He walked to the door. Turned there, surrounded by photographs of water. Gave Finch a salute. “Good luck, Finch. And some advice: be prepared to kill.”

Said it casually. Almost as if he’d said it many times before.

8

Back in front of apartment 525. Where it had started. Only five days ago. Everything was different. Everything was the same.

Had fought his way through chaotic streets. Grim-looking men and women careening past in forbidden motored vehicles. Armed with everything from pitchforks and kitchen knives to rifles and semiautomatics. Then passed through the double doors. Bodies slumped on the steps outside the building. Strewn. Spasming in something between agony and ecstasy. An acrid smell lingered from whatever had poisoned them.

Inside, no one in the corridors. The floor no longer slick. No one on the landings.

No sign of any Partials. Distant sounds of conflict from outside only made it inside as a thud or rumbling echo. Could hear his own heartbeat. Couldn’t hear any sounds from inside the apartments around him. Held the gun up, two-handed grip, but it was the weight of the sword at his side that comforted him.

Same gray cap symbol glowing on the door.

Same hesitation, but more pain behind it. The light in the hall flickered crazily.

Finally mastered his fear. Held the gun in one hand while he turned the doorknob and pushed with the other. The door was unlocked. A prickle of unease up his spine.

He walked into the darkened hall with the empty bedroom ahead. A yellow, artificial light leaked into the hall from the doorway on the left.

No sound but his tread on the wooden floor. Just an expectant pause. Realized he was holding his breath. Let it out. An absurd whistling through his nose that was worse.

He came out into the living room. A lantern on a chair by the balcony window provided the light. Cast everything in buttery shadows.

The sofa. The chairs. The empty kitchen behind. A shape on the rug. As his eyes adjusted, he saw it was the familiar shape of Shriek, under the blanket. The rebels’ great hope. A weapon. A beacon. A human being.

He walked into the living room.

A movement from behind. Before he could turn, the muzzle of a gun had been shoved into his back. Flinched. Felt like something alive was crawling onto him from the gun.

“Drop your weapon, Finch. The bag, too.” A familiar voice. The Partial.

“I’m here on official business,” Finch snapped.

“We both know that’s a lie. Drop it now.”

Heard the click of the safety.

Finch dropped the gun.

“Now the sword. Undo the belt. Let it drop.”

Finch obeyed, trying to breathe slowly, not let panic take him. What moment should he choose? This one? The next?

The sword made a dull clank against the floor. The slap of the belt leather.

The gun muzzle withdrew from his back. “Now turn and face me.”