We’re driven back to the Sanctuary the same way we’re driven everywhere these days—in a black, all-terrain, bulletproof SUV—but the car and its heavily tinted windows only make us more conspicuous, which I find worrisome. But then, as Castle likes to point out, I have no ready solution for the problem, so we remain at an impasse.
I try to hide my reaction as we drive up through the wooded area just outside the Sanctuary, but I can’t help my grimace or the way my body locks down, preparing for a fight. After the fall of The Reestablishment, most rebel groups emerged from hiding to rejoin the world—
But not us.
Just last week we cleared this dirt path for the SUV, enabling it to now get as close as possible to the unmarked entrance, but I’m not sure it’s doing much to help. A mob of people has already crowded in so tightly around us that we’re moving no more than an inch at a time. Most of them are well- meaning, but they scream and pound at the car with the enthusiasm of a belligerent crowd, and every time we endure this circus I have to physically force myself to remain calm. To sit quietly in my seat and ignore the urge to remove the gun from its holster beneath my jacket.
Difficult.
I know Ella can protect herself—she’s proven this fact a thousand times over—but still, I can’t help but worry. She’s become notorious to a near- terrifying degree. To some extent, we all have. But Juliette Ferrars, as she’s known around the world, can go nowhere and do nothing without drawing a crowd.
They say they love her.
Even so, we remain cautious. There are still many around the globe who would love to bring back to life the emaciated remains of The Reestablishment, and assassinating a beloved hero would be the most
effective start to such a scheme. Though we have unprecedented levels of privacy in the Sanctuary, where Nouria’s sight and sound protections around the grounds grant us freedoms we enjoy nowhere else, we’ve been unable to hide our precise location. People know, generally, where to find us, and that small bit of information has been feeding them for weeks. The civilians wait here—thousands and thousands of them—every single day.
For no more than a glimpse.
We’ve had to put barricades in place. We’ve had to hire extra security, recruiting armed soldiers from the local sectors. This area is unrecognizable from what it was a month ago. It’s a different world already. And I feel my body go solid as we approach the entrance. Nearly there now.
I look up, ready to say something—
“Don’t worry.” Kenji locks eyes with me. “Nouria upped the security.
There should be a team of people waiting for us.”
“I don’t know why all this is necessary,” Ella says, still staring out the window. “Why can’t I just stop for a minute and talk to them?”
“Because the last time you did that you were nearly trampled,” Kenji says, exasperated.
“Just the one time.”
Kenji’s eyes go wide with outrage, and on this point, he and I are in full agreement. I sit back and watch as he counts off on his fingers. “The same day you were nearly trampled, someone tried to cut off your hair. Another day a bunch of people tried to kiss you. People literally throw their newborn babies at you. I’ve already counted six people who’ve peed their pants in your presence, which, I have to add, is not only upsetting but unsanitary, especially when they try to hug you while they’re still wetting themselves.” He shakes his head. “The mobs are too big, princess. Too strong. Too passionate. Everyone screams in your face, fights to put their hands on you. And half the time we can’t protect you.”
“But—”
“I know that most of these people are well intentioned,” I say, taking her hand. She turns in her seat, meets my eyes. “They are, for the most part, kind. Curious. Overwhelmed with gratitude and desperate to put a face to their freedom.
“I know this,” I say, “because I always check the crowds, searching their energy for anger or violence. And though the vast majority of them are good”—I sigh, shake my head—“sweetheart, you’ve just made a lot of
enemies. These massive, unfiltered crowds are not safe. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I know you’re right,” she says quietly. “But somehow it feels wrong not to be able to talk to the people we’ve been fighting for. I want them to know how I feel. I want them to know much we care—and how much we’re still planning on doing to rebuild, to get things right.”
“You will,” I say. “I’ll make sure you have the chance to say all those things. But it’s only been two weeks, love. We don’t have the necessary infrastructure to make that happen.”
“But we’re working on it, right?”
“We’re working on it,” Kenji says. “Which, actually—not that I’m making excuses or anything—but if you hadn’t asked me to prioritize the reconstruction committee, I probably wouldn’t have issued orders to knock down a series of unsafe buildings, one of which included Winston and Alia’s studio, which”—he holds up his hands—“for the record, I didn’t know was their studio. And again, not that I’m making excuses for my reprehensible behavior or anything—but how the hell was I supposed to know it was an art studio? It was officially listed in the books as unsafe, marked for demolition—”
“They didn’t know it was marked for demolition,” Ella says, a hint of impatience in her voice. “They made it into their studio precisely because no one was using it.”
“Yes,” Kenji says, pointing at her. “Right. But, see, I didn’t know that.” “Winston and Alia are your friends,” I say unkindly. “Isn’t it your
business to know things like that?”
“Listen, man, it’s been a really hectic two weeks since the world fell apart, okay? I’ve been busy.”
