though all I can see is my own scowling face—a red mark across my cheek—there must be people on the other side watching me. The familiar voice, for one. I stare at the mirror, willing my expression to travel through the thick glass the way my vision can’t, and all of a sudden the surface almost seems to turn transparent. At first I think it’s my imagination, but then something clicks and the lights on our side dim, and I know it’s not my tired body playing tricks on me; I can actually see through.
A man in a dark suit is standing at what appears to be a long counter. His hands are planted on the surface, and he’s leaning forward in a manner so menacing it can’t possibly be accidental.
I would have recognized him in an instant, even without his signature shades.
Sunglasses Guy. The guy who followed me for two weeks in Portsmouth. Who shot at me, and terrified me, and dragged Benson away on that terrible night.
And just over his shoulders, painted on a gray wall so obvious I can’t miss it, is a black symbol, at least four feet high. An ankh, with one side of the loop curled up like a shepherd’s crook.
The symbol of the Reduciata.
I mean, I guess I knew. But seeing those two things in a juxtaposed tableau like that—utter proof that I’m in the jaws of the enemy—makes me understand how helpless my situation truly is. I’m certain of one thing though: when I leave this place it will either be through my own powers—and not a small amount of luck—or I’ll be dead.
Three other faces join Sunglasses Guy, and they study me the way I would a strange bug or mold in the fridge. Like I’m inferior, something there only because they allow it to be.
Which, admittedly, might be true.
The anger inside me changes to a simmering rage as they observe me with amusement, as if I’m some kind of joke. I’m already planning an—admittedly childish—revenge when a beep starts to sound.
“That’s the sign that your heart rate is rising,” a woman says, leaning down to speak into a small mounted microphone. “If you don’t want us to sedate you again, you’re going to have to calm down.”
I take three seconds to hate them with every fiber of my being before I close my eyes and count to ten, taking long, deep breaths as I do. After about a minute the beeping stops.
I haven’t given up. I’ve just reached a dead end in this maze, and the first step to finding another route is to pretend to abandon the search entirely.
I raise my eyes; the woman is sitting in front of the microphone with a pen in hand.
“Your name?” she asks.
What am I supposed to say? I know they know who I am. I consider giving a fake name anyway. Maybe they’re not 100 percent sure.
“Don’t kid yourself,” the woman says. The smile that curls across her face makes vicious butterflies take flight in my stomach. “We already know the answers to all the questions we’re going to ask. We’re just testing you. Seeing if you’re going to be honest with us.” An interested gleam flashes in the woman’s eyes. “And I hope you’ll play nice.” I’m not sure how, but she manages to be even more terrifying than Sunglasses Guy. “Name?” she repeats, leaning forward.
“Tavia,” I finally say. I guess I have nothing to lose. If I answer, maybe they’ll give me some degree of freedom. If I don’t … well, the rest of my life might not be very long one way or another. It’s probably worth the risk. “Michaels,” I add, just to prove I really am trying.
“Sum Terrobligatus; declarare fidem.”
My eyes widen, and I stare at her. Those are the same words I shouted at Elizabeth two weeks ago—has it really been two weeks since I demanded answers from my former therapist? It feels like forever.
But this woman isn’t screaming; she isn’t out of control the way I was. She’s calm; her voice is soft. Sinister.
And I know what the words mean this time. Sum Terrobligatus: I am an Earthbound. Simple concept; you give information before you demand it back. Declarare fidem: Declare your loyalty, Reduciata or Curatoria.
I remain silent. How can the woman claim to know the answers to all the questions they’re going to ask when this is one that even I don’t know? She breathes in slowly, and just as she opens her mouth to say something—probably to repeat herself—I say, “I don’t have one.”
A single blink is the only response I get.
“And I don’t intend to have one either,” I continue, forcing back the urge to cross my arms over my chest. I don’t need to look petulant right at this moment. “I’ve had bad experiences with both brotherhoods, and I don’t want to be a part of either.”
“Are you hungry?”
The question catches me off-guard. It seems silly that they would even care. I look up at the woman, and for a moment I think she’s staring off into space, but then I realize her gaze is focused over my shoulder.
On Logan.
He’s looking up at her with a strange expression that I vaguely recognize as hope, and it sickens me. That the Reduciates behind a plane of glass can inspire any sort of positive emotion in him while I instill nothing but fear makes me equal parts angry and sad.
He tries to speak, clears his throat when he fails, and starts again. “Maybe.” There’s a rebellious lilt to his voice, and I allow myself a slow blink of relief. I certainly haven’t won him over, but at least they haven’t either.
Yet.
“Are you the ones who destroyed my house?” He sounds tentative, even weak, but I can hear him getting to his feet behind me. He’s not broken. Thank goodness.
“I’m afraid it was necessary.”
“My family?” He’s trying so hard to be strong—to be brave. I don’t dare look back at him at the risk that seeing me would make him change his mind. Or snap his last thread.
“I’m afraid it was necessary,” she repeats.
Now I glance back. I can’t help myself. His jaw is clenched so hard I can see the muscles standing out like marbles beneath his skin. His eyes glimmer—just a sheen—as they tell him what he already knew. And in that moment, I see a glimpse of Rebecca’s Quinn—my Quinn. Quinn, who was so strong and could handle anything. He’s in there. I know it!
“Why was it necessary?” I say, when I sense he’s not ready to speak. Part of me is curious how the Reduciata will attempt to justify their actions. A larger part knows that if I can’t get Logan to remember—the chances of which are basically nonexistent in here—I’ll need to make sure that it’s me he sides with.
“To keep everything clean. The authorities will assume you died with them.” She addresses Logan brusquely, as though she weren’t speaking of the murder of four people, two of them Logan’s siblings, just children. “They’ll be looking for an arsonist, for sure, but not a missing person.”
“You killed four people to cover up a kidnapping?” he says, throwing the words at her as though they were a weapon. I wish they were.
“We killed 255 people to get to Tavia.”
Logan turns to look at me in shock and horror. I suck in a breath and hold very still as a wave of mourning washes over me. My parents were two of those 255. “Is that true?” he asks.
All my work. Undone. But I nod. I have to.
“None of that matters