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  FOR WADE—

  BECAUSE YOU HATE FICTION

  BUT LOVE ME SO MUCH YOU

  READ MY BOOKS.

  AD ASTRA.

  CHAPTER 1

  VEDA

  It’s been minutes.

  Hours.

  A day maybe.

  Since I lay at the foot of the Coliseum altar, as all the world crumbled down around me.

  Everything hurts.

  My eyes are swollen.

  My jaw is on fire.

  My body broken.

  My heart? It’s not much more than a shell of something resembling a heart at this point. I do know it continues to beat because everything has its own throbbing pulse. Each thump pains me more than the one before.

  My mind? A blur. Strange snippets of memories and nightmarish images haunt me day and night. I can’t begin to pull reality from fantasy from dream.

  All of that and the best I can do—the only thing keeping me sane—is run my tongue along the jagged tooth in my mouth. The one Arlen cracked with his boot.

  It’s sharp. Pricks my tongue with the point of a thorn. Draws a bit of blood.

  It’s a different sort of pain than the throbbing. It’s the kind that stings up into my ears and reminds me I’m alive.

  I’m alive.

  I didn’t die like Raevald wanted. I ruined his big finale. It’s the only thing that almost, barely pulls the corners of my mouth upward.

  My Offering was stalled by my fighting, then slowed by Nico, and ultimately hijacked by the Night.

  The Night … my dear people.

  The same ones who left me on the bloodstained gravel of the Coliseum floor as they dragged Nico away.

  With an arrow through his back.

  A different pain consumes me now. The worst kind. It’s the one that has no cure. No amount of adjustment or consoling will quell it. This pain reaches from my toes to the top of my head and then down into the very deepest depths of my being.

  But I can’t get lost in those depths. Not now. Not anytime soon.

  It’s futile, but I try to shake my head. Toss the thoughts, the terrible pain out because if I dwell too much on Nico … that arrow … I’ll fall down a horribly dark hole. I’m already surrounded by enough darkness—I can’t take any more.

  I have no idea where I am.

  Possibly hell.

  The ends of the earth where all is darkness.

  I do know one thing: I will not die here.

  I’m certain Raevald isn’t too far away, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of my death.

  CHAPTER 2

  VEDA

  Days pass.

  Some wounds heal.

  I gain a semblance of time and space and realize where I am, how much time has passed.

  Twelve days ago, Nico lay in my arms bleeding.

  Dying.

  An unforgiving arrow stuck out his back.

  The Coliseum, all of Bellona, crashing down around us.

  A mere twelve sunrises ago my hands were in his, and then they weren’t.

  Eleven days ago I woke up on fire.

  I’m still surrounded by darkness, but instead of hiding behind the safety of swollen eyes, the black space squeezing in on me is now reality. Drowning and ever present.

  The prison floor is cold and callous. Forever damp and smells a mix of mildew and straw. There’s no window. Not even bars. No fresh air or sunlight or moonlight.

  Nothing but four walls, a door, a small grate in the ground, and a single lamp. It’s lit what I assume to be each morning and burns for six hours give or take. Once it goes out, the only light in my world comes in unpredictable flickers from a crack underneath the cell door. The space—a few inches tall—is just wide enough for a meager tray of food to slide under. Twice daily—morning and night—I’m fed. Once daily—midday, I’ve convinced myself—I’m allowed to bathe. The time of day is arbitrary, I know this, but I’ve lost all concept of night and day. So even if I’m wrong, thinking there’s some structure to the endless hours brings me a stitch of comfort.

  And every once in a while a cold gust snakes under that crack in the door. Then something—what I’ve come to refer to as Death’s shadow—shuffles its way across the floor in front of my cell like a broom. It clicks and swishes, breathes a deep sigh, and disappears as mysteriously as it arrived. I’m convinced it’s either the ghost of someone who met their untimely and gory end down here or, more likely, Death himself checking to see if I’m ready to take a journey.

  The cell door unlocks. Creeps open.

  Instinctively I scramble to the side, push my body against the equally cold, damp wall.

  I don’t want to meet Death just yet.

  A dim bucket attached to the same Imperi soldier who’s tended me since I awoke from darkness comes into view. All shadows, bright lights framing her form from behind, she enters like a dark apparition. The guard sets the bucket on the ground beside me. Cold water overwhelmingly scented of lemon and pine sloshes over the side.

  When the dark silhouette turns to leave, I ask her the same thing I asked yesterday and the day before.

  “What’s your name?” Gingerly, unsure of her reaction, I crawl forward just enough so the light from the hallway shines across my face. I need her to see me as human. As a girl and not a traitor. As a person and not the evil that is the Night.

  But she stays still. Eyes on the door.

  As I do every meeting, I give her a small measure of myself. “Each year, on the Night of Reckoning, I used to bake a loaf of sunrise bread for me and my grandfather. I’d layer the middle with candied lemons so when we cut into it there was a lovely ribbon of bright yellow.” For the first time in forever, a smile makes its way to my face. It sends a wave of pain across my jaw but it’s no matter, because the memory is too sweet to spoil with agony. “Poppy would always try to gobble it all up in one sitting, but when he couldn’t, we’d cut it into slices and share it with the neighbors. Of course, not before he’d dig into it and pull several candied lemons out, hide them in a cupboard. Such a sneak. But he loved those sticky lemon slices.”

