Sadina nodded. “I’m right behind you. Dominic’ll be singing his good morning song like a rooster at first light.” She walked over to the fire and stacked a few twigs like the roof of a yurt. “You gonna get some sleep tonight?” she asked Frypan.

  “I may or I may not.” He sat up tall and looked her deep in the eyes. “Hang in there, kid. You’re gonna be okay.”

  And on hearing that Sadina couldn’t help but wrap her arms around Old Man Frypan in a hug because all she needed in the world was to hear someone tell her that she was going to be okay. Here he was, a Glader of old who had seen more unsurvivable things in his life than most, telling her that she would be okay with an amount of sincerity that only the purest of souls could muster up. She squeezed the wonderful man. “You too. We’re all here for you, and we’ll get through Alaska together.” His hug back felt like it held all the support of those from the Glade long ago. Her great uncle Newt, Thomas, Minho, Teresa. . . . As if they were standing right behind them.

  “Alaska . . .” Frypan laughed as he pulled away. “Don’t go telling on me, but I ain’t goin’ to Alaska.”

  Sadina pulled back to make sure she heard him right. “You’re not going . . . ?”

  “Not in this lifetime.” His eyes widened as he shook his head.

  “But . . .” She couldn’t think of the words to protest, wanting to wake every single person in camp just then and do what Old Man Frypan asked her not to—tell them he wasn’t going to Alaska. She knew that going just might kill him inside, but going without him felt like it might just kill her. “Please. You . . . I can’t go without you.”

  “I’m sorry, child. I’m sorry.” He turned his attention back to the fire and the conversation was over.

  She stared at the glass case that held Nicholas’ head and traced the corners of the box with her fingertips. She wanted the hideous, severed thing that housed Nicholas’ bulging eyes gone from her living space for good. She could summon Mannus to come take the head back, give it an ocean funeral. He did murder Nicholas after all, and part of the pact of any murder had to include disposing of the body. Right? Or she could pawn the head off on Flint and demand he feed it to the wild pigs at the outskirts of town, but she knew the man couldn’t keep a secret and the sight of even the slightest death might weaken his knees enough to crumble. No, she could think of only one proper burial place for Nicholas’ head—the ruins of the Maze, underground.

  She’d go in the middle of the night under the light of the Aurora Borealis. She didn’t plan on burying it so much as setting the head there as a warning, a rotting-flesh-reminder to Mikhail whenever he had the itch to go visit. Whenever Mikhail went missing for days at a time, Alexandra pictured him in the Maze wandering around like an imbecile lost to his own devices. She wasn’t positive that’s where he went, but it’s where she always pictured him, lost in the Maze. Or maybe he was just lost in the Maze of his mind. Despite her clear-knowing, there were times when that man’s madness created black patches within her. Gaping holes of no awareness.

  “Goddess!” Flint burst through the door without knocking. She quickly covered the glass case with cloth. Flint was easily sparked and it didn’t take much to send him into flames. But as annoying as his traits of overreacting were, she could manipulate him to start the fires that she wanted stirred about and spread.

  “For Flare’s sake, what is it now?” She gazed at him with stern eyes. “You entered without knocking again.” She reprimanded him the way a mother might a child.

  “It’s Nicholas!” His face flushed with obvious fear.

  Alexandra froze. Ice filled her nerves. “He . . .” She expected him to point at the glass box but he just paced wildly within the same four corners of her rug.

  “He was found dead in his study. His body, well, part of it, was found.” Flint’s face now drained of color, as if he were the one to find their former God.

  Alexandra quickly recovered. “Yes, I knew he was missing.” She showed the requisite amount of shock and horror one might when their closest associate turned up dead and headless. “The news frightens me. Who could have possible murdered one of the Godhead?” She demanded Flint share any rumors he may have heard.

  “There are no leads, Goddess Romanov.” He stood still with a waiting, submissive look. Was he waiting for her to console him, or was he finding it hard to console her? “What would you like me to do?” he finally asked quietly.

  “I need time to process. Leave, now. I’ll prepare a statement to address the Pilgrims of the Maze on Sunday. Arrange it.”

  “What about Mikhail?” Flint asked with glaring concern, and for just a moment, Alexandra considered the possibility of framing this whole thing on Mikhail. He’d left on his latest pilgrimage, and she didn’t know where. But she could easily cause an uprising, throw the people against him and raise her Goddess above all, without dispute.

  Of course, doing so might cause a war within the city limits, and war was the last thing she wanted. War was low vibration, and the Evolution was about raising the vibration. She needed to use her proclamation on Sunday for good, not to point fingers of blame and cause more violence that didn’t suit her needs.

  No. She’d use Nicholas’ death to propel her plan forward and to plant faith in the hearts of those who seemed to have lost all trust after seeing the new colors in the sky. Her ears buzzed with the possibility and the skin of her face pulsed with heat. She touched the top of her head and her fingertips grew cold. She touched her ears and they buzzed louder. She closed her eyes and saw flashes of red. Bright red, as if the sun shone inside the room. In her mind she heard the Pilgrim who spoke of the red sky before the solar flares.

