His body forms an X. The Roman numeral for ten.

X marks the spot.

One of Sloan’s eyes is swollen shut. There’s blood matted in her hair and caked around her nose and mouth. She cried so much and so hard, her face is swollen, tear tracks having left welts on her cheeks. She, too, is shackled with fetters to form an X.

A third person is dragged onto the plateau, and I gasp. My father’s head is down and though he’s uninjured, his arms are fettered behind his back. His dark hair is rumpled, and tears stain his cheeks.

He’s placed a few feet away from Pearl, who looks like an angel. She’s wearing a ceremonial robe like the Troikans’, though hers is as white as snow, her pale hair falling to her waist in perfect waves.

Just then I’m struck by a truth so real it might as well be a bolt of lightning: there is no greater evil than the one that cloaks itself in virtue.

Pearl doesn’t waste any time. She lifts a gun, aims and squeezes the trigger. The loud boom causes the crowd to go quiet. My dad’s body jerks, and he collapses. “This man attempted to cheat his contract, and such behavior will never be tolerated.”

Another gasp escapes me, and my hands fly up to cover my mouth. My dad lands on the ground and stays down, his eyes open but unfocused, a quarter-size hole leaking blood between his eyes. Nausea churns in my belly, and my knees begin to knock. He’s dead. My father is dead. Just. Like. That.

Tears begin to pour down my cheeks. I might not have liked the man, and he might have tried to kill me—this might be what he deserves—but the little girl I used to be still loved him. That little girl will always love him.

“I’m so sorry, Ten.” Deacon gives my shoulder an awkward pat, as if he doesn’t know how to offer comfort. “I had no idea she had your father.”

My hands fall to my sides and fist. Meanwhile, the crowd cheers as if she’s said something amazing.

Pearl peers into the camera and smiles. “If you sign with Troika, they die.”

She’s speaking directly to me. She knew I’d be watching, because she’d taken great pains to spread the word this morning.

The cheers from the crowd grow louder. I think I hear a few shouts of protest.

Oh, yes. I do. Multiple people are holding HART signs that read What If You’re Next? Stop the Madness!

Pearl holds up her hand in a bid for silence and finally addresses the masses. “I come to you with a heavy heart.” Her voice—now soothing—drifts through the living room. “Myriad’s love for you is boundless and as always we want only the best for you. Yet here I stand, admitting we failed you. The two traitors beside me were welcomed into our fold only to betray us—betray you—to Troika, the enemy intent on our destruction.”

A chorus of “boo” erupts.

She places her hand over her heart. “These two tried to hurt you, my people, my family, and that will never be tolerated. I will always fight for you—fight for what’s right for you, what’s best. Today, the traitors will face my wrath. Their attempts to harm those under my protection will end.”

Cheers again.

Fools! How can they not see the villain she is?

Who am I kidding? I missed it for years.

She looks straight into the camera, as if she’s peering straight into my soul. “We will proceed...unless anyone wishes to raise an objection?”

“We go now,” I tell Deacon. “We can’t wait for Archer any longer.”

He doesn’t protest, and I’m grateful. “All you have to do is survive, Ten. She won’t hurt them as long as you’re breathing.”

By that reasoning, I should stay here. But we both know that isn’t an option. If I do, Pearl will hurt Killian and Sloan.

“I’ll survive,” I vow. Whatever it takes.

He wraps his arms around me—but nothing happens.

I frown. “Are you sure this will work?”

“Of course. Shells were patterned after human bodies. I’m waiting for you to close your eyes.”

Please. I’m not missing a moment of this. I’ve been to Many Ends; I can handle anything. “Go!”

Bright, blinding light basically incinerates my corneas. The foundation is ripped out from under me, and I’m thrown like a baseball across a field, the world around me nothing but a blur. I’m—

“Here,” Deacon says.

I hear gasps of surprise, but it takes me a moment to focus. My stomach churns, erupts. I hunch over and spew out my guts. More gasps, only these are laced with disgust. There’s a patter of footsteps as people rush to get away from me and my gross.

As I straighten, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, the world comes into view. Deacon landed us right in front of the plateau, just a step below Pearl. His Oxi is already aimed. He fires.

Three Myriad Shells rush from the sidelines to form a wall in front of Pearl, the blast nailing the guy in the middle, the air around him suddenly smoky. He tries to wave away the fumes as his comrades jump away from him, leaving him to decay. Clumps of his hair fall from his head, and his skin begins to age rapidly, wrinkles appearing, spreading, digging deeper.

The guy on his right shoots him between the eyes and the Shell explodes into ash.

Click. Click. Click.

I don’t have to look to know that every Shell in the audience is now aiming a weapon at me. Are bullets in the chambers, or darts? Does she want to kill me right from the start, or try one more time to convince me Myriad is better than Troika?

I keep my attention on Killian. He’s shaking his head no, his golden eyes—those beautiful eyes—beseeching me. Leave. Don’t do this.

A part of me dies at seeing such a strong boy so helpless.

“I’m here to bargain,” I call and his head falls forward in defeat.

Four seconds pass before Pearl steps forward, her chin high. Four types of blood. Four horsemen of the apocalypse. Four stages in a human Firstlife: conception, birth, life and finally death.

I’m going to deliver her Second-death.

“The time for bargains has passed.” She nods at her men. “Hobble her.”

Hobble, not kill. She is confident she has the edge.

As a thousand explosions ring out, Deacon whisks me away on a beam of light. I’m blinded for a moment, and my stomach rebels the second we land—directly behind Pearl.

I retch all over Deacon’s boots, not that anyone notices. Or hears. Shells and humans are too busy toppling from the blasts. Without us there to take the blows, they end up shooting each other.

Deacon raises the Oxi, the barrel aimed at the back of Pearl’s head, but she didn’t earn the title of Leader by sitting behind a desk.

She senses him and ducks, spins, a Stag palmed from a pocket in her robe. As she fires off a shot of her own, Deacon shoves me out of the way and vanishes, and the dart embeds in the building behind me. I waste no time, unsheathing a dagger and tossing it. The tip slices through her wrist, her version of muscle clenching and unclenching, forcing her to drop the weapon.

A pop, pop sounds at my left. Sharp pain erupts in my neck, electric pulses shooting through me, making me jerk, rendering me useless. Pearl smiles as she pulls the blade from her wrist, then nods in thanks to the Shell who pegged me full of darts.

Can’t have failed so easily. So quickly.

She walks toward me, saunters really, pep in every step. She’s proud of herself, even a little giddy. My gaze scans... Deacon is fighting a crowd of Myriad soldiers. A split second after he disappears, they disappear. A split second after he reappears, they reappear, the battle never pausing. Someone is always punching, throwing elbows or knees.