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  “Is that really necessary?” Mercer asked, drawing up to his full height.

  “’Fraid so,” said the officer. “Random screening. We can’t have non-Priors entering Durham.”

  “I’m a personal friend of Chris Thurber’s,” Mercer said in an authority-laden tone. Davis drew back, surprised. Her own palms were sweating from fear—if he stepped through the machine, it would definitely give them away—but Mercer’s body language conveyed confidence, authority, and irritation.

  “Is that so?”

  “It is,” Mercer told him. “And we have an appointment scheduled. I can’t wait in a line. I don’t have time for this. And frankly, I’m insulted by the implications of this testing.”

  “No one’s saying you’re not a Prior,” the guy said, rolling his eyes. “Like I said. It’s standard.”

  “Then I’m sure you can make an exception for a close friend of the Thurbers,” Mercer pressed, his face adopting a look of determination. He stared at the patrolmen directly, his gaze unfaltering. His stance was wide, his shoulders squared. He was the picture of confidence and authority.

  “Look,” the patrolman said, his face turning a little red. “You don’t have time for that line, but I don’t have time for this conversation. Save us all a little trouble and just go through the checkpoint. Unless there’s something you’re trying to hide?”

  “Merkin.” The patrolman, still clutching Mercer’s ID, swiveled at the sound of his name. His colleague was squinting over the ID. “Hold up a second.” The second patrolman motioned to Davis to hand over her own ID, and her heart seized.

  “They’re special clearance,” he said to Merkin. “Let ’em through.”

  Merkin looked at the light blue indicator that flashed in the corner of the IDs. Davis hadn’t even known what it meant, and she sensed from the look of relief that passed over Mercer’s face just briefly that he hadn’t either. Merkin gritted his teeth and motioned them through, glaring, without another word.

  “Thank you, sir,” Mercer said as they passed, without a hint of condescension.

  They were through.

  “How did you do that?” Davis asked as they crossed the narrow path that led from the gateway into the city proper. “You were so … Prior snobby.”

  “I lived among Priors, as a Prior, my whole life,” Mercer reminded her. “Did you forget so quickly what it was like?”

  She had forgotten, a little. Even though her whole life she had believed she was a Prior, she’d always felt a little removed, as though no one fully understood her. Still, she’d been able to function easily in that world because it was all she’d known. But now, entering the city, she saw it as more than just a different city. It was a different life.

  Tall, Nordic-looking Priors milled around her, mixing with dark beauties and muscular redheads. All were different, but all possessed the same level of physical perfection: whether built for athleticism or delicate enough for the runway, they were perfect specimens, designed for what they excelled at. Davis had known it would be like this. But she was unprepared for her shocking feeling of inadequacy.

  “Are we going to your family’s place?” she asked Mercer, drawing her shoulders back in an effort to mimic his confident stride.

  “First to Jan’s,” he told her. “Jan Thurber’s,” he added.

  “So that wasn’t just a story?”

  “‘Friend’ was a bit of an exaggeration,” he admitted. “I’m close to Jan, but I’ve only met her father a couple of times. I’m glad she was able to pull this off.”

  “Is it far?”

  Mercer shook his head. “Just around this next block.” He gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze, seeming to sense her anxiety.

  Durham stretched out around them in a grid of skyscrapers, much like Columbus, with the exception of the coast—which could be seen from nearly every angle. The beautiful water lapped at the sides of long boardwalks, reminding Davis how much of the land had eroded over the last one hundred years. It was breathtaking, almost like an island but rife with skyscrapers, which made her feel right at home. So Davis wasn’t surprised when Mercer led her into a towering apartment building. They shot up fifty stories in a glass-bottomed elevator, and then the doors opened onto an elaborately decorated foyer.

  “It’s beautiful.” Davis motioned to a watercolor she recognized by a prominent modern artist whose name she couldn’t place.

  “De Ville,” Mercer told her. “The Thurbers are collectors.” He pressed the doorbell and they waited as the security monitors read their faces. Less than a minute later, a pretty blonde girl threw open the door and hurtled into Mercer’s arms.

