Rebel (Legend, #4)(42)

“No. There was a shadow standing there.” I blink several times, as if the figure will reappear. “It was a man looking right at me. I saw him over on my right earlier.” I whirl in place again, scanning the crowd.

Pressa tenses too, sensing the change in my energy. But there’s nothing to show her now. Everyone around us is still in the throes of the beat, laughing and shouting and pumping their fists in the air. No sign of a mysterious figure.

I rub my eyes. “Never mind,” I mutter. Pressa leans closer to me with a concerned look. I just try to give her a grin. “I think I’m just exhausted from everything that’s happened.”

She looks unconvinced. To her credit, she looks across the crowd again, just in case she’d missed what I was talking about. Then she turns back to me and takes my arm. I try to take solace in the warmth of her touch. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s head to the lounge, cool off a bit.”

I nod numbly and follow her off the dance floor. We jostle past bodies all around us as we head out of the main atrium and into a narrow side hall.

I do a double take as we pass the lines at the bathrooms. A figure in dark clothes is leaning against the wall, and as we go, I swear he turns his head to follow us, his gaze penetrating. I look directly toward him. But I just see a group of giggling girls and boys, trading some secret among themselves.

My heartbeat starts to quicken. Dominic Hann’s men can be everywhere at once. He’s murdered people in the Sky Floors before. What if he’s here right now? Are they watching me?

But even as I think this, a part of me scoffs at how ridiculous it sounds. All I can remember is the genuine interest in his eyes and the charisma in his words. Hadn’t he been so supportive of me? Why would he want me dead, if he seemed so interested in what I could make?

We reach the lounge. Pressa forces me to sit down, then grabs me a glass of water from the bar. “You look like you just witnessed a crime,” she says as she hands me the glass. “Everything okay?”

I take the glass and don’t stop drinking until the water’s gone. My eyes scan the room, searching for a shadow. Maybe I’m too tired to be here. Maybe it’s too much noise and too many people. “I think I need to go home,” I whisper, my eyes darting from person to person.

Pressa nods. “Okay.”

She gets up, and I follow her gratefully. The colors swirl around me, making me light-headed. Maybe the shadows are nothing but my own anxieties, or maybe I’m even lost in a nightmare. I’ve had dreams like this, where I’m stuck in dark hallways and trying in vain to find the exit. I keep looking for the shadows.

My thoughts keep lingering on them. Dominic Hann’s men, the whisper goes in my head.

It’s stupid. Why would he waste time following me around?

But as I stumble out of the club’s exit with Pressa, I see one last glimpse of dark figures behind us. There are two of them, both silhouettes with hands in their pockets, and their eyes are trained on me.

Virtual figures, I tell myself. They’re not real. I turn back around and hurry out with Pressa. But the sight haunts me, and I keep looking over my shoulder the entire way home, expecting to see them following close behind.

And even though I don’t quite believe it, the nagging whisper in my head keeps talking to me.

They’re coming for your brother. They’re coming for you.





DANIEL



By the time I return to my apartment, my thoughts still swirling around what had—or hadn’t—happened with June, Eden’s still gone to who knows where. I step in through the doorway, expecting to hear the security system’s usual announcement of my name.

But there’s nothing.

I pause in the entryway, glance up at the speaker system, and then frown at the screen embedded against the entry hall. “System’s rebooting again,” I mutter, then flash my hand against the screen and watch as it lights up blue, resetting all of its features.

But something’s off in the apartment. I look around again, warier this time. Everything seems like it’s in its place; Eden’s shoes are still clustered haphazardly near the doorway, and his dirty dishes are in the sink, left in a hurry as usual. Dim light spills across the floor.

But the place doesn’t feel empty like it should. I step into the center of the living room, trying to pinpoint exactly what’s bothering me. There’s a hint of something foreign in the air—a faint cologne, maybe, or the scent of a mint that neither Eden nor I buy.

My eyes go to a shadow stretching behind me.

It’s not the shadow of the kitchen counter.

Every hair rises on the back of my neck. Someone’s here. I whirl around, but it’s too late—there’s a woman in a black suit standing in front of my door. For a split second, I think she’s an AIS agent—but she’s not recognizable, and she’s not wearing our uniform. Another presence moves behind me.

I duck, managing to dodge out of one lunge for me—but then another set of arms catches mine, forcing them behind my back. How many people are in here? I bare my teeth, ready to spin around and attack. But a damp cloth is shoved over my mouth. The overwhelming smell of chloroform invades my senses.

I fight wildly to escape it, but whoever’s holding me is easily double my size. Before me stands a figure blurred by my motions. I recognize the neat trim of his beard and the tint of his glasses. He smiles at me.