Ch. 22

A week of sullen rain soaked the world to sponginess. By the time the next evening with even a hint of clear sky arrived, the whole crew was ready to throttle one another purely from boredom. But Carolina had a plan and, improbably, so did Xander. They met in the blue hour outside the derelict greenhouse, where steam from the boilers curled around shattered windowpanes like something alive. He brought her a thermos, black coffee diluted with something caramel-sweet, and she clinked her mug against his, because if you didn’t toast to survival, what was the point.

After dinner, instead of the usual shuffle back to bunks, Carolina led Xander up the trails, through the slick branches and deadfall, up a slope that overlooked the valley. “Date night,” she said, voice bright and hard, like she’d rehearsed this. A picnic, but without the kitsch—just a battered blanket and two packs of peanut butter crackers. She’d pilfered a bar of chocolate from the dry goods, too, which made him shake his head, incredulous.

“The first time I went on a date,” Xander said, “I punched the guy in the face and left before dessert.”

“And yet here we are,” Carolina replied. “Progress.”

They sprawled out looking at the stars, or rather, the low haze where stars should have been. It was so quiet that Xander’s breathing registered as a continuous presence. If she squinted, she could imagine them anywhere. The city. The coast. Not here. He tried to show her Orion but got distracted describing an old security job, something about a warehouse crawlspace and a raccoon. She thought it was going to be a joke, but instead he got snagged on the memory, and they both went a little soft-edged for a while, just staring up and not talking.

They didn’t notice Lyra until she was practically on top of them. She wore a coat that swung like a bell and boots that left quarter-moon prints in the moss. The expression on her face was practiced concern, but her voice, when she spoke, cut like a scalpel.

“Hey, there you two are.” Lyra’s smile never quite reached her eyes. “Sorry to butt in, but Marcus is looking for both of you.”

“In the middle of the night?” Xander said, bristling a fraction.

Lyra glanced at Carolina, lowering her voice: “It’s urgent. Something about the gates. A breach.” She delivered this news with the precise solemnity of someone telling you your dog had run away after leaving the door open.

Carolina rolled up to a sit. “Did he send you?”

Lyra shook her head. “He’s swamped. I volunteered to find you.” Which was a lie. Lyra didn’t volunteer for anything except the chance to make herself indispensable, especially to Carolina.

The three of them picked their way down the muddy incline, Carolina setting a pace just fast enough to make conversation hard. Xander lagged behind, hands sunk in his pockets, letting the women carry whatever drama this was. At the main gates, the security lights glared off puddles. There was no sign of Marcus, but a knot of guards clustered around a flat tire on the east perimeter truck. Two looked none the worse for wear. The third, a rookie named Gregor, had blood seeping through the bandage on his palm, but seemed secretly delighted by the emergency.

Lyra looked around, feigning confusion. “Weird. I thought Marcus was here.”

Carolina eyed her sideways. “If this was the emergency, why the secrecy?”

“It’s not secrecy,” Lyra said, “it’s chain of command. You know how it is.” She smiled, and it was almost pretty except for the way her teeth pressed too sharp.

Carolina did know. She also knew an ambush when she saw it.

She left Xander to supervise Gregor, then pulled Lyra aside near the tool shed. The air between them snapped with unspoken history.

“Guess I ruined your night,” Lyra said, not quite hiding the satisfaction.

Carolina shrugged. “You always did like to make an entrance.”

Lyra shook her head, a little smile fizzing off her lips. “Actually, I liked to get your attention. Big difference.”

They both knew why Lyra had come. If Xander was the wound, Lyra was the infection. She couldn’t help herself.

“I get that you want to save him,” Lyra said. “But you’re not really built for mercy, Ro.”

Carolina bristled at the old nickname. “You think I can’t make him happy?”

“I think you’re too hungry to leave anything behind.” Lyra’s face softened. “But I hope I’m wrong.”

In that instant, Carolina saw the shape of Lyra’s sabotage—not poison, not violence, but doubt. It was so much more effective.

“You could always just let me be happy,” Carolina said, voice level.

“Oh, Ro.” Lyra reached out, a palm landing feather-light on her shoulder. “What’s the fun in that?”

By the time the guards had finished with the flat, Xander was already pacing at the gate, jaw flexed with irritation. “Marcus wants us, he can find us himself,” he muttered. Carolina shot Lyra a silent warning, and the other woman only smiled, slipping away on cat feet.

The rest of the night passed in a haze of motion: Xander helping to reinforce the fence, Carolina patching up Gregor’s hand, both of them pretending not to notice the eyes watching from the dark windows of the bunkhouse. But when she caught Lyra, later, alone on the mess hall porch, their eyes met for just a second. There was no gloat, no malice. Just that same old dare.

Carolina grinned to herself. She’d have to be sharper. She’d have to be ruthless. But in the marrow of her bones, she knew she’d already won.

* * *

The following week, Marcus called them to his office again. The air was humid, thick with the promise of another downpour. He didn’t bother with rhetorical questions this time.

“You’re going out alone tonight,” he said. “Just the two of you. If you make it back before dawn, we’ll talk about next steps.”

Xander looked at Carolina, then at Marcus. “What’s the catch?”

“There’s always a catch,” Marcus said, almost smiling, then tossed them a battered walkie-talkie. “Don’t call unless you’re dying.”

They packed light: boots, knives, a length of paracord. As they left the main house, Lyra loitered on the porch, arms crossed over her chest like a barricade.

“Got any last words?” Carolina asked her.

Lyra’s gaze flicked from Xander to Carolina and back. “Don’t die. That would be boring.”

Carolina gave her a wide, sharp smile, then pulled Xander into the woods.

The forest was alive, all nerve endings and wet leaves, the kind of dark that bred stories. They hiked in silence for a long while, Carolina leading, Xander at her back. It was almost comfortable, the two of them alone in the world.

After a mile or so, Xander said, “You know Lyra’s trying to get in your head.”

“Let her try,” Carolina snapped.

He stopped walking. “No, listen. She told me something. About you. About what made you leave last time.”

Carolina froze. “And you believed her?”

His shrug was an admission. “I never know what to believe.” He stepped closer, voice softer. “I just need you to tell me.”

She wanted to lie. She wanted, for once, to be blank and clean, to start fresh. But that was never how it worked, not in this pack, not in this goddamn life.

“It’s like Lyra says,” Carolina admitted. “I don’t know how to stop wanting.” Her smile, when it came, was a little wild. “But I know how to choose. And I choose you.”

Xander blinked. It was almost funny, seeing the big, brash, bulletproof man at a loss for words.

“Good,” he said finally. And then, softly, like he was afraid she would laugh: “I choose you, too.”

Carolina took his hand, letting her fingers lace with his. The mud sucked at their boots, and the water dripped from every branch, but for the first time, she felt anchored. Whole.

Behind them, the sky turned the color of steel. Somewhere, Lyra was smiling, but not for the reason she thought. Maybe this was the trick of it: to risk everything again and again, until the wanting was its own kind of faith.

They walked on, into the dark, daring the world to catch up to them.