  “I’m so happy to see you!” she said into his shoulder. “How are you? Are you okay? Are you sick?” She pulled back, looking Mercer over from head to toe. “I’d never know you were sick. What was it like there? I’m so glad you’re back safe.” Her voice was thick, as if she was trying not to cry.

  “I’m better now,” Mercer told her. “Davis and I both are. But it was a long road. TOR-N was…” He trailed off, averting his eyes. “Let’s talk about it later, okay?” He reached back for Davis’s hand, pulling her closer.

  “If you’re worried about my parents, they’re away all week at a conference,” she said, pulling him to her—and away from Davis—once again. Davis averted her eyes; she didn’t know why she felt a pang at their closeness, but it was unmistakable.

  “I just can’t talk about it now,” Mercer replied. “I can’t believe I’m home. I want to soak it up,” he murmured into Jan’s neck. “We owe you big for the IDs. How are my parents?” he asked suddenly. “I thought they’d be here.”

  “They don’t know you’re back yet,” Jan said, looking sad. “After the way you guys left it … they were deeply hurt, Mercer, when you ran away. I thought you’d want to handle it yourself.”

  He nodded. “Thank you. You’ve done so much.”

  “Don’t think about it,” she said, finally releasing him. “Of course I would do anything for you. Just like you would for me.”

  “I would.”

  “Exactly.” She turned to Davis, fixing her with a bright smile, her thick eyebrows knitting together. She was an unorthodox beauty, with a gap in her teeth that only accentuated her good looks—Davis had to assume it was there on purpose. “You must be the friend! So good to meet you.” She extended a palm and Davis took it, but Jan withdrew it almost immediately, turning back to Mercer. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right? How did they treat you there?” she asked. “I’m guessing not well or you wouldn’t have wanted to bust out of there.”

  “Let’s talk about it later,” said Mercer. “Tell me what’s been happening in Durham. And Columbus, if you’ve heard anything. That’s where Davis is from.” Davis smiled at him gratefully. She’d been dying for news.

  “We have so much to catch up on!” Jan exclaimed, grabbing his arm. “Come in, come in! You have no idea what’s been happening since you’ve been away. Keith Sterns is dating Emory. Emory. Right?” She laughed at the expression on Mercer’s face. The two walked ahead of Davis, arm in arm, leading the way through a modern living room decorated in more watercolors by the same artist as in the foyer, if Davis was right about the style. Davis trailed after them, impatient, although Mercer turned, shooting her an apologetic look. She knew Mercer was happy to be home, and she knew Jan had been dying to see him, but maybe Jan didn’t realize the significance of why they were there. Maybe Mercer hadn’t told her everything. For her part, Davis wanted to get right to the laboratories. She wanted to get answers as soon as possible. She couldn’t help but feel a wave of irritation at Jan’s small talk—Jan clearly didn’t understand what was at stake.

  “Davis, where did you say you were from?” Jan asked a few minutes later, when they were seated across from one another at the family’s long dining table. Davis sipped the hot chocolate Jan had given her. It was the best thing she’d tasted in months; at TOR-N, they’d had very limited sustenance—some vi
tamin shakes and a bit of produce here and there. Once, they’d had chicken. Nothing sweet or indulgent.

  “Columbus,” Davis reminded her. “It’s a lot like this, from what I can tell.”

  “Oh no,” Jan laughed, sharing a look with Mercer. “Durham is much better!”

  Davis’s fingers tightened around the mug. “You’ve been?” She didn’t know why this girl was irritating her. It wasn’t fair, given how kind Jan had been to help them out. Davis told herself she was being irrational. Still, to hear Jan so casually insult the city she loved and missed every single day was difficult.

  “I have friends who have,” Jan clarified. “Actually, my friend Peter is there right now. You remember Peter Sloan?” She turned to Mercer again, dismissing Davis. Davis flushed, fighting the urge to stand up and move on without Mercer. She needed his connections to make this work—she couldn’t do it alone.

