Page 107 of Cage of Starlight
Riese taps it. “That’s where the compasses used to track escaped Seeds are stored. That’s what I meant before. If you don’t want to worry about the risk of death from a botched Core removal, just leave it in. Once we’ve finished our work, it won’t matter.”
“I don’t care. I need it out of me.” Tory traces the area on the map Riese pointed out. The Monitor Room. Torypassedthat door on his walks. “I could do this.”
“I know you can. I’ll send you back with everything you need. Michal Vantaras built onmywork to make the Cores, and I’ll see them unmade, no matter the cost.” Riese presses a small slice of stone in a metal setting to the table. “You’ll need this.”
A tab, larger than the one Tory was given. It looks like the one Sena used to let Tory into the linen closet.
Exactly like it. Tory picks it up.
On the side, stamped into the metal setting: VANTARAS.
Riese rubs the back of his head. “Don’t be angry. I pocketed it when I helped you carry him to his tent earlier.”
Tory blinks, frowns, opens his mouth. Closes it. It’s an asshole move, but the irritation fizzles and fades in him. He didn’t even notice it happening.
To be fair, he was tuned in only to the whistle of Sena’s failing breath and the heat of fever that radiated through his clothes. Riese could have taken it offToryand he wouldn’t have noticed.
“He’d have given it to you if you asked,” Tory mumbles.
“He wasn’t in any condition to answer questions.” Riese taps the stellite tab, scraping a thumb over the engraved name. Mildly, he says, “You didn’ttellme he was Vantaras.” Oh, he’s irritated. “The leverage we could’ve had! If I’d known, I might have done some things differently.”
“Yeah, well, you took your sweet time telling me things, too,” Tory says.
Riese sighs. “Fair. It can’t be changed now, and either way, we have everything we need. For a while, we’ve been trying to figure out a way to infiltrate.” His lips press together. “I couldn’t force anyone to take on a Core. But someonealreadyin their database, already with a Core, and willing to help us?” He smiles. “You might see how you were the answer to all our problems. If you’re willing—”
It’s not even a choice.
“I’ll do it. And Sena—Sena can help with—” He smiles, hands shaking. Relief blazes through him, leaves him razed clean. “Sena! He . . .”
He can go back, stay safe. They’ll destroy all the compasses and get out. He won’t have to listen to Kirlov. If they can’t track him or disable his Core, it won’t matter that they can’t remove it. He’ll live. He’lllive.
This is it. This is their way. Tory hardly believed himself when he promised it, but it’s here, just in time and almost too good to be true.
“Bastard,” he hisses at Riese. He should be mad that Riese stole Sena’s tab, but he’s grinning. They’ll be safe. He’ll be free. This strange, terrifying, overwhelming thing between them, he can have it. He’ll have plenty of time to hold it up to the light and make sense of it, put a name to it if he dares. “You’re a rotten bastard, you know that?”
Riese laughs. “I am what I am.”
Tory lurches to his feet. “I have to tell him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Riese scrambles outbehind him, calling his name, but Tory outpaces him. Riese might have been on the run for the last few years, but Tory’s been running almost as long as he’s been alive. It’s nice to move toward something, for once.
Helner can take his Core out. They’ll trash the Monitor Room so Sena won’t have to worry about being tracked. They’ll figure this—thisthingout, whatever it is, and it’ll be fine. Sena will get better and Tory can stop having to worry because worrying sucks and he’s over it, can’t imagine for the life of him how Thatcher put up with it.
But things will be good. Near-perfect.
Nothing is ever this perfect, but maybe he’s due an easy win. Maybe they both are.
“Sena! Hey, listen! You won’t—”
He’s not by the fire where Tory left him. The embers flicker livid red. Sunrise makes spindly shadows of the silent congregation of trees.
He hurries to Sena’s tent, hesitates only a second before pulling open the flap.
He coughs. Smoke, sweat, and the biting tartness of coffee heated too long make his eyes water. There’s a pitcher on its side, its sludgy contents poured over a circular singe mark where the pitcher’s heated bottom must have set the edge of the blanket alight.
If Sena were there in the midst of it, maybe Tory could laugh, joke about how Sena isn’t allowed to touch anything even remotely hazardous while sleepy or unwell.
