It was as far ahead as she could think.
Find a sanctuary.
Then she would start worrying about revolutions.
They hadn’t gone far from the maglev tunnel when Cinder spotted the first guards, in full uniform, each clutching ominous guns in their arms. Unlike the civilians, their noses and mouths were covered to protect them from the dust.
Cinder shivered at the sight of them and cast her attention around, searching for the signature aura of a thaumaturge. She had never known a guard to be far from one, but she didn’t sense any here.
How was it possible that a few weak-minded guards could hold such power over hundreds of gifted civilians? Though she guessed the Lunars in these outer sectors wouldn’t be nearly as strong as Levana or her court, surely they could manipulate a few guards?
No sooner had she questioned it than the answer came to her.
These guards may not have a thaumaturge with them, but the threat was still there, implied in their very presence. The people of this sector could revolt. They could have these guards killed or enslaved easily. But such an act of defiance would bring the wrath of the queen down on them. The next guards that came would not be without the protection of a thaumaturge, and retribution would not be merciful.
When they passed by the guards, Cinder made sure to keep her face turned away.
They shuffled through the dome’s center, where a water fountain stood in the middle of a dust-covered courtyard, forcing the crowd to flow around it. The fountain was carved into the figure of a woman, her head veiled and crowned, clear water pouring from her outspread hands as if she were offering life itself to the people who crossed her path.
The sight of it made the blood freeze in Cinder’s veins. Levana had been queen for barely over a decade, yet she’d already put her mark on these far-reaching sectors.
Such a beautiful, serene fountain, but it felt like a threat.
They followed the dispersing crowd through blocks of factories and warehouses that smelled of chemicals, before the industrial buildings gave way to houses.
Though houses was a relative term. More like shacks, these homes were as unplanned and patched together as the overcrowded Phoenix Tower Apartments in New Beijing. Now Cinder understood what Wolf meant by how they had become experts at recycling materials. Every wall and roof looked like it had been cut and chopped and resoldered and rebolted and twisted and reconfigured again. As there was no weather to rust or corrode the materials, they were left to deteriorate at the hands of people. Houses pulled apart and reconstituted as families moved and changed and grew. The entire neighborhood was a ramshackle assortment of metal sheets and wood panels and stray materials left abandoned in the spaces between, waiting to be given a new use.
Wolf froze.
Nerves humming, Cinder scanned the nearby windows and opened the tip of her pointer finger in preparation for an attack. “What is it?”
Wolf didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He was focused on a house down the street, unblinking.
“Wolf?”
His breath rattled. “It might be nothing, but I think … I thought I smelled my mother. A soap that seemed familiar … though I didn’t have these senses last time I saw her. It might not…”
He looked burdened and afraid.
He also looked hopeful.
A few of the shanties had flower boxes hung from their windows, and some of them even had live flowers. The house Wolf was staring at was one of them—a messy cluster of blue daisies spilling over the rough-hewn wood. They were a spot of beauty, simple and elegant and completely at odds with their dreary surroundings.
They paused in front of the house. There was no yard, only a spot of concrete in front of a plain door. There was one window but it had no glass. Instead, faded fabric had been tacked around its frame.
Wolf was rooted to the ground, so it was Thorne who shouldered past him and gave a quick rap against the door.
With the fabric alone acting as a sound barrier, they could hear every creak of the floors within as someone came to the door and opened it a timid crack. A small woman peeked out, alarmed when she saw Thorne. She was naturally petite but unnaturally gaunt, as if she hadn’t had a complete meal in years. Brown hair was chopped short, and though she had olive-toned skin like Wolf’s, her eyes were coal black, nothing like his striking green.
Thorne flashed his most disarming smile.
It had no obvious effect.
“Mrs. Kesley?”
“Yes, sir,” she said meekly, her gaze sweeping out to the others. She passed over Wolf first, then Cinder and Iko, before her eyes rounded, almost comically. She gasped and looked at Wolf again, but then her lips turned down with distrust.
“My name,” Thorne said, with a respectful tilt of his head, “is Captain Carswell Thorne. I believe you may know—”
A strangled sound escaped the woman. Her shock and suspicion multiplied by the second, warring against each other as she stared at her son. She pulled open the door the rest of the way and took one hesitant step forward.
Wolf had become a statue. Cinder could feel the anxiety rolling off him in waves.
“Ze’ev?” the woman whispered.
“Mom,” he whispered back.
The uncertainty cleared from her eyes, replaced with tears. She clapped both hands over her mouth and took another step forward. Paused again. Then she strode the rest of the way and wrapped her arms around Wolf. Though he dwarfed her in every way, he looked suddenly small and fragile, hunching down to fit better into her embrace.
Wolf’s mother pulled away far enough to cup his face in her hands. Taking in how handsome and mature he’d become, or maybe wondering about all the scars.