“We tried,” cried Emma. She threw four ID cards on the ground. “None of these would open the doors on the fourth floor. They must not have had access . . . even though I’ve seen some of them going to that floor in the past.”

I turned on Sheridan in a rage. “Why wouldn’t the fourth-floor doors open?” I yelled. “Who has access?”

Sheridan took a step back from me. “Those are our most dangerous prisoners,” she said, mustering what dignity she could. “The system automatically locks them in for an event like this. Normal card access is disabled. They’re too dangerous to let escape.”

The full implication of her words hit me. “So you just leave them there to die? What kind of sick bastards are you?”

Her eyes were wide with fear, but whether that was because of my outrage or her own conscience, I couldn’t say. “It’s a risk we take—it’s a risk my own people take. Two of them are locked down there as well, one with each prisoner.”

“You guys are even more screwed up than I imagined,” growled Marcus. “Someone’s ID must work. Does yours?” When she nodded reluctantly, he ripped it off her jacket. “The sprinklers should be coming on. Once they do, we’ll go down and get them. It’s unlikely the fire’s spread to that level, but the stairs are going to be—”

“Uh, Marcus,” said Grif uneasily. “The sprinklers should’ve come on by now. I didn’t set the delay for that long.”

Marcus gaped. “What the hell are you saying? Did you permanently sabotage them?”

“Not intentionally! It was just supposed to be long enough to instigate the investigation.”

“Then get out there and take another look!” cried Marcus. “And bring the gate guard back with you.” Grif scurried out.

I’d heard enough. More than enough. Sydney was down there, trapped in a room while a fire raged three floors above her and could be on its way. I strode over to Marcus and took Sheridan’s ID from him before turning back to her. “How many are down there? You said two prisoners and two personnel. Anyone else?”

She did a quick count of the huddled Alchemists. “All m-my people are here,” she stammered.

“We’re all here too,” said Emma. “Plus six we took from the solitary floor. We checked every cell.”

“Fine,” I said. I stormed over to the stairwell door and flung it open. While it wasn’t exactly smoky, there was a faint haze in the air that didn’t bode well for the fire’s progress. “I’m going in for the last four. Anyone coming with me?”

I immediately felt Eddie by my side. “Do you even have to ask?”

CHAPTER 17

SYDNEY

IT TOOK ME A WHILE to realize the fire alarm was going off. At first, I thought it was some kind of new spin on the torture.

Unlike reflection time, when the Alchemists flaunted their power by putting us to sleep at will, those running the so-called persuasion floor had a big emphasis on keeping us awake. The scholar in me, who vaguely recalled reading articles on interrogation and torture techniques, understood this. The more sleep-deprived you were, the more likely you were to slip up and say something you didn’t intend. In reflection, and even while living with the other detainees, I’d never felt fully rested, but what I experienced now was on a completely different level.

When I wasn’t being tortured and asked the same questions over and over, I was subjected to blinding light and irritating noises to make sure I couldn’t lapse into any sort of real rest. There was no need for gas to keep from dreaming; I never got close enough to REM for it to be an issue. I soon lost track of time again, and even the erratic meals (more lukewarm gruel) and bathroom breaks didn’t help with that.

I’d actually remained remarkably resilient, despite how excruciating the experience was. I stuck to my story that I’d been looking for a way out the night I was caught, and I refused to tell them any details about how long I’d been practicing magic or who had taught me. It didn’t seem likely they’d do anything to Ms. Terwilliger, but there was no way I could take a chance. I’d let them rip me apart before I ever uttered her name to them.

When the shrieking alarm and small strobe light in the room’s corner went off, it jerked me out of a fragile dozing state I’d been enjoying. Those times were rare, and I was sad to see it end, especially since I knew what was probably coming. Aside from the alarm’s light, the room was in pitch darkness, so I had no idea how many people were there until I heard a man speaking into a phone or radio. His name was Grayson, and he’d been a constant companion of mine in running torture and interrogation sessions—when Sheridan wasn’t doing it personally.

“Hello?” he said. “This is Grayson in P2. Is anyone there? Is this a drill?”

If there was any response, I didn’t hear it. After a few more attempts, I heard him over by the door, like he was trying to open it.

“Something not going according to Alchemist plans?” I asked. I wasn’t sure if he heard me over the noise, especially since I couldn’t actually manage to put much volume in my voice. But when he spoke again, he was right next to me.

“Quiet,” he ordered. “And say your prayers that we actually walk out of here. Not that I expect yours to work.”

The tension in his voice told me more than his words, and I struggled to snap my addled brain into focus and assess what was going on. Whatever was happening, this definitely wasn’t part of any plan, and Alchemists hated it when their plans went awry. The question was: Was this to my advantage or not? Things were so regimented in re-education that it would take something extraordinary to really throw them off . . . and Adrian was the most extraordinary person I knew.

After Grayson failed at outside communication a couple more times, I dared speak again. “Is there really a fire?”

A few of those annoying spotlights came on, one illuminating him, the other shining right in my eyes. “Very likely. And if so, we are also very likely going to die in it,” he said. I could see sweat on his brow, and there was an edge of unease in his voice, despite the cold delivery. Noticing my scrutiny—and that I’d observed his weakness—he scowled. “Who knows? Maybe in fire, your soul will finally be purged of its—”

A click at the door preceded its opening, and Grayson spun around in surprise, mercifully ending his tirade. I couldn’t see his face, but I kind of wished I could have when I heard a familiar voice say, “Sydney?”