  “I’ve been gone for a few months, not years,” Mercer reminded her. “My short-term memory is a little better than you give me credit for. And anyway, from what Davis has told me, Columbus sounds great. They have these competitions every year called the Olympiads—”

  “Peter’s cousin is competing in the Olympiads in a few days! I guess the city is making a huge recovery after the riots and … well. The disease.” Jan paused awkwardly. “Anyway. They’re supposed to be the best Olympiads in years. They’re going to be covered all over the New Atlantic.”

  “The Olympiads are happening?” Davis’s body was stock-still. She couldn’t believe the city was moving forward with the events. What else had happened in her absence? Every part of her longed to be back with her family, a cure in hand, Narxis obliterated.

  Jan nodded with enthusiasm.

  “Is there any other news from Columbus? Have any deaths been reported?” Davis knew it was a stretch, given that the city had always fought to conceal the disease’s existence. Still, anything—any little crumb of news—would be something to go on.

  Jan shrugged. “Nope. Just the Olympiads. That’s pretty much dominating inter-Atlantic news right now. Oh!” she said, her voice bubbling over with enthusiasm. “That reminds me, though! There’s a party tonight. In Raleigh. It’s a huge gala thrown by the Research Triangle Institute. A bunch of research kids will be there.”

  “That’s what we call the kids we know whose parents are scientists,” Mercer clarified.

  “Mercer,” Davis reminded him quietly, “we have to find Dr. Hassman. Remember?”

  “Dr. Hassman? Why do you need him? He’ll be there,” Jan said.

  “That’s great!” Mercer exclaimed. “Can you get us in, though?”

  “Already taken care of,” she said with a grin, producing three tickets from her bag. “It’s a huge event. But we’ll know people there. And you guys can ask questions if you want. It won’t seem weird—the whole event is centered around young donors. We’re ‘the next generation of research,’ and all that,” she said, rolling her eyes and using air quotes around the phrase. “Basically they just want to take our inheritances.”

  Davis tried not to cringe at the reference to Prior wealth. She’d been just like Jan only a few months ago. But now this all felt foreign to her. She looked at Mercer, trying to gauge what he was really thinking behind the cloak of his enthusiasm for being home.

  “We need to find Dr. Hassman as soon as we can,” he told Jan, reading Davis’s expression. “Like Davis said. It’s super important.”

  “He’ll be at the gala for sure,” Jan assured him. “He’s so rarely in town lately. He’s coming back from a conference in China just for this. It’s your chance. Care to explain?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Nah,” Mercer said. “Long story. We’ll tell you everything later.” Whether or not he meant it, Davis wasn’t sure. But Mercer looked relieved, making Davis wonder just how confident he’d actually been about their plan from the start. “Give it just a couple of days,” he told Davis, when Jan excused herself to the bathroom. “We’re almost there.”

  “I can wait,” she told him. “It’ll be hard, though. This mission—Dr. Hassman, getting the cure—it’s all we have. It’s all I have. I need to get back to Columbus with an answer.”

  “And you will. But you need to be patient, play it cool until the gala.” His expression was earnest. In the look they shared, Davis’s worries about Jan fell away, as did her anxieties and her impatience. He was right. The stakes were too high; she had to wait just a little while longer. In order to enter Columbus safely again, she had to find a cure. And the gala was her only chance.

  14

  COLE

  It was a full four hours before Worsley returned. And in that four hours, Cole’s blood had run from hot to boiling. When he heard the key in the latch, he leapt up, palms clenched. Vera was still asleep—deep asleep. She didn’t even move when Worsley walked in. She was sleeping far more than was normal, and her face was sweaty and pale.

  “What the fuck kind of operation are you running, here?” Cole demanded of Worsley, who looked startled to find him there, and then slightly ashamed.

  “I’m not usually gone this long, I—”

  “I don’t care what your bullshit reason is,” Cole said, crossing the room toward Worsley. He knew Thomas was intimidated by his physicality, so he drew himself to his full height and squared his shoulders, flexing his forearms as he clenched his fists. If he was made to fight, he’d fight.

  Thomas didn’t back down, as Cole had expected.

