When Nik Nik arrives, he has brought a posse, and if I hadn’t received the text from Mr. Cheeks I would have fainted at the sight. I haven’t seen this many idle runners gathered together in years. And there is nothing more terrifying than an idle runner.

I step aside, motioning them in quickly. It does no good; none of the runners will move until Nik Nik clears the threshold, and he takes his sweet damn time. He’s wearing a black sweater that he must have purchased here. Full-coverage clothes in Ashtown are always thin, because they’re for protecting against burn and sand rash, not the cold. But the sweater the emperor wears is a thick, soft material. If it weren’t for his onyx-dipped teeth he could be a Wileyite—one of the bored, rich ones who adopt the Ashtown aesthetic for fun. His rows are tight, shiny, and new. If I didn’t know any better I’d think he’s dressing up for someone, and I can only keep my nausea at bay being sure it isn’t me.

“What are you doing here?”

“Lemonade,” Nik Nik says, ignoring my question and answering the one I should have asked.

“I don’t have lemonade. It’s not as popular here in the city.”

“What do you have?”

“Coffee, soda…things it takes a machine to make.”

    “Water, then.”

I bring Nik Nik his water. Because of the text from Mr. Cheeks, I’d gone out for extra drinks and food. I should have figured His Royal Pain in the Ass wouldn’t want any of it.

“You guys can help yourselves, but you’ll have to share. I don’t have that many cups.”

The runners shrug and half of them make their way to the kitchen while the others stand on either side of Nik Nik, who has taken a seat in my favorite chair. No one else sits.

“How did you get them all here? I only approved the pass for one.”

I couldn’t approve this number if I wanted to. I’m a resident, not a citizen, which means the most I can do is three in a week, with no more than two in a single day. Even fewer if it’s for something longer than a day pass.

Nik Nik drinks his water without answering.

“We built your city full of holes. Ins and outs, where only we can find them,” says one runner, using the slightly maniacal voice they use on outsiders.

Mr. Cheeks steps forward. I’ve been avoiding looking at him, remembering he’d said bad things would happen if the emperor suspected we were conspiring separately.

“If we get caught, they may decide to mark us as ineligible to return because we don’t have proper papers,” Mr. Cheeks says, respecting me enough to talk to me like I’m Ashtown instead of Wiley.

“And it wouldn’t do for the emperor to be marked, so he comes in legitimately,” I say.

Mr. Cheeks nods. The runners who raided my fridge—and, from the sounds of it, my pantry—have returned so the second half can take their turn. They’re working in shifts, never leaving Nik Nik unprotected, with the exception of Mr. Cheeks, who forgoes refreshments to stay at his master’s side. I’m not sure if it’s loyalty or if he just doesn’t trust the emperor with me.

“Why are you here? I thought we weren’t moving until Friday?”

“We need to scope out this hatch.”

    “?‘Scope out’?”

Mr. Cheeks shrugs, this time another runner answers.

“Scope out. Figure out how thick the hull will be. Record how long it takes to cut through. Plus, Mr. Cross wants dimensions.”

My mouth goes dry. “You want me to get you into Eldridge? Fifteen of you? No way. There’s no way. I’ll only be able to get you in on Friday because all the interviewees have to go to that floor, so it will be set up for outsiders. I can’t even make the elevators take us there today.”

My discomfort is amusing, and laughter rolls through the batch like thunder. I am surrounded by my enemy, and it makes the back of my neck twitch.

“Adam Bosch has a replica in his mansion. A nonfunctioning prototype,” says another runner I don’t know.

They speak based on who has the relevant information, not who has the highest rank, and it leaves me ping-ponging between them.

“He’s having a party tonight, so rear entrances have biometric access disabled for vendors. We slip in, get the info, and slip out.”

“Okay,” I say, “but do you really need sixteen people for this?”

They laugh again, higher this time. I don’t want to make them laugh a third time.

Nik Nik answers this time. “Half to do the job, and half to distract security somewhere else.” He drags a finger against the arm of my chair. “Runners play in the park to send a message, we slip in while the city scum scatter.”

