Seven. I know seven. Laurel’s words played on repeat in my head as we pulled into the driveway and I registered the fact that there were cars—plural
—parked there. The lights were on, not just in the kitchen, but throughout the entire first floor.
Something’s wrong.
I was out of the car before Michael had even pulled it to a stop. On my way to the front door, I passed a trio of agents. Agent Vance. Agent Starmans. It took me a moment to place the third—one of the two agents on Laurel’s detail.
No.
I burst through the front door to find Briggs talking to another agent.
From behind, I couldn’t make out the other man’s features, and I told myself that I was overreacting. I told myself that I didn’t recognize him.
I told myself that Laurel was fine.
And then the man turned. No. No, no, no—
“Cassie.” Agent Briggs caught sight of me and brushed past the man.
Agent Morris. My brain supplied the name. Agent Morris and Agent Sides. Two agents assigned to protect my sister.
It’s too dangerous, Cassie, Agent Sterling had told me when she’d explained why my most recent sisterly meeting had to be the last. For you. For Laurel.
“Where is she?” I asked, my entire body shaking with the intensity of that question. On some level, I was aware that Briggs had laid a hand on my shoulder. On some level, I was aware that he was steering me into another room. “Both of the agents on Laurel’s detail are here,” I said, my jaw clenched. “They’re supposed to be in hiding. With her.”
My eyes darted to either side of Briggs, like Laurel might be there. Like if I just looked hard enough, I would find her.
“Cassie. Cassandra.” Briggs tightened his grip on my shoulder slightly. I barely felt it. I didn’t even realize that I was fighting him, frantically pushing him away, until his arms encircled my body.
“What happened?” I asked. My voice sounded alien. It felt foreign in my
own throat. “Where’s Laurel?”
“She’s gone, Cassie.” Briggs was the one who’d recruited me to the program. Of all the adults in our lives, he was the most focused, the most driven, the most likely to pull rank.
“Gone as in missing?” I asked, going suddenly still. “Or gone as in dead?”
Briggs relaxed his hold on me, but didn’t let go. “Missing. We got a call from her protection detail several hours ago. We issued an AMBER Alert, blocked off all outgoing roads, but…”
But it didn’t help. You didn’t find her.
“They have her.” I forced myself to say the words. “I promised her she would never have to go back there. I promised her that she was safe.”
“This isn’t on you, Cassie,” Briggs told me, moving his hand to my chin, forcing my eyes to his. “This program is my responsibility. You are my responsibility. I made the call to bring Laurel in.”
I knew, without asking, that Briggs was thinking of the fight he’d had with Agent Sterling back in New York, about Scarlett Hawkins and Nightshade and the sacrifices we’d all made on the altar of winning.
“Where’s Sterling?” I asked.
“Looking for leaks at FBI headquarters,” Briggs replied. “Trying to figure out how the hell this happened.”
It happened, I thought, the words tightening around my heart like a vise,
because I went to see Laurel.
It happened because of me.
YOU
The child lies unconscious on the altar, her tiny limbs forming an X against the stone. So small. So fragile.
All must be tested. All must be found worthy.
Your own throat is raw, ringed with bruises. Your hands are shaking. But the Pythia cannot show weakness.
The Pythia cannot falter.
Your hands close around the child’s neck. You tighten your grip. The girl is drugged. The girl is sleeping. The girl would feel no pain.
But the Pythia’s job is not protecting the girl.
You release your grip on the little one’s throat. “The child is worthy.”
One of the Masters—the one you call Five—reaches out and lays a hand on the girl’s forehead. One by one, the others follow suit.
“There is,” Five says, once the ritual has been observed, “one other matter that requires your attention.”
By the time the little girl wakes up on the altar, they’ve slammed your body against the wall. You don’t struggle as they chain your ankles and wrists.
The Pythia is judge. The Pythia is jury. Without order, there is chaos.
Without order, there is pain.
