Page 68 of Light

“Nobody’s paying for anything.” I twist so much vehemence into the command, I’m at risk of becoming the gruesome villain on this soundtrack. But the savagery serves its purpose. I’ve wrangled their attention again. “I swear this to you on my own son’s life,” I bellow. “Nobody’s paying Faline Garand a drop more of their blood, their body, or their sanity, today or any other day. I’m not leaving this hell hive until every last one of you has—meaning if that harpy is stupid enough to return and stick around, her carotid is going to have a fun little visit from my stormy squad.” I raise my right hand as if there’s a baseball in it, which allows the bright-blue arcs in my tips to cavort with each other. “Snap crackle pop, motherfuckers.”

I swear the walls tremble from the collective blare of triumph that answers me. I turn toward Alpha Eighty, who motions for me to follow him down a long side hall that stops at a dead end.

Or does it?

Eighty swipes his hand across part of the wall to his left, and I’m not as surprised as I should be when the panel before us comes alive, changing into the outline of an electric travel portal. The inside of the large square consists of nothing but mingling mists. I assume it’s because there’s no destination given for the portal right now.

For a long pause, I stand and stupidly stare at the thing. And I mean stupid. It’s wasted time we don’t have. Tick tock. My blood beats out the message, driven by an instinct that says our Faline-free time might be waning fast.

“Welcome to the Consortium’s birthing channel.” Eighty chuffs at his grim humor. “The bitch that pushed us all out into this new life.”

I absorb his statement with a tightening jaw—matched by the tension in my stomach. “Pushed…out,” I finally echo. “But there’s no way to…go back in? To leap back thr—”

“You don’t think any of us has tried?” He chuffs. “Especially after the news got out that it was even here.”

“Which was when?”

“The day after you escaped through it.”

As my brain shoots to the inevitable conclusion from that, my middle becomes a morass of pain. “And then she made it impossible for anyone else to do the same.”

“Bitch locked down that shit faster than Jimi Hendrix nailing ‘Machine Gun’ at the Fillmore.”

“Points for the metaphor,” I growl, feeling like a million bucks when he grins gratefully for the praise. But neither of us dwells on the moment. I need the whole truth here, and he needs to know that not every compliment will end up in physical torture. “So what happens if someone tries it now?”

His smile fades. “They’re transported directly to the retraining center.”

So much for the million bucks. From the two pennies left in my spirit, I manage to mutter, “Fuck.”

“Wh-What’s the retraining center?” Emma’s mumble is barely audible.

“No idea.” My answer is sincere. “But I’m damn sure I don’t want to know.” In the world of Faline Garand, retraining could mean everything from running laps on a treadmill to electric worms feasting on one’s brain for a day. Or a week. Or a month. And after that, getting assigned “missions” like morphing into a superhero’s brother…or taking down half the LA skyline.

I toss back my head and squeeze my eyes closed, allowing my grief for Tyce and Kane—and Mitch and Dad, and even Laurel Crist, as we once knew her—to spear every cell of my senses for one terrible torch of a moment.

But only one.

Tick tock.

I realign my posture, but accomplishing the same for my thoughts isn’t as simple. “Fuck,” I grate once more. “Fuck.” And then jerk Eighty in close, using him as proxy for every soul in the unnerved throng down the hall. “I’m sorry,” I mutter fervently. “I’m so damn sorry.”

The guy shoves me away as if I’m trying to take responsibility for gravity. “You’re also fucking weird. What the hell, man?”

I stare back as if he’s the inventor of gravity. “If I hadn’t broken out, everyone’s lives would’ve been a hell of a lot easier.”

He barks out a laugh. A loud one. “You really believe that, don’t you?” Then rolls his gaze at the ceiling, which brings back a bit of my smile. The kid hasn’t said goodbye to all of his teenage quirks. “You do know that if you hadn’t broken out, we wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation?”

I whoosh out a full breath, despite the anvil of guilt still parked on my chest. “Okay, slick. You get the point on that one too.”

“Damn straight I do.” He cocks his head, taking his own turn at channeling General Solo. “But I’m even sharper after a beer and a plate of wings.” But his gaze widens as if he’s blastered his foot off. “Shit. Please tell me wings are still a thing.”

“In any flavor you want.” I clap him on the shoulder. “As soon as we get every one of you out of here.”

His face lights up as if I’ve told him there’s a side of sexy cheerleaders with those wings—only to dive back into pessimism the very next second. “Just tell me your plan doesn’t include hotwiring this fucker.” He jabs a thumb over at the portal. “Because if this activation hasn’t already revved Faline’s broomstick, messing with the default settings will absolutely fire those cylinders.”

I add my grip to his other shoulder. “Wave buh-bye to the spawn subway now, buddy. You’re never going to look at it again.”

Eighty hums with meaning before uttering, “Oh, I’ve said all I fucking want to that thing.”