“Fine,” Marcus said, gesturing forward again down another flight of metal stairs.
“Jacob?” I whispered over my shoulder.
“If Havoc has a leader, it’s him,” Trevor said quietly.
We descended another level. From here, looking up, I could see that narrow bridges connected the various floors above. The light was thinner down here, and colder – yet the air felt crisp and clean, probably due to the thick carpet of leafy vines crawling from the water up the walls, and the ring of potted plants and trees. It had an earthy smell of compost and decay.
In the center, a raised platform rose from the underground lake like a tiny island, filled with comfortable furniture, a wide wooden table with a dozen chairs, and a whiteboard with markers. A display rack held a small arsenal of assault rifles and pistols.
A dark-skinned man with a goatee was waiting with his hands behind his back.
“Emily Sharrow,” he said, stepping forward. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I tried not to stare at the deep red patch that surrounded his left eye. A birthmark, probably, like the ones on my wrist, but the distinctive marking stood out against his colorless clothing and dark skin. Unlike the compounds, where deeply-colored fabrics were prized, the Havoc dress code seemed to be limited to faded grays and browns. He wasn’t as big or tall as Trevor, but somehow projected a calm authority. Maybe it was the leather straps, armored fatigues and spiked shoulder pads; or the slagpaw pelt and necklace of claws and bullets around his neck. Altogether, the look seemed more ostentatious than practical.
Next to him, the woman in the corner blended in so much she was practically invisible until she shifted her position. Her jet black hair fell like a curtain, framing her pale skin and slanted eyes. She met my gaze with a slight nod. Although also draped in faded layers of fabric, she was wearing sweatpants and a pair of pink sandals, and looked far more comfortable, curled up on a leather couch. The chipped mug at her side read Difficult Roads often lead to Beautiful Destinations.
“Emily, this is April Liu, our resident doctor. We have healers who help with smaller things when we need them; herbs, setting bones. April is more of a research specialist than a practitioner.”
I nodded, though I didn’t know exactly what any of that meant. We had healers in the compounds, but they didn’t need to do much, since our weekly allotment of elixir kept most health issues in check. I took a seat at the table cautiously.
“And I believe you’ve already met Steve Haggs,” he nodded behind me. I turned to see the man with the scarred lip and short hair, hovering behind us near the stairs. He nodded at me and I scowled back.
“You mean the ugly bastard that shot me?” I said, crossing my arms. “Yeah, we’ve met.”
I didn’t know what Jacob wanted or why I was even here, but I wasn’t ready to let my guard down; even after Jacob nodded to one of his guards, who poured me a steaming cup of coffee and a frosted blackberry scone. He watched me take a bite. I tried not to moan, it had been days since I’d tasted anything so sweet. The coffee was bitter and grainy, but strong enough.
“We watched the trials, you know. We don’t usually play citadel propaganda down here but I find it’s best to keep informed. That was some performance.”
“I wasn’t acting,” I shot back. “Just trying to survive.”
“That isn’t true,” Jacob said, eyeing me thoughtfully. “You tried to help the other chosen, even though some of them turned on each other; turned on you. And when faced with a slagpaw, you lowered your weapons. Not much surprises me, but I’ll be honest, that moment shook me, as it did many others. Somehow, you tamed a slagpaw. Then rather than winning the trials and claiming your prize, you escaped the citadel with a handful of rebels and two other chosen. My question is… why?”
“Why what?” I mumbled, stuffing the rest of the scone in my mouth.
“I need to know what’s motivating you. I need to know my people are safe.”
“You think I’m a danger to them?” I asked.
“Aren’t you? The chosen represent everything we fight against. Most commoners are so far beneath the elite’s register, we don’t even matter. You however, have the king’s personal interest. Chosen by his own son, Prince Damien. Set to inherit a position of wealth and status, and