There had been a table there the day before. A lookout controlling entry into the safe house, more with his body than his mind. A refrigerator had taken up the corner, filled with cheap beer and leftovers from the Plum Luck Dragon. The empty sink lurked in the corner like a stranger. It had always been piled high with dishes, for none of Tristan’s people would lower themselves to do slave’s work now that they were free.
Not unless it was a punishment from Tristan.
Lila balled up the flyer and tossed it back on the ground, then slipped into the hotel lobby. Everything had been removed: the threadbare rugs; the battered black couches and mismatched ottomans; the chairs mended with unstained wooden legs; the table that wobbled unless you jammed a wedge of paper underneath; the worn tapestries over the windows that had held in warmth from overtaxed heaters; the stolen paintings that had lined the walls. Even the new pool table had been removed, as well as the wall of computers that had cluttered the front desk. Everything was gone except for random piles of litter, peeling wallpaper, and dust.
Lila ventured upstairs into Tristan’s room, empty now. Bed gone, closet devoid of weapons and ammunition, the little string of bottle caps snatched up from the window. She stepped inside, not prepared for the shock of it all. It was as if her own family had stolen away in the night, vanishing without even providing her with a hint of their return.
She kicked a lone bottle cap in the center of the room and listened as it echoed against the walls.
A door opened somewhere in the hotel, creaking.
Dixon.
Lila slipped out of the room, prowling down the hallway. But no matter which room she looked into, she found nothing but the occasional beer bottle.
She chucked them against the wall as she came to them, one after another, the shattering glass mocking her with every crash, forcing her to throw the next one harder and harder and harder.
She ran out of bottles long before she ran out of anger.
The bottle of Saveur in her pocket was the last instrument of solace, destroyed in Tristan’s room. She dropped its cap next to the only one he had left behind.
With nothing else to do, Lila washed her face in his bathroom sink, ridding herself as best she could of her makeup and prosthetic nose and chin. She dried her pale face on her sleeve and peeked out the window. Sunrise was still a couple of hours away.
A door slammed in a far-off room, rattling against its frame.
Lila stepped over the shattered glass and took off her boots, then rushed through the hallway on silent cat paws and peeked over the upstairs balcony. Two lean figures crept across the lobby downstairs.
Neither form belonged to Dixon.
Lila drew her tranq gun, stilled her breath, and waited.
“Did the door shut?” a teenage boy whispered in the darkness.
“I had to slam it closed,” a girl replied. “I don’t like this. What if the owners come? What if someone’s already squatting here?”
“Meeting a junkie is better than being burned alive. Did you see that fire? Do you really want to sleep under the stoop tonight?”
The friend mumbled something that Lila could not hear.
“We’ll leave in the morning when it’s safe.”
Turning away, Lila put on her boots, pocketed her gun, then slipped out through an upstairs window. She had no more time to dawdle. Not for children and certainly not for an asshole like Tristan.
Time had grown sparse, and she was expected at home.
Chapter 3
Lila hid behind a pecan tree across from the Randolph co
mpound, soaked in the cool humidity of the morning. She had arrived at precisely five o’clock, two and a half hours before sunrise, and had spent much of the last half-hour crouched behind the tree. Safely under the hood of her thermal suit, she studied the compound, its defenses, and the people who patrolled it.
The Randolph family enjoyed tighter security than the politicians of Bullstow, for the Randolphs were one of the wealthiest families, not just in New Bristol but in the entire state of Saxony. Wolf Industries boasted ten square kilometers of architecture, ranging from mirrored skyscrapers filled with offices and condos in the north, to the neo-classical mansions of the fifteen heirs scattered widely around the southern entrance, the oldest segment of the estate. Each building and statue shone in the night, as clean and perfect as those in Bullstow, surrounded by extensive grounds. Slaves and servants had coaxed every shrub into beauty, clipped every blade of grass close, and scraped every sidewalk to reflected glory.
It wasn’t only the staff who kept the estate so clean. Due to pollution concerns, the Randolphs had moved their manufacturing plants to the outskirts of the capital city more than fifty years ago, long before High House had placed pollution restrictions on the highborn. The chairwoman had built a rail system to link them, positioning the station one street away from the estate’s north gate. The bullet train stretched for an entire block, chauffeuring everyone to the plants and back home again every hour. All but the slaves, of course, for they lived in a series of residences next to the plants.
The Randolph family, or Wolf Industries to be precise, owned much more than just manufacturing plants, though. At least thirty percent of the land under New Bristol belonged to the Randolphs, which made much of the city its tenant. In addition, Wolf Industries partnered with, or invested in, at least a quarter of the lowborn shops in New Bristol. The family also traded extensively throughout Saxony, dominating several key industries in the region, including manufacturing and research, headquartered in New Bristol, and oil refining, which was centered three hundred kilometers away in La Porte and farther east in New Orleans. The family had even managed to procure a small but significant share of the natural gas market around Beaulac, the second largest city in Saxony after New Bristol.
To protect the estate, their matron had erected security towers every two hundred meters around the perimeter of the compound. Like every other highborn family, the Randolphs employed their own militia, women and men who functioned as a security force and defensive regiment for the estate. Lila watched them patrol, searching for one woman among the blackcoats.