The Shadows

Running, running . . . going by the jerks in his vision and the passing walls of the concrete corridor, he was running . . .

And there was a lot of noise. The empty hall was echoing with some kind of tremendous noise, like the gear of a great machine had locked or was grinding—

Something tackled him from behind before he reached the exit into the parking garage, an iron bar hold locking around him.

iAm.

Of course.

“Drop it,” came the shout in his ear. “Drop it . . . come on, now. Drop it—”

Trez shook his head. “What . . . ?”

“Drop the gun, Trez.” iAm’s voice cracked. “I need you to drop the gun.”

Trez froze except for his panting breath, and tried to make sense of what his brother was saying.

“Oh, Jesus, Trez, please . . .”

Shaking his head, Trez . . . gradually became aware that there was, in fact, someone’s forty in his right hand. Probably his own. He always wore one in the club.

And what do you know, the muzzle was up against his own temple—and unlike back with those X-ray plates, his hand wasn’t shaking at all.

“Drop it for me, Trez.” With his finger on the trigger the way it was, his brother obviously didn’t dare try to take control of the weapon for fear of causing a discharge. “You gotta put the gun down.”

At that moment, everything became clear: him bursting up, bolting fast, breaking out of the exam room and into the corridor. Running down toward the parking garage as he palmed his weapon.

Intending to blow his brains out as soon as he was free of the training center.

He’d had the conception that maybe, if there was actually a Fade, he and Selena could meet on the other side and come together, in a way they never could down on Earth.

“Trez, she’s still alive. Don’t you do this. You want to kill yourself? Wait until her heart stops beating, but not before that. Not one fucking moment before that.”

Trez pictured Selena back on that table, and thought, Shit . . .

iAm, as always, was right.

The shaking returned as he began to lower his arm, and he moved slowly for fear of some twitch setting the forty off. But he didn’t need to worry about that. As soon as that muzzle was out of the range of his gray matter, his brother took over, disarming him quick as a breath and putting the safety in place.

Trez stood there numbly as iAm patted him down and removed a couple more weapons, and then he allowed himself to be led back to that examination room and the group of people standing shocked and still around its door.

Not before she was gone, he told himself. Not while she was still here.

Unfortunately, he feared that was not likely to be very long at all.

TEN

Paradise, blooded daughter of Abalone, First Adviser to the King, frowned at the screen of her Apple lappy. She’d set herself up here in her father’s library ever since he’d started working each night for Wrath, son of Wrath, because in the old rambling Tudor mansion, Wi-Fi was strongest at this desk. Not that a good signal was helping her at the moment. Her Hotmail account was full of unread messages, because, with iMessage on her phone and her Twitter, Instagram, and FB accounts, there was no reason to sign into it very often.

“So hold up, what was it called?” she said into her cell.

“‘New Trainee Class,’” Peyton, blooded son of Peythone, replied. “I forwarded it to you, like, an hour ago.”

She sat forward in her father’s chair. “There’s just so much junk in here.”

“Lemme resend—”

“Wait, I got it.” She clicked and then clicked again on the attachment. “Wow. It’s on official letterhead.”

“Told you.”

Paradise scanned the date, the personalized greeting to Peyton, the two paragraphs about the program, and the closing. “Holy . . . it’s signed by a Brother.”

“Tohrment, son of Hharm.”

“Well, if it’s a fake, someone’s going to catch some serious—”

“But did you see in the second paragraph?”

She refocused on the words. “Females? Whoa, whoa . . . they’re accepting females?”

“I know, right?” There was a bubbling noise and an exhale as Peyton took another hit. “It’s unprecedented.”

Paradise reread the letter, this time more carefully. Operative words leaped out at her: Open tryouts for the training program. Females and civilians welcome to take physical performance test for entrance. Sessions taught by the Brotherhood themselves. Tuition? Nada.

“What are they thinking?” Peyton muttered. “I mean, this is supposed to be for the glymera sons only.”

“Not anymore, apparently.”