing to say?" she asked, pretending to pout.

The others shifted, restless.

Their anxiety scented like warm urine and cold sweat. All except Wave. As always, she was confident—a hot, metallic aroma, smelted gold.

"You knew I would find you, sooner or later," she said.

He felt her attention slide away, like having a fallen tree limb lifted from his chest. Most likely, she was searching the alley's dark corners, as if Chase or Tagger might be hiding there. But he was alone.

The weight of her gaze returned.

"Haven't gotten the scent of your stealer yet," she said, her tone slipping from breezy casual to hard biting. "Did she run off? I guess you can't count on a stealer, not even when you're bonded."

Tension wound about his chest, like Weaver's Threads around his heart.

"Oh... touchy." She bared a malicious smile. "Don't want to talk about your little stealer?"

No. He didn't.

He didn't want to talk about her.

He didn't want to think about her.

He wanted to erase her from his mind, from history, from every world ever woven.

He wanted to lie down without thirsting for her, sleep without seeing her, wake without aching for her.

She'd been gone for over a year, but the torment only intensified. The blood-bond exerted its power over him relentlessly.

A mocking smile played over Wave's mouth. The others were glum. But not Wave. She liked to toy with pain, make it last.

His thumb tapped the tips of his fingers, counting the seconds.

His Unpenetrate suit was heavier than it should have been, dirty. It hadn't been vac-dusted since Time had stopped. Normally, Unpenetrate was light and flexible, a second skin that couldn't be punctured by any weapon of any known world. But it wouldn't stop a blow from hurting or bruising or breaking.

That's what Wave wanted—to hurt, to bruise, to break.

His eyes ticked up to the channel of sky visible between the lowering buildings.

Gouts of dawn's light stained the undersides of the clouds crimson.

Atoll's pack of hunters, the Prime, made regular use of scent-obscuring latents. If they were close, he wouldn't be able to scent them. And aside from the scurrying of the flickers—tiny, purple-spotted lizards dwelling in the cracks and crevices of the city—the turbid morning air was silent.

Wave opened up her arms as if asking for a dance. "Shall we?"

Actually, he would've preferred to wait a few minutes, but that would've meant stalling Wave with conversation, and he'd never enjoyed talking to her. She was a hunter, through and through. Fight, mate, eat. She had the depth of a slug puddle.

He inclined his head, accepting.

She sprang.

Poor Wave, so quick to act, so slow to think.

He feinted, sinking to his knees, throwing his fist into her stomach.

The others would wait a little while. Let Wave play.

She was their lead now. But since she hadn't won it, they'd hold back long enough to see which of their leads was truly the stronger, the current or the former.

Wave absorbed his punch and then hooked her foot behind his ankle, trying to topple him—failing.

Her strength was in her legs, and she would use them as much as she could.

He didn't think anything other than hit, duck, kick, dodge.

Internal clock spinning out of sync, time slowed and sped up again with each throb of his pulse, each strike that connected, each blow she dealt.

He was weak. They could smell it.

Hunger had a tinny scent, like old blood, only sour. And _he_ stank—tinny and sour. Food wasn't easy to come by in the Time After.

The Time After _her_.

Nor was he accustomed to the way his body worked now. How quickly he tired, how his head throbbed when he fought, how hits that once would've sent Wave flying, now only caused her to stumble.

But he had grown quicker, lighter on his feet, better able to evade.

Ducking her swing, he jammed his shoulder into Wave and drove her back into the wall.

Hearing her head smack against the stone fueled the starving, wounded animal inside of him.

All at once, his fury exploded.

His fists flew, pummeling soft flesh, cracking bone, missing altogether and slamming into the wall behind her, busting through the stucco and sending up clouds of white dust.

Under his suit's protective layer, his skin split.

The Unpenetrate, sensing the injury, absorbed the blood and applied gentle pressure to stop the flow.

Wave's strikes grew limp, losing precision, blocks failing.

A weakened opponent scented like crab stew with big chunks of butter tubers and spicy peppers—his favorite dish. And he was starving.

