Wildcard (Warcross #2)(11)

Then, there is Zero. A mystery. I can only see him in the form I’ve known, his black armor reflecting red light surrounding him, his features completely hidden behind a black helmet as he sits across from me and laces his fingers together. He’s telling me to run.

I don’t know how long we ride in the taxi before it finally comes to a stop behind a building.

Jax opens my door and helps me out. I turn weakly toward her, trying to move my limbs, but all I can feel is the faint sensation of pavement beneath my dragging feet. Jax has her arm around my waist, keeping me up, and she’s saying something to people standing at the building’s sliding glass doors. It looks like a hotel.

“Out partying too hard,” she explains in a singsong voice to the attendee at the entrance. I want to blurt out that she’s lying, but it takes all my strength just to stay upright. The world spins.

Remember this. Remember this. But even the thought itself flitters out of my mind the instant I think it. My vision blurs more, and the more I fight it, the more it fades. I end up focusing on Jax. She runs a hand through her hair and casts me an unconcerned glance.

There’s the inside of an elevator, then a hallway. As I start to fade away again, all I can hear is Jax announce our arrival.

“Tell Zero she’s here.”





4



Five Days until the Warcross Closing Ceremony



Darkness. Two voices.

“She should have been up by noon. You shot her with too strong a dose.”

“I thought she could handle it.”

“Let her sleep, then.”

Weak light slanting across my face makes me squint.

I roll over in bed and curl into a ball. Where am I? A swirl of images rotates through my mind—dreams, maybe, but brighter, hazier in a way that I can’t explain. I furrow my brow.

Was there a taxi? A black car. An unfinished subway tunnel. A district of colors. My heart pounds furiously. I lie still for a while, willing it to slow down until I’m able to breathe at a normal rate again. Then I open my eyes. The orange light of early morning streaks across my bedsheets, coming gradually into focus as my vision adjusts.

No, wait—this isn’t morning light at all. It’s sunset.

I blink, disoriented. I’m lying in a bed in a luxuriously stark hotel room, adorned with gray-and-white-striped wallpaper and a series of plain wall paintings.

Waves of memories rush back at me now. The assassins. The subway tunnel. The image of Jax standing over my pursuer. The gunshot.

The Blackcoats.

And then . . . what? The last thing I remember is Jax pointing her gun straight at me.

She drugged me. I’m sure of it. Maybe it was to make sure I didn’t remember anything about where we were going or what path we took to get here—but now here I am, lying in an unfamiliar room with holes in my memory.

I bolt upright. I’m still dressed in the same clothes I’d been wearing that night. I check myself gingerly for any injuries, but besides some bruises and a sore spot on my neck, I’m unharmed. My moment of panic pools gradually into a sense of foreboding that invades my chest. I watch the faint light filtering in through my window.

It takes me a moment to realize that I have a dozen unread messages from the Riders, each one more frantic than the last. I frown. How long have I been missing if they’re this worried? Had they heard about the gunshots fired near where we had dinner? It must be on the news, unless Hideo can somehow control that, too. I hesitate, wondering whether I should tell my teammates what really happened, before sending out some quick replies of reassurance.

I’m ok, don’t worry.



Lost reception for a bit. Talk soon.



Then I freeze when I reach the last unread message. It’s an incoming invite, accompanied by a profile image haloed in soft, blinking green.

Hideo is calling me. Asking me to Link with him.

My heart jumps into my throat.

What does he want? Is it possible he knows what’s happened to me, even though I’m using beta lenses? I glance quickly around the room, looking for any sign that I’m being recorded. But there aren’t any cameras in the ceilings.

Don’t answer it.

I know I shouldn’t.

But I still find myself lifting my hand, reaching up, and tapping on the invite hovering in my view. I regret it immediately. Maybe the drug Jax used on me has lowered my inhibitions and hijacked my common sense. But it’s too late now. I don’t see him appear right away, but through our newly formed Link, I can feel a trickle of his emotions.

They’re a knot of urgency and fear.

Emika.

I startle again. Hideo’s voice is speaking in my mind, his telepathic messaging invention. I should be used to it by now, but even after a mere couple of weeks, his voice hits me just like it did the first time we spoke on the phone. I narrow my eyes, more annoyed at myself than at him.

Why are you calling me? I say to him.

You called me.

This brings me up short. I did? It must have happened while I was drugged—maybe an unconscious reaction. Now I have a faint recollection of trying desperately to call for help. Apparently, I’d decided to call Hideo.

I wince. Couldn’t I have called Hammie or Roshan instead? Any of the Riders? Did my instinct have to be Hideo?

Well, it was an accident, I counter.