“But why are you here? Why did you come to me instead of just heading straight to Bosch’s place?”

The emperor sits forward, so he can reach into his back pocket. He pulls out a cloth and tosses it at my face. I unfold it, rubbing the material through my fingers. It’s black, but catches a metallic shine in the light. Without testing I know it’s breathable, but will keep dust out of your lungs on a long ride. I’m holding a runner’s bandanna.

I drop it and step back. The image I have of the bandanna is not Mr. Cheeks, is not any of the runners I don’t hate. It’s of the parade. The bandanna is a talisman that takes me back to a time when the cloth covered the mouths of the cackling drivers, laughing loud enough to be heard over engines and screaming.

    Nik Nik takes my reaction as an insult, and maybe he should. In the next breath he’s on his feet, sharpened nails digging into my biceps as he grabs me by the arms.

“You wish to use us as a tool and think yourself clean? Are you like them? So city, so Wiley that you can let someone else do your work and be satisfied? Are you afraid of Adam Bosch?”

I can’t stop myself from hissing at that, and the emperor smiles and lets me go.

“The choice is yours,” he says, and I almost believe him.

I bend down and pick up the bandanna. This is what Adam does. He dispatches operators to three hundred worlds, killing in his name, and thinks himself civilized because he doesn’t go along. Maybe if I never go, I’ll pretend afterward that this had nothing to do with me. That Jean was avenged by some stranger, instead of someone who loved him.

“I’ll ride with you tonight. But I don’t want to be part of the distraction. I need to get inside Adam’s house.”

Nik Nik’s smile widens, a black shine that mocks me and knows me well. “Leave your scent where the enemy sleeps?”

“Something like that.”

“Very well. The path we take will keep us out of view of surveillance, but if you’re caught later…”

“I’ll be on my own?”

He shrugs. “You’re not a runner. But you can rest easy knowing that, with or without you, we’ll make Bosch kneel.”

“That’s all I need.”

I head to my room to get ready, pulling clothes out of the back of my closet that I haven’t worn in years. They were the first things I bought when I landed, before I understood what I needed to pretend to be.

Just a few months ago when I was packing for my stepfather’s church dedication I agonized over how to dress for Ashtown in a way that still showed I was a resident. Dressing between two worlds was difficult, and I weighed a dozen variables before I could decide on one outfit. Now, the clothes I need leap into my hands, because I remember who I am. Black, and lean, and ugly—I dress in my Ashtown best and I don’t pretend it’s anything but that. I am Caralee through and through. I’m a garbage git and even the air in the Rurals is too clean to agree with me.

    They say hunting monsters will turn you into one. That isn’t what’s happening now. Sometimes to kill a dragon, you have to remember that you breathe fire too. This isn’t a becoming; it’s a revealing. I’ve been a monster all along.

That’s why when I make it halfway down the hall, I turn back to my room for something else.

When I come out, Mr. Cheeks sees I’m wearing gloves.

“They won’t scan prints. They won’t even know we were there,” he says.

“Just in case,” I say.

“Have you thought about how to keep him from rebuilding? He might care enough about his legacy to train someone if he was going away, but I think we both know enforcement putting pressure on him is a long shot.”

“I’m working on it.”

Before we go he helps me fasten my bandanna, tying it tight over my nose and mouth so only my eyes are visible. He pulls up his own, marked with three needles to designate rank. With his face covered, he’s all lovely eyes. Without the shine in his mouth and the line of his jaw, he has the eyes of a doll and the lashes of a vidscreen model.

“It suits you,” he says. “If things go south…we’re always looking for a few good misters, and not even Wiley’s best can reach into Ash.”

If he’d said that to me three months ago I would have spit in his pretty face, because I believed that anything that wasn’t a Wiley City citizenship was failure. But I find myself nodding, accepting a vision of a future that might want me more than the city ever has. I could become the thing I’d always feared, and then I might never be afraid of anything again.

* * *