“We don’t have a choice.”

FOURTEEN

I LINGER IN THE GARDENS THAT AFTERNOON when the artificial lights are turned high enough to feel like the sun, replaying Jost’s kiss in my mind. Even as a memory it pulls me apart, shattering me into a thousand glorious pieces that only he can put back together.

I feel eyes on me first, drawing me back to the present, and when I finally spot the man tucked behind a large statue, he saunters out. His smile is too wide, and as he approaches me, he bows. He’s about my height, but his features mimic Valery’s—a thick sweep of black hair and sloping, brown eyes. The lighting system fades as he gets closer to me, and I start to feel apprehension ripple through me.

“Scheduled maintenance,” the stranger explains. “You must be our new guest.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, my eyes flickering to the doors that lead back into the main house. “I don’t know everyone here yet.”

“No, don’t apologize,” he says. “I’m Deniel.”

“You’re a Sunrunner?” I guess.

“Yes,” he says. His finger traces the air. “But I’m also a refugee from the Eastern Sector. You’re a refugee, too.”

I swallow hard but nod, wanting to keep things friendly. I have no reason to feel so nervous. Kincaid’s estate is impenetrable, but I’ve had little contact with any of the other Sunrunners. I curse the empty-headed romantic reverie that allowed me to let my guard down.

“I saw the Eastern Sector,” I say, recalling my goodwill tour with Cormac.

“There is so much beauty there. No doubt the remains of the culture we brought from Earth.” Deniel’s voice is so low he practically purrs. He offers his arm, and I take it tentatively. Relief floods through me as he leads me back toward the house, and I relax. “I left there long ago.”

“To come here?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even and pleasant.

“I worked the grey market in Arras until I was forced to come to Earth.” He speaks into the distance, not bothering to look at me.

“You must have left a lot behind,” I offer.

“Yes, but I keep my past close. My ojiisan gave me a piece of ivory. It is very old,” he says quietly. “Your skin is smooth and pure like it. Would you like to see it?”

I agree, but keep my eyes on the doors we’re nearing, counting the seconds until I can excuse myself.

Deniel draws out a smooth, sculpted piece of ivory. He holds it so close to me that I can barely see it. It is flawless, I think, and then he presses it to my chin. As his thumb twitches, I realize the ivory is actually a handle—a thin silver blade extends from it.

“Beautiful and deadly, like a woman,” he murmurs.

In an instant the blade is at my throat and Deniel forces me into the hall of the main house. My skin stings where the blade has slashed a shallow cut near the hollow of my neck. He presses his full weight against me and breathes hot and fast against my ear. I expect him to push me down to the floor, but instead the panel I’m crushed against trembles and rotates back. He drops the knife from my throat as he shoves me through the hidden door.

The room is out of place at the estate, lacking the opulence of the other chambers. It’s spare with cinder-block walls and a long, slick table. I fight the panic spreading through my limbs. It threatens to lock me down and make me an easy target. I turn to see the dark concentration in Deniel’s eyes. The room reminds me of a clinic, like the one where I was mapped in Arras. A realization that does nothing to stem my panic.

“I don’t like dangerous women,” he breathes, lingering in the doorway.

“Am I dangerous?” I ask, locking my gaze on his.

“You won’t be for long,” he says, edging toward me. His eyes bore into me, studying my face and then my body. It makes me want to hug myself protectively, but I stay still, waiting for the right moment.

Deniel inches closer, clutching his knife between us, moving me backward into the room.

“You wouldn’t be stupid enough to fight,” Deniel spits, saliva peppering my ear. There’s a note of amusement in his voice. “Do you think the Guild will let you go?”

The frozen part of me melts at his words. Clearly he doesn’t know me very well.

The blade presses into my throat again and his hand moves to my shoulder. He’s left the panel ajar. I only have to get there and then I’ll be back in the corridor. I feel the tug as his fingers dig into me. But he’s not merely scratching me, he’s ripping me open, tearing into my strands. His touch burns across my shoulder, blazing onto my neck.

The strands of the room come into focus—brilliant and tempting—and as my eyes fly to Deniel’s face, I realize I can see him and the shimmering threads that comprise him as he must see me now. His strands aren’t bright and golden, they’re tarnished brass and pulse with a near-crimson light. Without thinking, I claw at his shoulder, rending the tightly knit threads there, and the skin ruptures in the spot, blood spewing from the laceration. Deniel pulls back with a shriek of agony, clutching his wound. For a moment he looks like he may pounce again, but I raise my hands defensively, feeling his blood dripping down my long fingers. His shock and outrage mirror the raw anger I feel. His eyes slide to my fingers and the calculating look returns. Obviously he’s estimating how much damage I can do to him before he can stop me. But rather than attack, he laughs, shaking his head, his knife still raised.