Page 15 of Ember Rising

“Your hair,” she says, holding me tight. “It’s so pretty.”

It’s the same black, shoulder-length hair I’ve always had, but it’s the first time it’s felt truly clean in a long time. I’ve taken a long shower every day I’ve been here, and since I’m not on a tropical island that tops out at a hundred and fifteen degrees some days, I can wear it down.

“It’s so good to see you.” I have to force myself to let go of her, and when I do, I just look at her.

I’ve been a giant ball of stress since we got here, but she seems unbothered. She’s wearing a sleeveless dark-blue cotton dress, her hair loose around her shoulders.

“What’s with the dress?” I ask.

“They have a huge wardrobe room. It’s like a warehouse. And I figured since it’s Thanksgiving, might as well wear a dress.”

Thanksgiving. That explains the apple pie.

“Are we leaving tomorrow?” I ask.

“They didn’t talk to you about that?” Marcus cuts in.

Our island’s savage earthquake daddy is clean-shaven and downright civilized-looking, dressed in jeans and a flannel. Pax looks much different, too. He kept his dark-blond beard, but it’s short and neatly trimmed. He’s wearing a light-blue polo, gray dress pants, and black dress shoes.

When I met these two men, they were scowling at me on the island’s beach, carrying spears and fighting people to the death. It’s wild seeing them look like they’re at a family gathering, shooting the shit and watching football while the bird’s in the oven.

“About what?” I ask Marcus, uncertainty making my pulse race.

They all seem comfortable here, and I’m the oddball for having my guard up. Usually Briar, Marcus and I are all on the same page.

“We’re all going to a meeting tomorrow at seven a.m.,” Marcus says. “We need to let them know if we want to volunteer—well, you guys do, anyway. If you sign up, we get briefed on the ILF, where things stand with New America, and what they’ll want us to do.”

I turn to Briar, my brows knitted together. “I came here to help you find Mae.”

“We’re still hoping that’s what—” She stops talking and I follow her gaze to find Olin approaching us, smiling broadly.

He’s dressed in the same camo pants, olive-green T-shirt, and boots most of the ILF people wear, the T-shirt loose on his tall, wiry frame. His chaotic, bright-red hair is gone, his head shaved close to the scalp. When he looks at Briar, adoration seeps out of him.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he says.

She hugs him and says, “Happy Thanksgiving, Olin.”

When she pulls away, he looks at the rest of us, one at a time. “Heard you’re all cleared. Welcome to the ILF.”

“Marcus is the only one who’s officially with you,” Pax says.

Olin glances at an empty table. “You guys want to sit? They’re bringing appetizers in soon.”

“Appetizers?” I can’t keep my scowl from forming. “How hard is the ILF trying to bring down New America? We didn’t come here to eat puff pastries and work out in a weight room.”

He gives me a sympathetic look. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

I’m tired of sitting around. But I don’t really have any choice but to sit down at the table when the others do.

“Is there gonna be stuffing at dinner?” Pax asks Olin. “I’m a slut for good stuffing, especially when it has oysters.”

Marcus shakes his head and Olin says, “Uh ... I’m not sure. I can ask someone.”

“So you guys got through the questioning okay, obviously,” Briar says, looking at me and Pax. “How was it?”

“Careful,” Marcus says, his voice so low I hardly hear him.

“You don’t need to worry about anyone listening,” Olin says. “We don’t do that.”