  I expect her to ignore me, tuck her short, dark hair back behind her ear, and leave and lock the door behind her as she always does. But today she’s stopped. Stayed long enough to actually let me finish my story. This afternoon, she’s paused momentarily in her automatic actions. Halfway to the door, her back to me, she looks over her shoulder.

  I chance moving an inch closer, making eye contact.

  The soldier—an officer, I notice for the first time, or maybe she’s only now wearing her red sash—stares. There’s hate and anger in the way her eyes set on mine, unblinking, narrowed. But then, as she scans me up and down, her expression wavers. Softens for the briefest of moments. Curiosity? Pity? I can’t be sure.

  “Your name?” I plead as if the slightest communication will somehow satiate me. “Please?”

  She straightens her posture, lifting
her chin slightly, adjusting her crimson sash. “Down here a bucket of clean, soapy water is worth its weight in gold.” She shakes her head as if disgusted. By my presence or the conditions I’m not quite sure. “Consider yourself lucky. The High Regent gave special orders for you. He wants you healthy and strong so you can face your punishment properly.” She lowers her gaze as if speaking to the bucket now. “Wash up.”

  She then nods like she and the bucket have made an agreement and leaves without another look or word.

  Damn it. I pushed too far. Got too greedy by asking her name. One step forward, two steps back.

  It’s become my battle march, and it’s infuriatingly useless.

  The thick, metal lock bolts shut with the sort of finality I’ve come to expect.

  I glare at the door.

  They want me healthy so I can die with dignity? I release a snort under my breath. As if that’s some sort of consolation or comfort. Not that that’s the point either. They’d never wish anything close to dignity for me. Not unless they’re about to strip it away for the sake of cruelty.

  Because I’m the enemy. Possibly their most prized prisoner, short of arresting the Sindaco himself, of course.

  But that officer …

  I can’t quite figure her out. I’ve not had any contact save my meals—what I can only describe as pig slop, one step above fish bait—and my baths. It’s then and only then she graces me with her company—a total of one to three minutes each time (I spent one full day counting the seconds, marking the minutes and then the hours with a hunk of gravel I found on the floor).

  She’ll return, but she won’t say a word, only pick up the items, be sure I ate and cleaned myself. It’s my job to put everything back where it was left. If I don’t replace the tray or bucket respectively, I won’t see my next meal or bath. And despite the bitter mash and grimy water and the cold silence of an Imperi soldier, I’ve found it’s better than nothing at all.

  I can tell by the way the lantern hanging in my cell dims that it’s quickly drying out of oil and that, once again, I’ll be locked in darkness.

  I’d find it poetic, maybe even humorous, if I wasn’t being driven mad by it. How, not too long ago, it was the night, the outside world after sunset, I feared. Anything indoors, light or dark, prison or home, meant safety.

  Now, I’d do anything to be out there instead of in here.

  The monsters live indoors.

  Among us.

  * * *

  I’M NOT IN the prison below the Coliseum, of that I’m confident.

  This one is quiet, as if I’m the only one down here. Or, at least, there are very few of us. Maybe high-level prisoners? Ones they know others might try to get to, either to free us or kill us themselves.

  I’m also fairly confident I’m underground, and I can’t help but wonder: If I were strategic, might I figure out where in Bellona I am? Dig my way to one of the Night’s tunnels? Get home?

  Impossible, of course.

  But I’ve got lots of time to muse and pray. Make wishes I know won’t come true. Especially here in total blackness where my eyes play cruel tricks on my brain. Where shadows become ax-slinging executioners and the breeze that intermittently sneaks in tickles over my shoulders like mice skittering across my skin.

  Sometimes I lie down next to the door and peek through the crack. There’s never anything to see. Just a stone hallway. An hourglass on a small empty table. The soft flicker of light.

  I now crave light like I used to crave sunrise flowers and candied lemons, Nico’s dimple, Poppy’s speckled hands, Dorian’s sheepish grin. My goodness, how simple life seemed when sneaking around for mud beetles before morning bells was the scandal of the day.

  Try as I might to avoid it, I think the words, see the unavoidable images and memories because everything’s all wrong now. Poppy’s gone, Nico might be dead, Dorian’s fate is unknown, and I’m set to be executed any day now.

  Even the sunrise flowers are long wilted and the mud beetles are hibernating from the harsh winter cold. There are no lemons to be candied.

  It’s silly, but somehow it’s that last thought that sets my eyes watering and my nose stinging.

  * * *

  I’M CURLED UP in the corner, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped round my legs for warmth. My clothing’s tattered, and there’s not a blanket or scrap to warm me in sight.

  No matter.

  Everything down here is forever damp. The stone, the wood, my bare feet, even the thick fabric of my Night uniform jacket is always just wet to the touch. Enough to be torturous. Not enough to cause deathly illness.

