Page 109 of Retrograde

“The infamous Necromancer, the bane of all traitors ... turned the worst traitor of them all.”

41

ARON

The last time I saw Everrise, the city not only had a different name but also a different face. Looking at the gleaming white, monolithic-style architecture from the car window, I would have never recognised the fucking place. It’s all gone—the old buildings, the winding streets, centuries of history. Erased, like none of it ever existed.

I rub my eyes. Between the Abyss Gorge counter-offensive, Riley running away, and getting Retrograde to the new location, sleep has been a luxury I couldn’t afford. Exhaustion has finally started catching up with me during the long drive, but I don’t trust Krane enough to close my eyes for even five minutes. In the black robes and without my mask, I feel too exposed even in the large hood, too keyed up, anxiety crawling under my skin.

Krane is in front of me in the passenger’s seat. One of his men is driving, and there are two more wedged next to me. One is chewing gum, blowing bubbles and letting them pop. The sound’s getting on my last nerve. That fucker is lucky I can’t think of a way to use gum as a murder weapon.

I can’t think of anything. All I can do is count how many minutes have passed since she’s been gone, trying to calculate how many of those minutes Volker’s had her, trying to come up with the lowest possible number—but the result is always the same, regardless. Too long.

Definitely too fucking long by the time we pass a million checkpoints, including a retinal scan on Krane to get to the heart of the city.

The city resembles a computer simulation more than anything; people moving in straight, orderly lines in a way they’re programmed to, from their prescribed jobs to their prescribed free-time activities to their allocated homes. Not a single person is wandering about aimlessly.

On our way, we drive by at least ten theatres, museums, cultural centres, all places operating with the sole purpose of severing the citizens’ last ties to their roots by force-feeding them culture and history fabricated by the Continuum. I don’t feel shit looking at all this. Not anymore.

A huge structure of white panels and gleaming glass, the Consular Hall looks like a giant spider, its eyes fixed on us as we finally approach. We park. The main door is fitted with a metal detector and flanked by two immobile members of the military. We enter the lobby, which is just as sterile as the building’s exterior. There is no colour and, bar the scent of fresh paint, there is no smell either, which only fuels the feeling that this isn’t a real place.

More sentries stand guard inside, watching the rest of us loiter about while Krane announces himself at the reception.

I keep my head down, hiding the upper half of my face behind the hood of the black robe, my pulse thundering in my ears.

We’re led to a lift by one of the military guards. The cabin shoots upwards with the press of a button.

Volker’s office is nothing like the rest of the building. Carpeted and lined with polished oak, it’s pretentious as fuck. And swelteringly hot due to the lit fireplace in the corner. The black robe is warm, and I’m sweating within minutes. How the man manages to get anything done in here is beyond me. The air is thick and heavy, the scent of burning wood, leather, and smoke oppressive.

My muscles grow heavy, and fog clouds my mind. Keeping my senses on high alert becomes a struggle. The only thing that doesn’t get dulled by the stuffy atmosphere is my festering hatred, flaring at the sight of Volker. It takes all I’ve got to remind myself that today, sadly, I’m not here to turn the fucker into a masterpiece tableau. Today I’m here for my girl. If I have to let him live to get her back, then so be it.

He is at his desk and doesn’t bother to get up as we file in. The tip of his greying beard nearly scratches the surface of the paper he’s poring over. Gold-rimmed glasses sit low on his flat nose, but the pale eyes behind them are completely immobile. He is only pretending to be reading.

Any other day, I’d find that interesting because it tells me a lot about the power balance between the two if Volker worries about looking busy and important in front of Krane.

“Lars, what brings you here?” Volker asks without looking at him.

He only drags his gaze up when I step forward to stand next to Krane. Tension coiling inside me, I slowly push the hood off. Letting Volker see my eyes—eyes he is sure to recognise.

He straightens, his flushed face going pale.

“What the fuck is this?” he gasps, and despite everything, a jolt of pleasure hits my bloodstream when I hear the terror in his voice. “Lars, what the fuck?”

The sentry is marching towards me from his corner. Volker’s reaching underneath his desk to press a panic button.

“Hold on, Consul.” Krane stops him with a condescending smile. “I think once you’ve heard us out, you’ll see that us being here today is good news.”

I fucking doubt that. But I say nothing and just keep glaring daggers at Volker while Krane explains the situation the way he would explain the rules of a board game.

“We exchange a girl for a girl, and you’ll be rid of the pest otherwise known as the Necromancer.”

Krane’s eyes dart to me quickly, and I curl my lips to show him I didn’t appreciate his choice of a word. But it’s just for a show. He can call me whatever he wants as long as it gets me to Riley. I need to know how badly Volker hurt her. I need to know that whatever he’s done, it can be fixed.

Volker doesn’t react to the news of his daughter being kidnapped with anything more than a scoff.

All unauthorised communication from the Rifterland to here, and vice versa, is restricted. But Daria’s phone is whitelisted and is now being used to stream live footage to Krane’s device; Daria tied to a chair, screaming through the tape covering her mouth, and my fully masked man circling her, touching her breasts and between her legs, holding a knife to her throat.

Volker’s facial expression doesn’t change one iota as he watches.