WHEN I COME to, colors swim in front of my eyes and pain radiates from my shoulder, ribs, and head. Noise fades in and out. I crack my eyelids open a little farther and can just make out a patch of maroon fabric…a couch maybe?

I try to sit up, but I’m already sitting. I force myself to blink, and it takes me a moment to make sense of the shapes in my vision. I catch sight of my arms, which are bruised and cut up. My wrists are zip-tied to the arms of a wooden chair, and since I can’t move my feet, I assume my ankles are tied to the chair legs as well. If I struggle or move around, the ties slice into my skin.

Suddenly I’m inhaling something awful that’s reminiscent of ammonia, and the fog in my brain starts to clear. A man stands in front of me, waving a small glass vial under my nose. My chair is against a wall, and now I can make out a heavy desk to my right and a fireplace to my left.

I cough and turn my head away from the smell, fully awake.

The man corks the vial and slips it into his blazer pocket. I focus my eyes on him and it suddenly occurs to me where I am, who he is. Oh no.

Conner watches me curiously as the events of the night begin to come back to me: Aarya, Ash, Felix…

“Well, there you are,” Conner says, perfectly at ease.

“What did you do? Where’s Ash?” The fear in my voice is apparent and I’m sure he doesn’t miss it.

Conner smiles. “It’s amazing to me that you would worry about someone who was helping to kill you.” He makes a tsking sound, as though it’s all such a shame. “Just like her father,” he says under his breath, but I can tell it was meant for me to hear.

I freeze at the mention of my dad.

Conner gives me a knowing look. “And that’s another thing. You’re far too easy to read. It’s actually disappointing. One would think the Strategia in your blood would have manifested itself more, but alas.” He clasps his hands behind his back. “Yes, I know your father, November. And when I saw you, the exact image of your mother, I was expecting someone polished and poised. A true opponent. But you?” He laughs. “I’m not saying you’re not like them. After all, you’ve certainly managed to inherit their worst qualities.”

I hate the way he’s talking about my parents. He’s clearly trying to get a rise out of me.

“It makes you angry when I talk about your father?” Conner says in answer to my thoughts, and puffs out his chest. “Well, then I imagine you’re not going to enjoy our time together very much.”