Warcross (Warcross #1)(14)

The caller had to be the police. Would they come to arrest me now if I didn’t pick up? Would Henka Games sue me? It occurs to me that I’ve just interrupted a game watched by half a billion people, a game that accepts millions in sponsor money. Would the game studio itself put out a bounty on my head, for other hunters to track me down? In fact, they could be sending out a text alert right now, and all across the city, hunters would be swinging onto their motorcycles or hopping in cabs, eager to catch me. I press my shaking hands tightly together in my lap.

I could run. I had to. I’d grab the first train and make my way out of the city until everything dies down. But I grimace immediately at the impossible thought. If I ran, where would I go? How far could I get with only thirteen dollars? And if—no, when—they caught me, it would just make my crime worse. It might be safer for me to stay put right here.

Keira wanders over to the couch. “It’s still ringing, Em.”

“Then stop looking at it,” I shoot back, harsher than I’d meant to sound.

She throws her hands up. “Fine, whatever. Suit yourself.” Without another word, she turns away from me and heads for her mattress. I close my eyes, put my head in my hands, and lean against the table. The silence in the room is overwhelming, and even though I can’t hear my phone, I can feel it, can somehow tell that it’s still ringing. At any moment, there’ll be a fist pounding on our door.

Every locked door has a key. But this time, I’ve reached the end.

I don’t know how long I sit like that at the table, spinning thoughts and plans until they all jumble together or when, in my utter exhaustion, I start to nod off. I don’t realize that I’ve fallen asleep until, somewhere through the darkness, a sound stirs me.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

I open one eye groggily. Is that my alarm going off? Sunshine streams in through the blinds of our windows. For an instant, I admire how pretty the bright light looks. In fact, it’s the kind of bright light that tells me I’m late for something. A sinking feeling hits my stomach. I’d fallen asleep right at the dining table.

I jerk my head up. My entire body is sore, and my arms are cramped and tingly from being slept on all night. I look around in a daze. What happened last night comes back in a rush. While Keira went to bed, I’d stayed here at the table, my head in my hands, wondering how I could have been stupid enough to reveal myself to five hundred million people. I must have had nightmares last night—even though I can’t remember any of them, I’m dead tired, and my heart is pounding furiously.

The phone calls. The unknown caller ID. My heart seizes, and my eyes go to my phone, still lying on the couch. I’d slept for a few hours, and no one had come to our door.

Some of my panic from the night before eases, and the shock of standing in the middle of the opening game dulls. Maybe nothing will actually happen. The events even feel like a dream.

Ding.

I turn toward the sound again. It came from my phone. Suddenly I remember that it’s Wednesday. I’m late for my shift at the diner. That must be my boss texting me, and my text messages still make a sound on my phone. In a heartbeat, my worries shift from my glitch to the danger of losing the only moneymaking gig that I have.

I leap out of my chair. Keira stirs in her corner, partially hidden from view behind the cardboard divider. I rush into the bathroom and jam a toothbrush into my mouth, running a quick comb through my tangle of rainbow hair as I go. I’m wearing the same clothes I wore last night. They’ll have to do. No time to change. I curse silently at myself as I finish brushing my teeth. I’m going to get fired for missing my shift. My head bows as I lean against the sink, struggling under the weight of the world.

Ding.

Ding! Ding!

“Oh, for the love of—” I snap under my breath. When my phone lets out two more dings, I give up ignoring it and hurry out of the bathroom. “I’m on my way,” I mutter, as if my boss could hear me.

I grab my phone and stare down at the long list of texts.

Eighty-four messages, from a blocked number. They all say the same thing.

Ms. Emika Chen, please call

212-555-0156 immediately.

An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach.

“Em.”

I turn to see Keira out of bed and peering through the blinds. Only now do I hear the sound of voices coming from the street below.

“Emi,” Keira says. “Come look.”

I walk to her on quiet feet. Thin slants of light cut through the blinds, painting yellow stripes against my arms. Keira’s lips are folded into a puzzled frown. I pull two blinds apart, and look outside.

A cluster of people jams the steps leading up to our apartment complex. They have huge cameras with them. I see call letters printed on the sides of their microphones—it’s the local news stations.

My stomach drops. “What’s going on?”

Keira turns to face me, then fumbles in her pockets for her phone. She quickly types something. I hold my breath, listening to the buzz of voices outside.

Keira reads the search results on her phone. The color has drained from her face, and her eyes are wide.

“Emi,” she says. “You’re everywhere.”

I find myself looking at a list of news articles, each one displaying the same photo: a screenshot of me, with my rainbow-colored hair, standing inside the Warcross opening game, with Asher turned toward me in shock. Keira scrolls down for me. The articles go on and on, their headlines melding together.