Page 127 of Victorious

Eli shook his head. “I don’t advise that.” He didn’t know exactly what had happened on the stairs, but it was overpowering. He’d been convinced he was somewhere else, somewhen else. He hadn’t been hallucinating. He’d been dreaming. And like a dream, he hadn’t even known he was asleep.

“She’s too strong.”

“Your opinion is appreciated,” came Gabriel’s reply. “But—”

“She overrode you,” snapped Eli. “Do you get that, Gabriel? She got inside your agents’ heads, even though you were already in there, and if that’s not enough reason to shoot on sight, I—”

“Enough,” said the voice in his ear with grim finality. “Your orders are to bring me both of them.”

“And if we can’t?”

The question, to Eli’s surprise, came from Noah. His eyes swirled, the colors in them darkening. “If we can only salvage one, which do you want more?”

A beat of silence. “If that happens, I will instruct you. Until then, your orders are to capture both Sydney and Serena Clarke. Alive.” The static went flat again in Eli’s ear, the auditory equivalent of a phone call going dead. Arrogance, he thought. The same arrogance he’d seen in Victor. The same arrogance that possessed every EO convinced they could play God and be immune to consequence.

“This is a mistake,” he muttered.

Noah didn’t disagree. “Let’s find them first” was all he said.

XINOW. THEN.

9 HOURS BEFORE THE END

BRIGHTON COMMONS

WHEN Sydney Clarke opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the chandelier.

She was lying face up on the sofa, the ceiling high above, where the fixture hung like a large glass flower. Light poured in through floor-to-ceiling windows and glinted on the hundred little petals.

She’d watched a video on prisms once, and ever since, she’d wanted to see the light diffracting through them, rainbows dancing on the living room walls.

But then she learned that only proper crystals created prisms, and as fancy as it looked, the chandelier was just plain glass.

And yet.

As her vision slid in—and out, and then back in—to focus, she swore she saw a slash of graded color bouncing off the nearby banister. It ringed the second floor, a wooden rail from which you could hold imaginary court. Address your subjects far below.

Of course, that was Serena’s game.

Sydney preferred to edge out barefoot along the outside of the railing, heels between the bars, hands gripping the wood behind her back. In another life, her mother would have shrieked at her to get down before she broke her neck, but her mother was almost never home. Besides, Syd was always careful. She just liked to pretend she was at the prow of a ship, or better yet, the edge of the world.

Sydney rolled toward the windows at the back of the room, the ones that looked out onto the house’s sloping lawn, the lake beyond. It was winter, snow on the ground and ice on the water, a frosted pane. Syd’s heart gave a tiny, nervous flutter.

She wasn’t sure why.

She sat up—or at least, she tried to sit up, one hand sinking as she did into the sofa cushion. It was marshmallow soft, and just as plump. She hated this couch, always felt like it was trying to eat her, limb by limb, dragging her down until someone had to come along and haul her out.

She caught hold of the coffee table and wrested herself free, stumbling a little as she made it to her feet, unsure how long she’d been asleep.

“Hello?” she called out, the word echoing around her.

The house had always been too big for four, especially considering two of them were never even home. Her parents existed in tasteful photos on the mantel. In messages left on the machine. In the occasional Post-it left on the kitchen counter. But they were always on the road.

Sydney padded toward the windows.

Scanned the snowy lawn, the frozen lake below.

And shivered.