  “You’d better stop whatever it is you’re doing here,” Cole told him, his voice low. The last thing he wanted to do was wake Vera and frighten her. “She’s worse, not better. She fainted today. She was coughing up blood. How often has that been happening?”

  “Back off, Cole.” Worsley folded his arms. “Maybe you weren’t aware of how bad she was when she came in here. She’s improved dramatically. All the tests are coming out positive. The experiments are working. I’m close. So close.”

  “But is she close, too?” Cole hissed. “Close to death?”

  “Maybe you’ve just been a little too distracted to notice her progress,” Worsley snapped. “Out there in the woods with … what’s her name? Braddock’s daughter. Mari? Maybe your vision’s been a little cloudy lately. And maybe that’s understandable. You’re sparring with a pretty girl all day long, isn’t that right?”

  That was all it took. Cole swung at him, knocking him to the floor. Worsley had no right to accuse him of those things. No right to imply anything about him and Mari.

  “Hypocrite,” Worsley muttered from where he lay on the floor, nursing his face. “You act like you care. You’re nothing but a common hypocrite.”

  Cole resisted the urge to kick him, punch him again, anything—because he knew his next punch could kill Worsley. Instead, he moved for the door before he could do anything else he would regret.

  “You can forget my help with the Olympiads,” Worsley called after him. “That was a stupid idea from the start. Go ahead and get yourself killed. Just don’t bring me down with you.”

  Cole slammed the door on his way out. He was fucked, truly fucked. Now he had no chance of entering the Olympiads and no control over what happened with Vera. He’d never be able to go visit her, to check on her progress, unless he staked out the lab and snuck in while Worsley was away. There were no more options.

  By the time he got to his hideaway, he was panting from exertion. He’d jogged from Worsley’s lab, but he was still feeling furious and keyed up about Worsley’s accusations about Mari and about the state of Vera’s health—not to mention his own total loss of control. Worsley’s words had struck a nerve. But he should have been able to keep his temper in check.

  The second he entered the shoebox of a room, he instinctively knew someone had been there. It was as if the air were different—heavier somehow, and carrying the scent of someone else. What else could go wrong? He wasn’t normally so skittish, but each time he’d been caught in the past—up to the day he and Da
vis were torn apart—he’d felt this same sense of dread in his gut. It wasn’t something he could ignore. Now Cole leaned against the door, calculating his next move. He needed a clear head.

  The room was small enough that he’d have seen someone already, if they were still there. As he took a quick survey, though, his suspicions were confirmed. Distinct footprints—at least a size bigger than his own—made slight impressions in the dust that had collected on the floor in his absence. The books he kept stacked in a neat pile next to his bed were scattered about. He didn’t have anything in the room that would reveal his identity. But the thought of someone invading his space—and potentially returning—made his whole body stiffen in fear.

  He dragged a bag of rice from the opposite corner—stored provisions, just in case—and moved it in front of the door. The rice weighed about twenty pounds but clearly wouldn’t be enough. There were some old cans of paint thinner, long expired, lining another wall, and he hefted these over, one by one, creating a strong barricade. When he was done, he jiggled the knob and gave the door a hard wrench toward himself. It didn’t budge. Still, there was the matter of the back window.

  Its shade hung open from a loose latch, exposing an empty, gaping hole where there should have been a windowpane. Cole swore under his breath—he’d thought about fixing it since Michelle had led him to the abandoned hideaway a few months ago, but he’d figured fixing it might draw attention to the hideaway. Now he saw it was practically an invitation for unwelcomed visitors. He might not be able to completely block off the window, but he could at least set a trap to alert him of any intruders and slow them down.

  Cole filled a plastic tub with flour from his makeshift pantry and strung a long rope through the handle of the tub, hanging it from an electrical cord that snaked across the ceiling. Then he tied the free end of the cord to the dangling shutter, pulling it tight so the shutter was partially closed. Just to be sure, he tested it, tugging the shutter open. The cord pulled the tub’s handle and the tub tipped over altogether, spilling flour all over the floor. Cole smiled. Success. If someone was after him, at least the sound of the trap being activated would give him time to react.