“We’ve all been busy.”
“Okay, enough,” Ella says, holding up a hand. She’s looking out the window, frowning. “Someone is coming.”
Kent.
“What’s Adam doing here?” Ella asks. She turns back to look at Kenji. “Did you know he was coming?”
If Kenji responds, I don’t hear him. I’m peering out of the very-tinted windows at the scene outside, watching Adam push his way through the crowd toward the car. He appears to be unarmed. He shouts something into
the sea of people, but they won’t be quieted right away. A few more tries— and they settle down. Thousands of faces turn to stare at him.
I struggle to make out his words.
And then, slowly, he stands back as ten heavily armed men and women approach our car. Their bodies form a barricade between the vehicle and the entrance into the Sanctuary, and Kenji jumps out first, going invisible and leading the way. He projects his power to protect Ella, and I steal his stealth for myself. The three of us—our bodies invisible—move cautiously toward the entrance.
Only once we’re on the other side, safely within the boundaries of the Sanctuary, do I finally relax.
A little.
I glance back, the way I always do, at the crowd gathered just beyond the invisible barrier that protects our camp. Some days I just stand here and study their faces, searching for something. Anything. A threat still unknown, unnamed.
“Hey—awesome,” Winston says, his unexpected voice shaking me out of my reverie.
I turn to look at him, discovering him sweaty and out of breath.
“So glad you guys are back,” he says. “Do any of you happen to know anything about fixing pipes? We’ve got a kind of sewage problem in one of the tents, and it’s all hands on deck.”
Our return to reality is swift. And humbling.
But Ella steps forward, already reaching for the—dear God, is it wet?— wrench in Winston’s hand, and I almost can’t believe it. I wrap an arm around her waist, tugging her back. “Please, love. Not today. Any other day, maybe. But not today.”
“What?” She glances back. “Why not? I’m really good with a wrench. Hey, by the way,” she says, turning to the others, “did you know that Ian is secretly good at woodworking?”
Winston laughs.
“It’s only been a secret to you, princess,” Kenji says.
She frowns. “Well, we were fixing one of the more savable buildings the other day, and he taught me how to use everything in his toolbox. I helped him build a wall,” she says, beaming.
“That’s a strange justification for spending the hours before your wedding digging feces out of a toilet.” Kent again. He’s laughing.
My brother.
So strange.
He saunters up to us, a happier, healthier version of him than I’ve ever seen before. He took a week to recover after we got him back here, but when he regained consciousness and we told him what happened—and assured him that James was safe—he fainted.
And didn’t wake up for another two days.
He’s become an entirely different person in the days since. Practically jubilant. Happy for everyone. A darkness still clings to all of us—will probably cling to all of us forever—
But Adam seems undeniably changed.
“Just a heads-up,” he says, “that we’re doing a new thing now. Nouria wants me to go out there and do a general deactivation before anyone enters or exits the grounds. Just as a precaution.” He looks at Ella. “Juliette, is that okay with you?”
Juliette.
So many things changed when we came home, and this was one of them. She took back her name. Reclaimed it. She said that by erasing Juliette from her life she feared she was giving the ghost of my father too much power over her. She realized she didn’t want to forget her years as Juliette—or to diminish the young woman she was, fighting against all odds to survive. Juliette Ferrars is who she was when she was made known to the world, and she wants it to remain that way.
I’m the only one allowed to call her Ella now.
It’s just for us. A tether to our shared history, a nod to our past, to the love I’ve always felt for her, no matter her name.
I watch her as she laughs with her friends, as she pulls a hammer free from Winston’s tool belt and pretends to hit Kenji with it—no doubt for something he deserves. Lily and Nazeera come out of nowhere, Lily carrying a small bundle of a dog she and Ian saved from an abandoned building nearby. Ella drops the hammer with a sudden cry and Adam jumps back in alarm. She takes the filthy beast into her arms, smothering it with kisses even as it barks at her with a wild ferocity. And then she turns to look at me, the animal still yipping in her ear, and I realize there are tears in her eyes. She is crying over a dog.
Juliette Ferrars, one of the most feared, most lauded heroes of our known world, is crying over a dog. Perhaps no one else would understand, but I know that this is the first time she’s ever held one. Without hesitation, without fear, without danger of causing an innocent creature any harm. For her, this is true joy.
To the world, she is formidable. To me?
She is the world.
So when she dumps the creature into my reluctant arms, I hold it steady, uncomplaining when the beast licks my face with the same tongue it used, no doubt, to clean its hindquarters. I remain steady, betraying nothing even when warm drool drips down my neck. I hold still as its grimy feet dig into my coat, nails catching at the wool. I am so still, in fact, that eventually the creature quiets, its anxious limbs settling against my chest. It whines as it stares at me, whines until I finally lift a hand, drag it over its head.
When I hear her laugh, I am happy.
