He snorts. “Already planned on it.”

    “All right. First on the menu,” I say. “A visit with Dior and Clay.”

    We pass through the portal—

    Whoosh. We’re falling. A blaze of Lights erupts...then a solid foundation settles at our feet. The Lights fade. I experience a brief moment of dizziness before I steady.

    I look around. The staff quarters at Prynne are homier than ever, with blankets and pillows, games, toys for Gingerbread and even a string of twinkling Christmas bulbs hanging from the ceiling.

    We’re months away from the holiday, but pretty is pretty.

    Clay and Dior sit at a small round table, playing cards and laughing. She’s lost a little weight, her cheeks now slightly hollowed. Her skin is dry and flaking, and there are bruises under her eyes. Her dark hair is limp and lifeless.

    An alarm goes off in my head, and I know beyond any doubt. If left unchecked, Penumbra will destroy her.

    Gingerbread, who is resting at her momma’s feet, notices us and barks. Clay jumps up, and Dior stiffens.

    “Ten.” Clay relaxes.

    “Good to see you again,” Dior says.

    Deacon tells her about her upcoming court date, and she smiles with genuine relief. Meanwhile, dread blows through me, a cold, damaging wind.

    I stuff my hands in my pockets and jut my hip, forcing my body to say, I’m not worried about a thing, nope, not me.

    —How has she been?—I cast my voice through the Grid.

    Clay’s grim gaze meets mine. —She tosses and turns all night. If she does manage to fall asleep, she has nightmares.—

    —She hasn’t drained your Light?—If I placed him in a hazardous situation...

    —Not even a little.—

    Thank the Firstking! “You’ll be pleased to know I’ll be speaking with Javier in roughly forty minutes,” I say to Dior. “We’d like to offer him a covenant with Troika.”

    She places a hand over her heart, and the action reminds me of a baby bird too weak to take flight. “Thank you. I know he can be difficult sometimes, but he can also be sweet and kind, and he’s always protective.” She nibbles on her bottom lip. “He’s been offered a covenant with Troika before but declined to accept. He believes equality is overrated. It has nothing to do with race,” she rushes to add. “He despises laziness. His father was a drunk and relied on Javier and his stepmom to pay the bills. Javier says he can never support a realm that rewards the lazy and hardworking alike.”

    “We accept the lazy into our realm, yes, but the lazy are not rewarded.” Deacon’s tone is stiff.

    “Something his TL has explained to him on several occasions,” she says with a sigh.

    “Why hasn’t he signed with Myriad, then?” At the very least, I’d think he’d want to be with his girlfriend.

    “They promote indulgence and, according to Javier, that’s just another form of laziness.”

    Um, stealing cars from hardworking citizens to make easy money is another form of laziness, but I keep that little nugget to myself.

    I make my way to the table and ease into the chair across from her. Up close, I can see the darkened veins branching out just under the surface of her skin; they are thicker, longer and active, like rushing rivers.

    “How are you feeling?” I ask.

    Her gaze looks anywhere but my direction. “Tired, weak. A little achy.”

    I lick my lips. “Things might get worse before they get better, but if you’ll refuse to give up, they will get better.” One day I’ll be able to cleanse her.

    She white-knuckles the edge of the table. “Clay told me about Penumbra. How did Myriad infect me?”

    My gaze darts to Clay.

    “Levi wanted her to know,” he says with a shrug.

    Information I should have received before my arrival. “We don’t know,” I tell Dior. A General visited her, then died in a supposed ambush. Dior became infected. Later a General visited Javier, then died in a supposed ambush. Javier became infected. Coincidence? No and no. But what is the actual connection?

    Deacon’s comm glows. He checks the message and regards me with expectation. “I’m taking you to your aunt? The one who tried to kill you?”

    So soon? “She didn’t try.” I look to Dior, who is crying into her hands. I reach over to pat her on the back but stop myself just before contact.

    Frustration takes a big bite out of my calm.

    “I’ll be back,” I tell her. “We’ll get through this together.”

    Deacon types into his comm, takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. Within seconds, we’re transported to the corner of a small room. To the right, there’s a comfortable-looking bed and a toilet with a privacy screen. To the left, there’s a panel of what I assume is two-way glass. A human with dark, graying hair paces from one side to the other.

    “I’ll let you know when your time is up.” Deacon exits the room, the door closing behind him.

    Lina doesn’t react to our presence. She continues to pace, the hem of her paper-thin hospital gown ripped and dragging across the floor.

    “I cheered. I cheered,” she chants. “Then I cried.”

    This is Loony Lina.

    I don’t know why I’m surprised by the compassion wrapping me in a warm embrace. I’m Troikan. Sympathy is hardwired into my DNA.

    This woman killed me, yes, but long before the madness drove her to strike, we shared a wealth of love and laughter. When my father refused to spend time with me, she played games with me. When my mother was too busy painting to listen to my childish babble, Lina sang songs to me. To the best of her ability, she warned me about the dangers I would face in the future.