  I’m about to doze off for the I-don’t-know-how-many-eth time when the tap-tap of heavy footsteps snaps me out of it. I sit straight up. On edge. Because those aren’t the usual officer’s boots. Hers make more of a clap-clap sound.

  No, these are dressier. Fancier. Somehow harsher. Like a quick slice of a blade on stone.

  If Death wore boots would he wear softer-soled ones like the officer’s or have handcrafted wooden soles more like …

  The unmistakable glow of a swinging lantern sends light beams to sway underneath my cell door.

  I stand. Pad across the space to the far corner. Force my body flush with the wall.

  A key jingles. The bolt squeals, then clicks. The door creaks open.

  A thin sliver of light filters right down my face. I hold my hand over my brow as if gazing into the sun, squint to shield my sight but still try my damnedest to make out who’s entering.

  Three taps of his boots, three steps inside my cell, is all it takes.

  “Miss Adeline.”

  Raevald.

  “My adviser told me not to bother … that you aren’t worth my time, but…” He tilts his head downward, sets his dark eyes straight on mine. “I couldn’t resist. I had to see for myself. Be sure we did it. And indeed we did. Finally we trapped the girl who keeps getting away.” He nods. Smugly. Like he’s oh-so-satisfied at the sight of me in a cage.

  I force my eyes to focus through the still-blinding light, glare across the cramped, dark space.

  He sneers. “I know it’s only been a couple of weeks, but you’ve changed since we last spoke.”

  “Being kept like a wild animal will do that to a person.” My voice is raspy, my throat so very dry. But the low tone works right now because it matches my loathing for the man.

  He nods, shuts the door behind him, takes a few steps closer. “I suppose it would … Assuming the person wasn’t wild to begin with.”

  Of course he knew it’d set me off, and, of course, I rise to the occasion by rushing right for him. Bare feet on stone. What I mean to be a quick, unexpected sprint is more a wobbly hop. I manage to shove his chest when, with one strong hand, he clasps my neck, bringing me to the ground.

  Then he laughs. The bastard laughs like he’s just heard the world’s funniest joke. Perhaps that’s what I am to him.

  Just as the room begins spinning and stars burst before my eyes, he relents. I crumple to the floor.

  “Tut, tut, tut…,” he chides, holding the lamp right over my head so it shines down like a single ray of moonlight. “So tough. So strong. I hear they call you Lunalette? Bringer of revolution for the Night.” Raevald releases another hearty laugh, gazing down at me. “Any minute now, yes? The Lunalette will rise!” He turns his mouth up into a wide simper.

  “You’re just pissed I’ve been right under your nose all these years. A Basso girl … The true heir … And you had no idea.” I singsong the last part. Hell, maybe I have gone a bit wild.

  He could kill me. I know this, and he probably will. But he’s waiting for something, or I’d be dead by now. And while he waits for his perfect moment, I’m going to be sure to say all I need to say. For Poppy and Nico and Dorian. The Night. For my mother. For all those Basso who never had a chance. “You’re nothing without the Night,” I hiss.

  Again he laughs. “Oh really?” He takes a small step back, hangs his lantern over the h
andle of the door, folds his arms across his chest. “Let’s hear it then. How so?”

  I sit up taller, don’t dare take my eyes off him. Don’t even think of blinking. “Without the version of the Night you’ve created, there’s no fear. And without fear, Bellonians will see through you, see deep down how powerless you are, and they’ll turn on you.” I struggle but manage to stand, take a step forward. “And that scares the shit out of you.”

  If what I said or my piercing stare affects him in any way, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he completely ignores it.

  “When your father was a child”—he smooths his red sash, utterly disinterested, as if he’s talking about the weather outside—“he loved telling stories too. Always had an overactive imagination, head in the clouds. I should have known he’d be a lost cause as heir.” He nods, smiles to himself, like there’s some unspoken meaning there. “My son, your father, was never fit for this family or to be High Regent. I didn’t see it coming—for that, I blame myself. But he made the choice. By betraying his class, his position, his god, and his family’s legacy … for nothing. He relinquished everything. I’ll never understand it.”

  “You’ll never understand why he wanted peace for Basso? A better life for those in constant torment?”

  “I’ll never understand risking so much for so little.” That’s honest. “My son is no more. It was better he died than betray his Sun-given fate. I couldn’t have him killed, but I did the second-best thing: I changed his story. Vincent Raevald was murdered by the Night, it’s as true as the Sun rises each morning. That is his legacy. And I’ll spend the rest of my days avenging his honor.”

  “Punishing those he chose—Basso, the Night—above being your heir, more like?”

  He shrugs. “Depends who you ask. But only some opinions matter, and that, Lunalette, is true power.” Turning toward the door, Raevald lifts the lantern back up, then glances over his shoulder.

  “Speaking of power and heirs, here’s a story for you to ponder, Veda.” He opens the door but turns to face me, his body blocking the light of the hallway so he’s just one large, dark silhouette. A blockade between this cell and freedom. But just when I’m happy I can’t see his evil features, he lifts the lamp before his face. Leans forward for effect. “You will be sacrificed in a most spectacular fashion. An Offering fit only for the Savior to the Night.”