The Gender Plan (The Gender Game #6)(52)

“Like it or not,” added Henrik, leaning back into his chair and smiling broadly, “you need us and we need you. So why don’t you stop fighting us at every turn, and start helping?”

The king raised an eyebrow at Henrik. “Aren’t you dead yet?”

Ms. Dale literally growled, standing up so abruptly I was surprised her chair didn’t go anywhere. Violet leaned over.

“So much for not getting into a fight,” she whispered to me, and I nodded, and then stood up.

“Enough,” I bellowed. Whatever Ms. Dale had been gearing up to say stalled out. Maxen looked at me in surprise, but I ignored him. Turning to Ms. Dale, I gave her a stern look. “Ms. Dale, maybe we could all try to be sensitive to the king’s… predicament. I’m sure this situation, for him, hasn’t been without hardships.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw King Maxen give me a considering look, and then a congenial smile. I let him bask in that for a moment, before turning and spearing him with a hard stare. “And you. I know you still cling to this ridiculous idea that we kidnapped you to… I don’t even know what, but let’s be honest: every person here is your ally. We share a common enemy—one that wanted you dead and would’ve killed you had we not intervened, I might add—and we have kept you safe, fed, and housed. You owe everyone here for that, so you might want to be a little more civil.”

My voice ended in a growl, and the king stiffened, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Never presume to lecture me, Mr. Croft,” he sneered.

I didn’t reply. I just held his gaze for a long moment, trying to convince myself that punching him that one time hadn’t been that satisfying. Eventually, the king’s eyes flicked down and away, and I sat back down in my chair, satisfied that he had gotten the severity of the message. The tension was growing too high for any derision. We had to convince these rebels to join with us if we had any chance of stopping Elena from doing whatever it was she was doing at the water treatment plant. I just had to hope that showing them King Maxen’s face would be enough—if they were expecting much else from him, they were going to be woefully disappointed.

The screen on the table against the wall beeped, and Henrik gave a nod. “Game faces, everyone. It’s time to make these rebels think we got it all figured out.”

I bit back a smile at the truth in his words, and then Ms. Dale connected the channel on our laptop. Instantly, Tiffany’s face filled the screen, her wide eyes searching. “I got ‘em,” she said over her shoulder.

She moved out of view, the camera on her handheld shaking, tilting right and left as she adjusted it. Once it settled, I stared at the three people who were sitting a few feet away from the handheld, seated in what was clearly an apartment’s living room space. I took stock of each of them, finally putting some faces to the names Tiffany had briefed us on.

At the right of the screen sat a brunette woman. She was wearing all black, her hair gathered in a messy bun on top of her head. She was young—young enough that there was still some baby fat clinging stubbornly to her cheeks, but she had a wise look in her bright blue eyes. This was Mags. Of all the three leaders, she was the one we were all the most interested in meeting. Tiffany had practically sung her praises in her reports.

Next to her, in the middle, was a man in his early twenties with a shock of black hair tied in a neat ponytail on the crown of his head. The effect should’ve made him appear more feminine, but there was a masculine edge to the rest of his features, one I was sure women fell head over heels for. His eyes were also blue, but partially obscured by the thin wire glasses perched on his nose. This was probably Logan Vox. When a couple of us had commented about the surname, it had come up that this one was in the public eye—Logan was the youngest son of the owner of the company that produced Deepvox pills, but had eschewed the family business to become a heloship pilot, though he’d had some pretty public scandals even so. Now, of course, he was a rebel. He had cobbled together a pretty formidable force, even if it was the smallest one of the three.

The last man was the oldest of the trio, probably in his late thirties, early forties. He was bald, but sported a thick auburn beard. His eyes were small and his figure rotund, but he was still quite strong, gauging from the set of his shoulders and the bulge of his muscles. He had probably been quite muscular some time ago, but my guess was that after a few years of not maintaining his weight, the muscle had started to give way to fat—slowly. He was the man we knew the least about. Andrew Kattatopolous, Drew for short.

I opened my mouth, prepared to speak first, when Mags spoke up. “So you are the ones responsible for getting that message into all the stadiums?”

Her voice was lilting, curious. She cocked her head at us inquisitively, and I nodded.

“We are. My name is Viggo Croft. This is Violet Bates, Melissa Dale, Henrik Muller, and, of course, you know King Maxen.”

The three people on the couch exchanged looks as Maxen stood up. “Can you have him stand closer to the camera?” asked Logan.

I glanced at King Maxen, who rolled his eyes and then moved over to where the handheld was perched at an angle, leaning on the television. “How’s that?” he asked, stooping over slightly.

“That’s him,” came the deep gravel of Drew’s voice. “His beard’s grown in, but that’s him. They are who they claim to be.”