He unleashed a volley that would've killed another person—an educer or a leader or a stealer, maybe even another, weaker, hunter.

But Wave was KETS. She'd been one of his. And they'd been Tip. The best of the best. Monochrome.

Blood spattered the wall behind her. Her eyes rolled and lost focus.

He'd tasted Wave's blood before, when they'd sparred, when she'd challenged him—which she'd done more than once, even when they'd been on the same squad, the same pack, the same family. Before, her blood had tasted familiar, like home, but now it was rust and death.

He had no home.

At last, the others interceded.

They ripped him back, hitting him from every side, spinning him, jamming boots into his spine.

He bit his lip. Blood washed over his tongue, but it no longer tasted right either. Too thin.

He was slammed down onto the ground, face-first.

They kept kicking. Wiry Tephra. Broad-faced Strat. Tough little Delta. Hulking Ridge. His former squad, beating him into oblivion.

A cavernous howl filled his ears—the sound of his consciousness falling into the darkness. Obviously, they weren't going to kill him. If they'd wanted to do that, they would have already.

No, he knew the way the leaders on the Upper Horn thought, especially now that they were struggling for control. They'd want to make a public example of him. For his treachery, his betrayal. Not let him die in a forgotten alley in the Scythe. There would be no advantage in that.

"What's this?" a booming voice asked, interrupting the barrage of kicks assailing him.

Finally.

The alley wasn't quite as forgotten as it might have first appeared, which, of course, was why he'd led Wave and the squad here.

"Clear off," Strat commanded, "this has nothing to do with you."

"Oh, hasn't it?" the voice said.

"I'll say it one more time, gutter-mutt," Strat barked. "Clear off!"

The alley echoed with the dark roll of drunken laughter.

"This is the Cut, Chrome-licker," the deep voice boomed. "Don't walk the Blade 'less you got the blood to trade."

Pushing through the welter of pain, Hunter rolled onto his side.

Atoll's Prime hunters filled up the end of the alley. The Prime were late from their carousing at the rumble houses. They were usually back before dawn. Maybe Atoll didn't have as tight a leash on his packs as he should've.

Hunter dragged his body upright, grimacing as fierce, dizzying, pain-inspired protests screamed through him.

Atoll's hunters came in every shape and size, from fat, calloused monsters to lizard-lean, bug-eyed scrappers.

Hunter had never respected the Lower Horn's hunters—unable to scent, lacking all trace of the gifts, never properly trained to fight—but that was Before.

In the After, he'd learned respect. They'd made certain he did. They hadn't bested him, but they'd given him pain. Upper Horn hunters fought because they were bred to; Lower Horn hunters fought to survive. In that was a kind of ferocity no amount of training could instill.

He glanced over at Wave. She was slumped against the door of the Prime's bunkhouse. Her eyes fluttering, her head lolling.

He slipped back into the shadows.

Growls issued from his former squad—deep, heart-trembling. He knew they sent chills through the hunters of the Prime. Not that they showed it, but their fear reeked like week-old fried and vinegared fish. When the Prime were afraid, they became senselessly violent.

He scooped up his satchel, slinging it over his head and across his chest, grinding his teeth as pain shot through his shoulder, up into his skull.

Lodging his toe into one of the wall's many crevices, he climbed to the top, to a weedy patch of terrace still wet from the earlier rains. Mud squelched under his knees.

Below, the two groups crashed into each other—four against twelve.

From his vantage, they were nothing but writhing shadows, growling and screaming and howling, blood spilling, bones crunching, flesh crying out. Scents of hot iron, of burning salt, a necrotic pungent sweetness, the stench of living and dying at once.

He pushed through the tangle of vegetation, clambering uphill. It would take hours to climb the mountain; longer, now that he was injured.

Once he was on pavement he'd use one of the scent-obscuring consumables. As soon as he could be certain he wasn't leaving any other trail behind. And he wouldn't.

In the past year, he'd learned how to survive.

