I can’t dump this on her now; it’s her birthday.

“Ash?”

“Everything’s fine,” I say. “Look, I bumped into Sebastian a few minutes ago. There might be a Sentry guard outside your house, so keep an eye out.”

“Yeah, we saw one hanging around earlier, but he’s gone now.”

I press my forehead against the phone booth. So Sebastian wasn’t lying.

“What did he want?” Natalie asks.

“To wish us good luck for tomorrow,” I say.

Natalie laughs. “Sure he did. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing to worry about. I’ll see you later.”

I hang up and head to the Legion to find out what this “incident” was that Roach needed to tell me about, my footsteps leaden, still undecided about what I’m going to do tomorrow.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, I’m staring at the empty storeroom that was once stocked to the ceiling with military-grade guns and ammunition, which Humans for Unity had stolen from the Sentry. Seems like the government decided to take them back.

“They cleared us out during the night,” Roach says beside me.

She’s wearing a man’s gray shirt tucked into black pants, and scuffed work boots. Her dreadlocks, which have been newly dyed blue, hang down to her trim waist. Next to her is one of the Darkling ministers, Logan. She’s more handsome than beautiful, with startling lilac eyes and rippling black hair. She glances at me with her usual mixture of irritation and guilt. Logan was one of the three judges, known as the Quorum of Three, who oversaw my trial two months ago and sentenced me to death. Something like that tends to strain a working relationship.

“How did the Sentry get into the ghetto undetected?” I say.

Logan and Roach share a knowing look.

“What?” I say.

“We believe it was an inside job,” Logan replies.

“Fragg,” I mutter.

“Suspicious timing, don’t you think?” Roach says. “The public vote is tomorrow and suddenly all our weapons go missing.”

I rake a hand through my hair. How in the hell are we going to run a rebellion without any weapons? I suspect Purian Rose was somehow behind the theft. He must’ve had a spy working for him inside the Legion this whole time. The timing is too neat to be a coincidence.

“Does Sigur know about this?”

“He is speaking with the other ministers now,” Logan replies.

“There’s going to be an inquest,” Roach adds. “But for now, we need to watch our backs. I’m going to kill those traitorous bastards when I get my hands on them!”

We leave the empty storeroom, and Logan closes the door.

“Do we have any weapons?” I ask as we walk down the corridor.

“I’ve told the lieutenants to gather what they can,” Roach says. “But we haven’t had much response so far—just some rifles and enough parts to cobble together some bombs.”

“We’re totally screwed, aren’t we?” I say grimly.

“It doesn’t look great,” she admits. “Look, let’s keep this on a need-to-know basis for now. For morale, you know?”

I nod. With the ballot tomorrow, the last thing our supporters need to hear is that we have no means to defend ourselves if we lose the vote and the Sentry come for us. Purian Rose’s threat flashes through my head again. What am I going to do?

The door to Sigur’s office opens and Juno Jones pops her head out. Her fiery red hair has been pulled back into a slick ponytail, and her pale blue eyes are rimmed with Cinderstone powder. She’s wearing a pair of indecently tight black leather pants and a white corset blouse with a ruffled collar.

“I thought I heard your voice,” she says, bundling me into the office. “I need you to shoot some promos for tomorrow.”

Roach and Logan smirk at me as Juno shuts the door.

* * *

“From the top,” Juno says an hour later.

We’ve been recording two speeches to run after tomorrow’s ballot—one a rousing victory speech if things go well, and a second speech if things don’t. They both feel like losing speeches to me, knowing that whatever I choose tomorrow, someone important to me is going to suffer. The question is who?

I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable, although I’m unbearably hot in my battered Legion Liberation Front jacket. The coat’s been dyed black to match the rest of my uniform, which was carefully put together by the rebel leaders to create the character of Phoenix. The LLF jacket represents the Darkling rebellion, while the black slacks and boots are from my old Tracker uniform. Now, instead of hunting Darklings, I’m “hunting down freedom,” according to one of our slogans anyway.

