Rebel (Legend, #4)(30)

Jessan brings it up again, while Eden’s location also refreshes.

This time, there’s no mistaking what I’m seeing. A sudden wave of dizziness sweeps over me. Eden is exactly where Jessan’s finger is pointing.

He’s down here in the Undercity. And he’s at the drone race.





EDEN



The semifinals of the drone race may have been crowded, but that was nothing compared to tonight.

People squeeze into the already-tight plaza until it’s fit to burst. Those who live in the dilapidated apartments surrounding the square watch from their windows. Some of them look like they’ve charged money for other spectators to come watch from their balconies, because there are packs of people dangling off the side of the upstairs ledges, their legs swinging. Shouts fill the air.

Apparently, word has spread through the underground circles that a last-minute entry surprised everyone and won the first heat last night.

Now I crane my neck, looking through the crowds for any sign of my new patron. Beside me, Pressa keeps my drone tucked securely under her arm and pushes us through the throngs. She impatiently brushes strands of her blond wig from her face as she goes.

“Hey, move out of the way!” she snaps at two large gamblers blocking our path. “You wanna bet on last night’s champion or not? Then let him through so he can set up!”

Barely five feet tall, and yet the people move aside for her, letting her cut a swath through the crowds. I admire the way she throws her shoulders back, and I’m grateful to follow in her wake.

In the center of the square, the virtual display hovering over the space now shows both a countdown clock to the race and a list of tonight’s contestants. Half of the racers have already gathered on the line. I notice a few glances cast in my direction—but this time, the racers look wary. When I meet their gazes, their eyes dart away.

An uneasy feeling churns in the back of my mind. There’s something about the man who became my patron that has reverberated through this space. In some ways, he reminds me of Daniel—he has a natural-born charisma. I think about how he seemed to recognize me in a way that most others never have. And his interest in my drone’s engine …

Pressa nudges me, jolting me out of my thoughts. She nods toward the crowd. “There he is,” she murmurs.

His presence is undeniable. The crowd parts without question for him as he makes his way to the plaza’s clearing. Unlike many down here, he’s dressed in crisp, almost harsh attire, whites and grays underneath a long black coat. Premature silver peppers his hair and stubble. He seems imprevious to all the commotion around him, and indifferent to those watching him walk.

When he sees me, though, he quickens his steps.

“Good to see you here, Eli,” he says to me, resorting to my false name. His eyes dart to Pressa, who still has my drone under her arm. “And all ready to go.”

“Almost,” I reply. “What happens tonight if we win?”

“If we win, you get a pot ten times larger than the one from last night.” Dominic smiles. “That’s why we’re all here, isn’t it?”

“And if we don’t?” Pressa asks.

The man doesn’t seem concerned. “If you don’t, I’ll stay your patron.” He glances at me. “There’s promise in that engine you built. We can do a lot with it, beyond entering it in illegal races like this. I think you’re destined for more.”

Destined for more. I can’t help but feel that same sense of pride welling up in me again. Daniel spends his days worrying more about whether or not I’m alive than what I’ve been working on. The other students at my university couldn’t care less. But Dominic’s words make me stand a little straighter.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” I say to him.

Dominic glances up at the virtual countdown hovering over us. We have five minutes to go. “Then you’d better get to it,” he says to me, and before I can ask him anything else, he’s turned his back to me and stepped toward the crowd.

Here and there, I notice guards in suits watching him, paying attention to his every move. It’s an unsettling contrast to the easy way he talks to me.

Then they’re calling my name to the line, and I return my focus to the race. Pressa’s arms are folded tightly over her chest, and every muscle of her body is pulled taut. She steps closer to me as if to give me a good-luck hug, but stops short, so that we just idle there, with a narrow sliver of space separating us.

Somehow, I get the sense that she also thinks there’s more to winning this race than meets the eye. But for now, that’s my job. And if we win, Pressa’s father can get all the medication he’ll need for the rest of his life.

Pressa nods at me. “Good luck,” she says, flashing me a brief grin. “Not that you need it.”

I don’t know why I feel compelled in this moment. Maybe it’s the flush of her cheeks, or the fear pumping through my veins at the thought of losing this race. But I suddenly lean toward her and, when she doesn’t back away, give her a light kiss on her cheek.

“I’ll do my best,” I say. It’s amusing to see a look of surprise on her face for the first time. Her eyes are bright and wide.

Then she smiles and shoves me toward the racer lineup. “Yeah, you better,” she calls over her shoulder as she heads back into the crowd. I watch her go until I can’t distinguish her from the mass of onlookers.