Crystal rose from the rough-hewn trestle table. Her worry stank like pickled onions.

But it was a relief to see her. To see she was safe.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

Tagger was at his back, trailing him into the little cabin. More slowly, Chase stood from where he'd been sitting with Crystal. He, too, smelled worried, but it was a drier scent, a more resigned one. Tagger and Chase were the only members of Hunter's former squad who had remained loyal to him.

He plunked the satchel onto the table.

Moss, Crystal's father, rose from his workbench and hurried to the stone hearth, pushing a big black pot of water over the flames, throwing green wood on the fire. It hissed and screamed as the fire worked needy fingers into its tender flesh.

The front room of the cabin was large enough for the five of them. He, Tagger, and Chase shared a room in the back. Moss and Crystal each had their own. They'd built it together, gathered and hewn the wood, followed Moss's instructions on how to construct the walls, the roof, everything. They were hunters, not builders, but they'd done it. And they'd kept it secret and safe, even with Wave and every other former KETS hunting them.

Crystal rushed away, into the back hall.

Chase was watching him. It felt like a cool hand on his throbbing shoulder.

"I'll take post," Chase said and strode out.

Tagger dug into the satchel, sorting the provisions Hunter had received in exchange for the meager extracteds they'd had to barter with.

Pulling out a large, green, shell-like fruit, Tagger held it up.

"Yum, clamfruit." He grinned, ripping apart the fruit and slurping the pinkish flesh with relish.

Hunter eased onto the bench, hiding a grimace.

Crystal reappeared and knelt in front of him, setting down her jar of patch-slugs.

Moss hurried over with a bowl of water and rags.

"Thanks," she said to her father.

She frowned up at Hunter. Her silver-hued eyes glinted keen and sharp. Over the last year, the softness of youth and comfort had melted from her cheeks.

Without comment, she cleaned the blood from his face, applying tiny patch-slugs to the cuts. His suit was healing many, many others.

Finished with his clamfruit, Tagger laid out the rest of the provisions. He dug into the bag, then turned it upside down.

"That's it?" he asked.

Crystal scowled up at him. "It's a bounty."

"We'll stretch it," Moss said, gathering up the roots, veg, and salted meats. He hurried them over to his workbench, shoving aside the clutter. There, he chopped the veg.

Tagger began to rip a round of bread into five equal portions.

Crystal dropped the bloody rag into the bowl of water, leaving it on the floor. Thin dress gathered in hand, she slid onto the bench next to him.

Exhaustion plying him, he leaned heavily on the table.

She placed a metal cup before him. "Drink it."

He did, in slow sips.

Two portions of bread and a wedge of crumbly green-and-white cheese were plunked down in front of him.

"Eat," she said.

On the other side of the table, Tagger gnawed on his bread.

Hunter peeled off his mask. His fingers ached, stiff as an ancient sage's. He slapped the mask onto his shoulder, where it stuck, and turned his gaze to Crystal.

She held it.

A year ago, he would've thought her no more significant than the tiny moon moths that swarmed summertime Starburners. But now... Now, there was no one but her and Tagger and Chase.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

Straightening her spine, she interlaced her fingers on the table. "I'm not hungry."

He picked up one of the bread portions she'd given him and put it in front of her.

Her fine brow arched, challenging. It almost made him laugh. Who would've thought an educer could have such spunk? No wonder Chase was scenting more like a breeder these days. Crystal had a nerve, and it was as tough as Weaver's Thread.

"You need it more than I do," she said.

Tagger rolled his last bite of bread in his hand. His bottomless stomach grumbled loudly.

"We don't eat," Hunter said to her, "until you eat."

She crossed her arms.

He didn't move. And because he didn't, neither did Tagger.

He didn't know how long they sat there. He was barely hanging on to consciousness. If there was anyone who could out-stubborn him, it was Crystal.

"Fine." She snatched up the bread and took a vicious bite.

Tagger grinned and finished his share.

Gingerly, Hunter picked up his portion and forced himself to take a bite. He needed to eat, but everything tasted of sand and salt water. It only made his hunger deeper, his thirst more.

