shoulder. “When they won't drink the holy water. When they break the rules. When someone starts causing trouble.” She ticks each reason off on her fingers. “Breaking rules means you die, so pretty much everybody follows the rules.” She lifts her eyes to mine. “Nobody wants to be put out.”
“I came from out there,” I say. “You can survive.”
Mage shrugs again. “I don't want to think about it.”
“Maybe I'll break a rule. Then they'll let me out of this hell hole.” I mull this over for a moment. I'm sure they'd just find another way to punish us.
Mage frowns. “I said I don't want to talk about it.”
“Fine.” I drop down and sit on the frayed carpet next to the grate. I don't see a breakfast tray. “No bacon this morning?”
“You can come out and eat in the food court.” She crawls on hands and knees to the lock and fiddles with it.
“Any chance I can see my mother today?” I ask. “You know how she's doing?”
Mage nods, not looking at me. “The same. They say she's resting. They won't let me in.”
My heart sinks. I want her out. I want her with me. What's it going to take to make her well? Whatever it is, I'm going to figure it out. There's no way I'm losing her again.
I follow Mage into the food court. After we wait in line and get our trays—a pink slab of ham, four ripe strawberries (which I pop into my mouth instantly), and a weak tea that smells of mint—we find the boys. Ethan's eyebrows go up as Mage slides into the chair next to him. Clay reaches for my hand.
“How're you?” he asks, his eyes searching my face.
“Fine.” I swallow my unease with a sip of tea.
Clay turns to Mage. “So, you're the Messiah's daughter?”
Mage nods, a big bite of greasy ham making her red lips shine.
Clay leans in on his elbows. His shirt's become as thin as paper, draping over his lean muscles. “Tell me,” he says, zeroing in on her with his sky-blue eyes, “you ever heard of a woman named Nessa Vandewater? Or Marlin Tate?”
I clamp my hand onto Clay's and squeeze. This isn’t the time for question and answer. I’ve only just regained Mage’s trust. “Mage makes these great paper animals. Can you show us one?”
Clay frowns. “But I want to—”
My foot finds his shin with a swift kick. He shoots me a look, but stops talking.
Mage pulls a piece of bright blue paper out of her pocket. She begins folding. “It's called origami,” she says, making a crease. “My papa learned it in some of the books he had brought here.”
“The leader of the only free society in the west and he has time for paper folding?” Clay flicks his eyes to me, probably wondering if he'll get another kick.
Mage makes a complicated fold, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth. Ethan's eyes follow her slender hands. He watches so intently that he startles a little when she finally flips her head up, a paper hawk pinched triumphantly between two fingers. “My papa's favorite.”
We all smile and nod. Clay touches a finger to the bird, his eyes narrowing. “A bird of prey.” Clay draws out the words like they mean something. I'm about to kick him again when his eyes snap up.
“Get down!” he yells, reaching for us.
A gunshot cracks through the food court.
Chaos.
Everyone's bolting, scrambling under tables, sprinting for the exits. A woman with a toddler hugged to her chest is crawling under a row of chairs, the child wailing. I grab for Ethan as my eyes search the crowd. Where did the gunshot come from? Then I see the shooter striding up, a gun clutched in his hand, his eyes wide with a crazed terror.
Kemuel.
His dark hair is a tangled mess. His clothes are tattered and one shin is a scabby. His thin face contorts into a look of rage, fear, and shock. He holds a handgun like he's never been allowed to before. However, that doesn't stop him from aiming it at anything that moves.
We slip under the table and huddle around the metal post as he stalks through the food court. I
“I came from out there,” I say. “You can survive.”
Mage shrugs again. “I don't want to think about it.”
“Maybe I'll break a rule. Then they'll let me out of this hell hole.” I mull this over for a moment. I'm sure they'd just find another way to punish us.
Mage frowns. “I said I don't want to talk about it.”
“Fine.” I drop down and sit on the frayed carpet next to the grate. I don't see a breakfast tray. “No bacon this morning?”
“You can come out and eat in the food court.” She crawls on hands and knees to the lock and fiddles with it.
“Any chance I can see my mother today?” I ask. “You know how she's doing?”
Mage nods, not looking at me. “The same. They say she's resting. They won't let me in.”
My heart sinks. I want her out. I want her with me. What's it going to take to make her well? Whatever it is, I'm going to figure it out. There's no way I'm losing her again.
I follow Mage into the food court. After we wait in line and get our trays—a pink slab of ham, four ripe strawberries (which I pop into my mouth instantly), and a weak tea that smells of mint—we find the boys. Ethan's eyebrows go up as Mage slides into the chair next to him. Clay reaches for my hand.
“How're you?” he asks, his eyes searching my face.
“Fine.” I swallow my unease with a sip of tea.
Clay turns to Mage. “So, you're the Messiah's daughter?”
Mage nods, a big bite of greasy ham making her red lips shine.
Clay leans in on his elbows. His shirt's become as thin as paper, draping over his lean muscles. “Tell me,” he says, zeroing in on her with his sky-blue eyes, “you ever heard of a woman named Nessa Vandewater? Or Marlin Tate?”
I clamp my hand onto Clay's and squeeze. This isn’t the time for question and answer. I’ve only just regained Mage’s trust. “Mage makes these great paper animals. Can you show us one?”
Clay frowns. “But I want to—”
My foot finds his shin with a swift kick. He shoots me a look, but stops talking.
Mage pulls a piece of bright blue paper out of her pocket. She begins folding. “It's called origami,” she says, making a crease. “My papa learned it in some of the books he had brought here.”
“The leader of the only free society in the west and he has time for paper folding?” Clay flicks his eyes to me, probably wondering if he'll get another kick.
Mage makes a complicated fold, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth. Ethan's eyes follow her slender hands. He watches so intently that he startles a little when she finally flips her head up, a paper hawk pinched triumphantly between two fingers. “My papa's favorite.”
We all smile and nod. Clay touches a finger to the bird, his eyes narrowing. “A bird of prey.” Clay draws out the words like they mean something. I'm about to kick him again when his eyes snap up.
“Get down!” he yells, reaching for us.
A gunshot cracks through the food court.
Chaos.
Everyone's bolting, scrambling under tables, sprinting for the exits. A woman with a toddler hugged to her chest is crawling under a row of chairs, the child wailing. I grab for Ethan as my eyes search the crowd. Where did the gunshot come from? Then I see the shooter striding up, a gun clutched in his hand, his eyes wide with a crazed terror.
Kemuel.
His dark hair is a tangled mess. His clothes are tattered and one shin is a scabby. His thin face contorts into a look of rage, fear, and shock. He holds a handgun like he's never been allowed to before. However, that doesn't stop him from aiming it at anything that moves.
We slip under the table and huddle around the metal post as he stalks through the food court. I
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