Our cameraman and technician, Stuart—a gangly man with spiky brown hair—fiddles about with the sound levels while Juno’s younger sister, Amy, hurries over to me to redo my makeup. This is another thing putting me in a bad mood. They’ve painted a band of Cinderstone powder down the bridge of my nose and around my eyes, so I look more “phoenixy,” in Juno’s words. She thought it would make me easier to identify when we do the crowd shots. In fairness to Amy, she’s done a good job, but I still hate it.

She blushes as she dabs more Cinderstone powder onto my face, her fingers light and warm. She’s a year younger than me, and I vaguely remember seeing her around school—when we used to attend it. We haven’t been in months, since joining the rebellion. But our parents tutor us whenever they can so we don’t fall too far behind in our education. Amy looks like Juno, with the same auburn hair and pale, freckled skin. On her wrist is a tattoo of a burning black flower, dubbed the Cinder Rose, which has become the symbol of the rebellion. Beetle came up with the design. The color represents Black City, while the burning rose signifies our destruction of the Sentry government . . . or something. I sort of stopped listening when Beetle explained it to me.

“You’re doing much better,” Amy says.

“I suck,” I say, adjusting my microphone. “Don’t tell your sister, but I much prefer doing the promos with James and Hilary on Firebird radio. At least I don’t have to wear makeup.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Amy says, smiling.

Before we can carry on filming, Sigur sweeps into the room, his ice-white hair flowing around his shoulders. He’s wearing loose purple robes that conceal his fragile wings. One of his eyes is milky white, where he was blinded, while the other glimmers orange.

“Excuse me, but I have some important business to discuss with Ash,” he says.

Juno tries to stifle her frustration. “Okay, let’s call it a day. I think I’ve got enough footage to cobble something together, although I can’t guarantee it’ll be any good.”

“I’m certain it will be a masterpiece, as always,” Sigur says. “What would we do without you, Juno?”

“I’m only in it for the fame and glory, you know,” she replies.

It’s hard to tell if she’s joking or not. She’s never hidden the fact that she wants to be a lead anchor on the national news one day. But I know she still feels terrible for the role she played in my court case��it was her film footage that got me wrongly convicted of Gregory’s murder, after all. I think this is her way of making it up to me.

I follow Sigur into the hallway, grateful for the chance to escape.

“So what did you need to talk about?” I say, wiping the Cinderstone powder off my face. “Do you have an update on the break-in?”

“No, we are still questioning people,” Sigur says. “I just sensed you needed rescuing.”

I grin. “Thanks.”

“I do have something I want to show you, though,” he says as we head down a flight of metal stairs and enter a large circular hall in the center of the cave.

Sigur’s headquarters are located in the nocturnal animals section of the old Black City Zoo. It’s perfect, really: dark, secure, with ready-made staff offices to work in and former animal enclosures to sleep in. Of course, my mom made the place really homey when she used to live here, so it doesn’t feel like a zoo anymore.

We wander through a network of corridors before reaching Sigur’s private suite. The sprawling room is painted red and lavishly furnished with antiques, which Sigur salvaged from Sentry mansions during the war. The majority of the suite is set up like a living room, with elegant sofas and chairs surrounding a fireplace, while a large bed takes up the rest of the space. On the right side of the bed is a small nightstand with a jewelry box, a pottery urn, and a bronze hairbrush. Strands of long, dark hair cling to the bristles. Grief spills over me, knowing they’re my mom’s.

“I miss her,” I say quietly.

“As do I,” he replies, walking over to the nightstand and picking up the urn that contains my mom’s dual heart. It’s tradition for Darklings to harvest their Blood Mate’s heart after they die to keep as a memento. “Life feels very empty without her.”