"Can I help you with that?" Tagger offered Moss, who was trying to scoop up the veg he'd diced to carry over to the pot.

"Thank you," Moss said in his trembling shadow of a voice.

Tagger gathered up all the veg in his hands and dumped it into the boiling pot. "Smells wonderful," he said with a grin.

After a momentary silence, broken only by the fire's hissing and the stew's burbling, Crystal said, "I did it."

A questioning sound escaped Hunter's throat as he choked down the cheese.

"This," she said and set a clear disc of stone on the table.

He eyed it, but said nothing.

"This is it," she said.

Water touched his lips, it passed over his tongue, it slid down his throat, but he was still thirsty, he was still parched, he was still aching.

"What?" he asked when it was apparent she wasn't going to explain until he gave her some kind of response.

She held on to the silence a bit longer. "It's the compass."

He gave the rock another, more considering, look. It was small; it would've fit in Crystal's palm easily. Cut and faceted, it cast trembling rainbows across the table. A fancy hunk of rock, but a hunk of rock all the same.

He swallowed back his skepticism, only because he didn't have the energy to argue with her tonight. In the old tales, never once was any friction within a plexus mentioned. But now that he was a part of one, he was learning all about it. It had a scent all its own—an infuriating one.

Static built in the air. Tagger suddenly decided to go to bed. Moss opted for a breath of air and, in a blink, Hunter and Crystal were alone.

"It's time," she said.

"Time for what?"

Was he pretending not to know what she meant?

Yes.

He was.

"I saw Verge—" she started.

He went so abruptly rigid that ringing black blotches burst over his vision.

She continued, "He'll take you—"

"No."

"Yes."

His hands numbed from clenching so tightly. "I won't—"

"Yes, you will," she said, her voice diamond hard. "You heard, the same as I did, about the other plexus—"

"We don't know—"

She slammed her hands down on the table. "What do we need to know? Even if it's not true, look at us. Look at you." She gestured at him, up and down, as if that were all the evidence she needed. She leaned in. "It is time."

She wasn't asking. She was ordering.

He wanted to argue, but couldn't.

She was right.

The revelation sent a pulse of agony shuddering through him. His head swam and then it fell toward the table. As he slipped into unconsciousness, the want flooded him again, drowning his trepidation and fear.

Yes, Scout was dangerous. Deadly. But if they were going to survive in this new age, they needed her.

He needed her.

It was time.
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_**Acknowledgements**_

Thank you to my editorial team. Renae, my first and best reader and friend and the inspiration for this series. Chad A. Clark, fellow indie author. Kris, editor and fount of strength. Pam House Caster, all around superhero. Leah, reader, friend, and fan. Jason, at Howell Street, proofreading king. And Julie Mackenzie at freerangeeditorial for her flexibility, enthusiasm, and astute eye.

Thank you to all of my family and friends, most especially my husband, Ben, and son, who allow me to disappear into other worlds without complaint.
_**Author's Note**_

Thank you for reading _Stealer_. If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to leave a review wherever you purchase your books.

This book was inspired by my oldest friend, Renae, who was born with a bathing trunk nevus. She spent a great deal of our childhood in and out of hospitals, dealing with much pain and physical therapy. Like Dee, she experienced bullying and always felt a bit like an outsider. So it's no wonder she ended up my best friend. She was one of the first people to listen to my rambling fantasies; long before I could write them down. While she was undergoing these many trials, it was up to me to tell the stories that would take her away from them. Now, many, many years later, this is still my aim. And she's become one of my most ardent and steadfast supporters. You may think this is common, but I have many good friends who don't have much interest in my books. That's okay. The kind of support she's given me hasn't been usual, just as she's not. I'm fortunate beyond measure to have her in my life. I can assure you, this story doesn't do her justice. All I can hope is that it helped you forget about whatever you need to forget about today. If I accomplished that, then I know I've done my job.

Your Humble Author,

A.M. Yates
