things, and I don’t know whether or not I should say something to him. It feels like I should, but I have no idea what I could say.
Not that it matters. In another few moments, he’s out. He used his gift so much tonight, it’s little wonder he’s exhausted. I’ll have to think of something before he comes back from his walk in the morning and then try talking to him. I don’t like this feeling of growing distance.
I feel Jay’s eyes on me again, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. You can’t avoid this forever, Lai. Putting it off is only hurting us. I’m sorry.
Again, I don’t reply to Jay’s thoughts. I know he’s right. I know I need to do something. And the longer I put off telling Al and Erik about the Order, the angrier they’ll be when I finally do. But when I think about actually sitting them down and telling them everything, and then taking them to the Order, I can’t help but feel a little sick. Paul’s face flashes before my eyes—when we go back, I’ll have to face Regail Hall without his presence. His death is going to be so much more real.
I push down a threatening wave of grief and guilt—and anger. If Al hadn’t separated from us during that ambush to chase after her brother, we could’ve escaped. Paul would still be alive. And I can’t forgive her for that yet.
How am I supposed to share the most important thing in my life, something I would die for in a heartbeat, with someone who’s barely here mentally and someone whose actions led to the death of one of my oldest friends?
2
ERIK
BETWEEN BEING STUCK with people who’re driving me up the wall and annoying thoughts about the rebels, I don’t know which is gonna cave my head in first. Gods, what I wouldn’t give to go somewhere quiet and be alone. Just for a while.
Go where? a voice scoffs in the back of my head. You’re a wanted criminal, idiot.
A criminal even though I stuck around. A criminal even though I turned down the chance to join the rebels and find out more about the past I have no memories of. A criminal for choosing the “right” thing.
Screw this.
I stride through the streets like I’m any other normal Etiole and no one looks at me twice. So much for being wanted. So long as I don’t act guilty, no one’ll think I am. But I make the mistake of looking down a side alley and seeing some kid getting beaten up by a few middle-aged guys. From the ground, his arms make a weak shield as the men shower him with kicks. I wonder if he’s actually a Nyte or if the men just think he is. Not like it matters.
I flick my fingers and the men go flying back through the air. The kid blinks at them. Then he runs for it. I don’t go after him to ask if he’s okay. Being the hero isn’t really my thing. But after that, I keep my hat—found in this mystery apartment we’ve been staying in—drawn lower over my eyes.
This is why I hate going out into the city. At least in the military Nytes were left alone. Not treated as equals, but not beaten up. Not only because the army knew the gifted were saving their asses, but because anyone who tried to gang up on a trained gifted soldier was just going to end up in the infirmary. But out here in the city, the sector’s attitude toward Nytes has just gotten worse thanks to the rebel gifted.
The streets are quiet. After the rebels attacked the sector and declared war, it’s like people finally realized they were an actual threat. Took them long enough. Groups stand in doorways and talk quietly. Forced laughs mix with the shouts of the vendors going about their business. Eyes shift back and forth, searching. Everyone under the age of twenty keeps their head down. I guess even the ungifted kids have something to fear, since there are no obvious physical differences between Nytes and Etioles. It must be so hard for them, having to be afraid they’ll be accused of being gifted. I try not to think of the kid I saw taking all those kicks.
I weave through the thin crowds easily. Every time I turn a corner, my eyes automatically search for the easiest exit from whatever road I’m on. A