Page 23 of The Last Love Story

“Move and die,” a deep voice says.

I cast a quick glance to my side, where Nef is frozen in the same position—knife at her throat. With the shadows at our backs, we can’t even see who’s caught us.

“You said the Machs didn’t know about this location,” the figure behind me snaps at the one holding Nef.

Machs?

“We’re looking for Lyceum. Ms. Astor brought me in!” I choke out. It’s one thing to have a blade at my throat during training, but this is different.

I don’t even know if that was the right thing to say. What if these people just killed everyone in the tunnels? Maybe the administration found out. Did I just reveal everything to the Hammers?

“HEY! LET THEM GO!” someone cries from farther down the tunnel, panic echoing through the space. I crane my neck as far as I can without pressing against the knife but can’t make out who is talking. The person holding me seems to recognize the voice, which apparently holds at least some authority, because I feel the reluctant way in which my captor looses their grip. Hands against my spine shove me forward. I stumble a few steps toward the edge but keep my feet. At my side, Nef does the same.

And then her eyes widen.

I follow her gaze toward our savior. I know he’s older, but I didn’t expect him to look so much older. His shoulders are wider, his hair longer.

“Uri!” Nef sobs. She lets out a strangled noise as she launches herself at her brother, and he catches her, pulling her in.

The two figures behind me lower their masks, and I recognize them. One is a redheaded girl who was two years ahead of me: Lena McDaniels. She had kind eyes, but they seem more wary now.

The other is a boy with dark hair—Jacob Yen. He was three years ahead of me.

Behind them, more figures step out of the shadows, no doubt drawn by the commotion. As they step into the light, I recognize more faces. Nineteen-year-olds, twenty-year-olds. Kids I remember from school who should have “graduated,” ones that I thought had been sent to fight in the war. If the Hammers could find them, they’d do far worse. President Graves likes to make examples of draft dodgers—I’ve seen the footage even on my DopaMine feed. They’re risking far more than I could even imagine.

I thought what I was doing was brave, but looking at them, I realize I still have a lot to learn about what that word means.

Uri lets Nef go and then turns to the curious faces watching them. “It’s okay. She’s my sister. And...”

“My best friend, Ripley,” Nef supplies, and I feel myself smile despite the circumstances. I’m glad to know I’m still her best friend even though I almost got us both killed. Then she turns back to her brother, voice taking on a frantic edge. “What the hell are you doing here?” She seems torn between being elated and being really, really pissed. I get it—I’d feel the same way. He’s avoided the war overseas by marking himself for death at home.

“I’ll explain in a minute,” Uri says.

He doesn’t take his arm off Nef’s shoulders when he turns to look at me. “We’re Lyceum. You said Ms. Astor sent you. She was supposed to be back tonight, but never showed. Is she with you?”

My stomach drops, and I swallow hard. I didn’t think I’d be the one having to tell them about this. I’m not sure I know how.

“The Hammers did a raid on the training ground classrooms,” I say, my throat suddenly dry. I swallow hard, not wanting my voice to crack.

“They found a book on her,” Nef adds.

Uri looks stricken as the words hit him; behind me, someone gasps.

“A book?” Uri asks.

“But Ms. Astor was so careful,” someone else says.

Tell the truth, a little voice inside me prompts. “It was my book,” I say quickly. “She’d lent it to me, and I brought it back. It’s my fault.”

No one refutes my claim, and even though bile rises in my throat, I force myself to meet as many eyes as I can. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I am so, so sorry.”

Uri shakes his head, finally stepping away from Nef.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, his voice tinged with a strange mixture of sadness and resignation. “We all know the risks when we join. Ms. Astor most of all. Come on. We’ve got work to do. She wouldn’t want us to waste time. The election is coming up faster than we think.”

“She’ll be back soon,” someone says hopefully. “Like with Mark—his sentence at the farms was barely a year.”

Doubt pricks my mind. They’ve been eager to replace proctors with Alba, so I’m not sure she’ll be back.