I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose your Blood Mate. Purian Rose’s threat flashes through my mind again. What am I going to do? How can I possibly choose between Natalie and my people? Would it be so bad if we lost the vote? Sure, the Darklings would be trapped in the ghetto, but at least they’d be alive. Natalie will die for certain if I don’t do this. She’s my Blood Mate; Sigur will understand. If I truly believe that, then why haven’t I told him about Rose’s ultimatum?

Sigur places the urn back on the nightstand and takes out a photograph from the drawer, and hands it to me.

It’s a picture of my mom and her family, taken when she was about ten years old. I smile. For the past few weeks, Sigur has been helping me build up a picture of my Darkling family, finding photos and letters that they sent to friends before the war. I study the picture. The photo seems to have been taken in a forest glen. Peeping through the gaps in the trees is the blurry outline of a mountain with a sharp, talon-shaped peak. I flip the photo over. Scrawled on the back is The Coombs, Forest of Shadows, Amber Hills.

“Are these my grandparents?” I ask, pointing to a young couple standing beside Mom.

“Yes, their names were Paolo and Maria Coombs. And that’s your aunt Lucinda.” He indicates a younger Darkling girl who looks a lot like my mom, except with a round face and shorter hair.

“Who’s this?” I say, referring to the stern-looking man with a purple heart-shaped birthmark on his left cheek, standing beside Paolo.

“I don’t know. Your mother rarely spoke of her family,” he explains, taking out an old leather journal from the nightstand and passing it to me. “But this might help. It’s your mother’s diary. I found it hidden among her belongings.”

“Have you read it?”

“No, it didn’t feel right,” he says. “However, I am certain she wouldn’t mind if you read it.”

I flip through the pages, scanning her large, loopy writing, which looks a lot like mine. A photo slips out from between the sheets and falls to the floor. I pick it up. It shows my mom when she was in her late teens. She’s with Aunt Lucinda and two other girls inside a run-down tavern. One of the girls is wearing a hooded cape, and is exotically beautiful with full scarlet lips, bronzed skin and topaz eyes. She’s perched on the armrest of the second girl’s wheelchair. This girl is pretty in an ethereal way, with wide green eyes and wispy blond hair. She’s dressed in a barmaid outfit, so I’m guessing her parents own the tavern, since they tend to be staffed by family members. Neatly written on the back of the photo is the caption T4K. Thrace.

The sound of yelling rings up through the floorboards. It’s Roach and Logan. Concerned, I quickly tuck the photos back into the diary, and we head down to the main entrance. The moment we arrive, I know something is terribly wrong. A group of Darklings have surrounded something on the stone floor, and several rebels are running about, shouting orders at each other. I catch sight of Roach and Logan in the crowd of people.

“That creature should not be here! Who let him in?” Logan demands.

“Someone get a medic!” Roach yells.

Freya is lying on the floor, her dark skin glistening with blood. Air rasps out of her lips as she struggles to breathe, her black eyes wild and panicked. Her chest and stomach have been slashed open, revealing her guts, which are being held in by the man—the Lupine—crouched next to her.

He’s powerfully built, in his late twenties, with a heavy brow hooding steel-colored eyes and a strip of mottled gray hair down the center of his shaved head. Even though he’s crouching, it’s clear he’s tall—at least seven feet. He’s wearing a smoky-gray-colored tailcoat, black leather trousers and steel-capped boots. I understand why Logan is so furious. A Lupine has no right to be here.

I rush to Freya’s side, taking her hand. “What happened?” I demand.

“I found her at the Cinderstone plant,” the Lupine says. “The guards caught her breaking into the head office.”

A weight drops in my stomach. She warned me it was heavily guarded.

“And what were you doing at the factory?” Sigur asks the Lupine, clearly suspicious.

“She wasn’t the only person there gathering information,” he replies gruffly. “I was downloading some files from their computers when this stupid girl barged in and nearly ruined everything.”

My fangs throb. “Don’t call her stupid.”

Freya turns her frantic gaze on me and tries to say something, but blood just bubbles out of her lips. Whatever she needed to say evaporates with her last, rasping breath. Her eyes glaze over.