My father was in the living room. I could see his slippered feet propped up on the ottoman. He was watching ScionEye, the news network that covered all Scion citadels, and on the screen Scarlett Burnish was announcing that the Underground across I Cohort had just been closed.

I could never hear that voice without a shudder. Burnish was only about twenty-five, the youngest ever Grand Raconteur: the assistant of the Grand Inquisitor, the one who pledged their voice and wit to Scion. People called her Weaver’s whore, perhaps out of jealousy. She had clear skin and six-seater lips, and she favored thick red eyeliner. It matched her hair, which she wore in a chic Gibson tuck. Her high-collared dresses always made me think of the gallows.

“In foreign news, the Grand Inquisitor of the French Republic, Benoît Ménard, will be visiting Inquisitor Weaver for Novembertide festivities this year. With eight months to go, the Archon is already making preparations for what looks to be a truly invigorating visit.”

“Paige?”

I pulled off my cap. “Hi.”

“Come and sit down.”

“Just a minute.”

I headed straight for the bathroom. I was sweating not so much bullets as shotgun shells.

I’d killed someone. I’d actually killed someone. Jax had always said I was capable of it—bloodless murder—but I’d never believed him. Now I was a murderer. And worse, I’d left evidence: a survivor. I didn’t have my data pad, either, and it was smothered in my fingerprints. I wouldn’t just get NiteKind—that would be too easy. Torture and the gallows, for sure.

As soon as I got to the bathroom, I vomited my guts into the toilet. By the time I’d brought up everything but my organs, I was shaking so violently I could hardly stand. I tore off my clothes and stumbled into the shower. Burning water pounded on my skin.

I’d gone too far this time. For the first time ever, I’d invaded other dreamscapes. Not just touched them.

Jaxon would be thrilled.

My eyes closed. The scene in the carriage replayed again and again. I hadn’t meant to kill them, I’d meant to give them a push—just enough to give them a migraine, maybe make their noses bleed. Cause a distraction.

But something made me panic. Fear of being found. Fear of becoming another anonymous victim of Scion.

I thought of Linwood. Voyants never protected one another, not unless they were in the same gang, but his death still weighed on me. I pulled my knees up to my chin and held my aching head in both hands. If only I’d been faster. Now two people were dead—one insane—and if I wasn’t very lucky, I’d be next.

I huddled in the corner of the shower, my knees strapped against my chest. I couldn’t hide in here forever. They always found you in the end.

I had to think. Scion had a containment procedure for these situations. Once they’d cleared the station and detained any possible witnesses, they would call a gallipot—an expert in ethereal drugs—and administer blue aster. That would temporarily restore my victim’s memories, allowing them to be seen. When they had the relevant parts recorded, they would euthanize the man and give his body to the morgue in II-6. Then they would flick through his memories, searching for the face of his killer. And then they would find me.