The Cage (The Cage 1)

Cora stared at the dot of yellow paint on Nok’s nose. Was she going crazy—or were they? Rolf scooped up the paintbrush, wrapped an arm around Nok, and skirted past Cora to enter the diner. Mali went behind them, licking her lips.

Lucky was the only one left. Cora went pale, thinking of their last conversation—the one that had made her run.

It’s time to grow up, he had said.

“Do you believe me, Lucky? That Earth is still there?”

He wiggled his toes in the long grass. “I don’t see why Mali would lie. She doesn’t care either way.”

“Maybe they lied to her too.” She hated the pleading tone in her voice, but she needed him to understand. “I’m not willing to take our captors’ word for it. If Earth is gone, I want to see it with my own eyes. The Mosca could take us there. We have a chance.”

He didn’t answer, and panic clutched at her throat. “I forgive you for everything, Lucky. For lying to the police about the accident. For taking my father’s money. I don’t care about any of that. All I care about is what happens now. You were going to risk your life for your country back home—don’t you still care about it? Don’t you still want that beach, and a beer, and a girl?”

“I have a beach,” he said quietly. “And I thought I had a girl too. Just drop all this talk about escape. Rolf . . . he sees you as a threat now. He thinks you and Leon are conspiring against us. He isn’t going to trust you anymore, now that you’re making these wild claims. Can’t you just accept this for what it is? Your father’s gone. All our sins are omitted. This can be the fresh start that we’ve always wanted.”

“That you’ve always wanted. I never wanted to walk away from my problems, move across the country because I couldn’t face my mother’s murderer.”

He clenched his jaw, then slowly shook his head. “You aren’t thinking straight. You should listen to Rolf. He’s a genius—he knows what’s best. We still have time to obey, Cora. The twenty-first day isn’t over until tonight.”

She stared at him, knowing exactly what he meant. “And if I don’t?”

He picked up the guitar. Flexed his knuckles. Didn’t meet her eyes. “Then you’re on your own.”

He climbed the steps to join the others. She clutched at her necklace, feeling the weight of the charms. The golf clubs for her dad. The theater mask for her mother. How could she give up on ever seeing them again?

She spun on her heels, trying to put as much distance as she could between herself and Lucky. She followed the path through the wildflower field to the desert and climbed the nearest dune until her calves burned and her resolve gave out, and she sank to the sand.

She heaved a breath and combed back her hair. She’d seen the date on the comic book. She’d heard the Mosca talking. If that ten-year-old Icelandic girl from the menagerie had escaped three times, why couldn’t she? She should forget the others. That’s how the girl at Bay Pines had escaped—alone. Thanks to Mali, Cora knew how to hide her thoughts. She just had to find the fail-safe exit, hide out in the corridors, and make her way to the black market traders. She’d take a weapon disguised as a toy—no one was cutting off her fingers to make into tea—and negotiate with them. Her wheat-blond hair for a ride back to Earth.

But can I really leave the others here?

She twisted her hair in her fist. Below, at the base of the dune, the shimmering ocean seemed even brighter. Cora felt on the verge of something, like pieces of a dream coming back to her, or a song she had long ago forgotten the words to. Pain fractured her skull as the ocean grew so bright she had to squint against it. Why would the Kindred turn the lights up? She clutched her hands to the sides of her head, wincing against the pain. She could almost see a shape moving among the waves. A swimmer.

The dead girl’s ghost, she thought. Cora was still wearing her dress.

No—ghosts didn’t exist. She rubbed her eyes, but her ears were roaring too. Her sense of balance felt off. Was it another panic attack? Or a pulsing headache, like she’d had in the bookstore?

Her hands buckled against the sand. Her head threatened to rupture. Just as suddenly, the harsh light and colors muted back into reality. The lights were the same dusky evening shade as always. The waves lapped calmly. Even her headache eased. It was as though nothing had happened. She pushed herself up from the sand with shaky legs.

Is this how people lose their minds?

She glanced toward the tangled jungle. Lucky had told her she was on her own, but there was still a tattooed Maori smuggler out there. Rolf already thought they were conspiring together. Leon might still want to escape as badly as she did. But she wasn’t going out there without a way to protect herself. For all she knew, Leon’s heart might have grown as black as the tattoos on his face.

THAT EVENING, WHILE THE others ate, she tiptoed back to the house, up the stairs to Lucky’s bedroom. The guitar rested on his pillow.

Cora touched it gently, afraid the wood wouldn’t be wood at all, but it was hard beneath her fingers, and when she knocked, it made a hollow sound. A memory returned of Rolf trying to play it while the others danced in the rain, so blindly happy. She picked up the guitar by its slender neck and clamped her fingers over the strings to stifle any errant notes. Then she slammed it with all her strength against the dresser.

It splintered. The long neck ripped off and strings snapped. The echo of notes faded gradually. She glanced out the window to make sure the others hadn’t heard, then assessed the wreckage. She could bury the splintered wood in the mulched paths, and Lucky would never know. He’d assume that the Kindred had taken it, or Leon had stolen it, or maybe the captivity would get to him and he’d forget he’d ever owned a guitar . . . just like, in time, he would forget about her.

She wrapped the six guitar strings around her wrist like bangles and sneaked out toward the jungle.

38

Mali

NORMALLY MALI DIDN’T MIND the Greasy Fork, with its jukebox music and checkerboard tablecloths, but today everything about the diner annoyed her. She picked at her food, ignoring Nok’s plea to go to the beauty parlor together.

“But you would look so pretty with curls,” Nok argued.

Frustrated, Mali shoved her chair out and slunk from the room, leaving her pudding unfinished. She squinted up at the scalding sunlight and hugged Rolf’s military coat more tightly around her.

She couldn’t shake something that Cora had said: when Cassian had taken her to the menageries, she’d seen a little girl with blond hair shorn closely and missing two fingers. Mali had been through too many owners to keep count, but the last one had been the worst. He’d kept her and another girl locked in cages and made them fight each other or animals.