Jora and March keep their heads down, refusing to meet my eye in the mirrored walls. Along with the clothes Lixue brought to my apartment earlier, she delivered the kind of news that should result in a mass Culling. If my mood were any worse, I’d have every Guard in the south wing lined up for Termination, but Kai and Jack managed to dispatch four of them before disappearing into the south portal, and I need every remaining, conscious Guard in this place ready at my disposal.

I can’t afford any more mistakes. I won’t risk underestimating Jack and Kai, who are probably scampering like roaches through the tunnels under my feet. They were never supposed to make it this far. The portals were all manned and armed. Jack and Kai should have been intercepted and captured coming in. And yet one of the few functioning cameras in the south wing captured an image of them ninety-seven minutes ago. And they weren’t alone.

I don’t know how Amber Chase or Julio Verano managed to penetrate the portals, but I’m damn sure going to find out.

The elevator doors glide open. The Guards follow close enough for me to feel their heartbeats as I storm toward the catacombs. The tunnels to the holding cells narrow around us. A torch roars as I stride past. Fleur’s cell door hangs open, and I kick it shut, the loud clang reverberating off the walls as I march past it toward Chill’s cell.

A camera whines behind me. I turn, watching the lens move clumsily back and forth, as if someone is messing with the remote. I glare into it as I drag my phone from my pocket and dial the Control Room. Bradwell answers. “Disable all the closed-circuit feeds to the TV in my suite.” Pocketing my phone, I turn toward Chill’s cell.

“Get up,” I growl into the shadows inside. I can smell him, his unwashed body and stagnant breath. I snatch a torch off the wall and pitch it between the bars. It lands beside him with a hiss, and he jerks his leg back to keep his jumpsuit from catching fire. “I said, get up!”

Torchlight glimmers in his eyes as he kicks it away from him. He rises slowly, bringing his face close to the bars. This isn’t the same timid Handler Denver and I once dragged from the mess hall. Not the same pathetic loser who hid behind a pair of phony glasses and used his Season’s reputation as currency to buy a seat at the cool kids’ table. Chill’s eyes swirl white, his magic building like a storm, waiting for a chance to bury me.

He stares at my eyepatch with blatant disgust. “Where’s Fleur?”

“I’m not here to talk about Fleur. You and I are going to have a talk about Poppy.”