  Red. Could it be that her own evolution was still unfolding? No. Madness. But she feared madness. Oh, how she feared it.

  “Goddess?” Flint’s voice sounded far away. “What about Mikhail?”

  Alexandra recited the digits and tapped her fingers along to the count so that every thought, action, and vibration of her mind, body, and spirit embodied the sacred numbers. What about Mikhail? The question posed in Flint’s voice echoed through her mind but the red shapes in her vision spread to black. A tingling warmth came over her body, then a searing heat, and she felt herself falling.

  “Goddess!” It was a single word, shouted as if from a dream.

  Old Man Frypan woke up early every morning, but an early-riser didn’t make him a quick-mover. Minho guarded the trail for another one of Frypan’s bathroom breaks and he thought of asking the old geezer which was worse: the Maze and the Trials of the past, or the invisible Maze and trials that stayed intact within his mind. The Orphan named Minho knew all too well how growing up in the Remnant Nation felt like a prison, but it seemed only he could see the walls at times. They didn’t have Grievers in the Remnant Nation, but they sure as hell didn’t have friends either, and that was one thing he envied about Frypan. Friendship: how to be a friend and how to have a friend, were still things Minho had to learn.

  Isaac walked up to Minho while the rest of the group waited on Frypan. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure.” Minho didn’t adjust his stance. But something about the look on Isaac’s face made him grip his gun even tighter.

  Everyone else seemed occupied enough. Miyoko and Orange were picking weeds that looked like flowers; Jackie was poking Dominic’s arm where the murder hornet had stung him; Trish and Sadina were lost in some kind of dreamy conversation.

  “Over here . . .” Isaac lowered his voice and pointed away from the group. They stepped to the side, shielded by a couple of trees.

  “What’s wrong?” Minho asked, still not letting his guard down. Never letting his guard down.

  “I need . . . um, I don’t know what I need,” Isaac stuttered, and his nervous energy was contagious.

  “Something’s wrong.” Minho raised his eyebrows as if to tell Isaac to just spit it out already.

  “What are the symptoms of The Flare?” Isaac blurted out, but the Orphan didn’t really know. His medical knowledge consisted of how to kill someone without making a sound and tending to battle wounds in the field.

  “The Flare? Don’t worry about the Flare, you’re all immune, right?” Minho watched Isaac’s face closely but the nervousness didn’t fade. What did these people ever have to worry about on the island with their young and nearly perfect lives? He pictured them playing games on beaches, kayaking through streams, dancing every day.

  Isaac pinched the skin between his thumb and forefinger. Something definitely wasn’t right. “I mean, if we were to run into someone, out here, who might have signs of something. How do we know if they’re infected or if they just have . . . say, allergies?”

  Minho pivoted to turn his gun on Isaac. “You have symptoms?”

  Isaac put his hands up. “Whoa, whoa, I’m not infected. I’m just curious!”

  The fear in his face made it evident he didn’t know the slightest thing about guns. Minho didn’t have his finger anywhere near the trigger and he didn’t have the butt of the gun against his shoulder to prepare for kickback. Orange would’ve known from Minho’s stance that he wasn’t a threat. But the islanders thought having a gun within 100 feet was dangerous, so Minho used the misunderstanding to his advantage. “Tell me the real reason you’re asking. Now.”

  “Okay, fine. It’s Ms. Cowan. She has a rash, but it’s just a rash.” Isaac paused. “So far.”

  “The coughing. She said it was the dust in the air. Damn.” Minho held the gun tighter in frustration but then let it tilt toward the ground.

  Isaac let all the oxygen out of his lungs. “And the cough, yeah, I forgot about the cough.”

  Minho hated this. The rest of the group had started to call for them—they were ready to move back down along the coast. Minho looked hard at Isaac. He thought about the countless times he’d been forced to kill healthier people than Cowan—at just the possibility that they might have been somewhere where someone was infected. And now Cowan had three symptoms: Rash, the cough, and Minho had noticed her being lethargic lately.

  “You can’t say anything,” Isaac said. “No one else knows.”

  Minho thought about the possibilities. “I thought she had magic blood or something? Come on, let’s go back.”

  “You’re not going to kill her . . . right?” Isaac tried to keep up with Minho’s steps as he walked back to the group.

  “Of course not,” Minho replied. He really didn’t want to kill anyone ever again, but he would if it came down to it. But there were complicated dynamics that came with these new friendships of his. In the Remnant Nation he’d be punished if he didn’t kill someone in this same circumstance, but out here he’d be punished if he did. He could only imagine the response of the others, especially Sadina. Actually, Roxy might even go crazier on him. There were too many new rules that Minho had to keep track of, and he tried to think of all the possibilities quickly.

  “What are we going to do?” Isaac asked.

  “I’m not going to kill her, but she can’t get on the boat. No arguments.”

  Even if the Maze Cutter were the biggest ship known to man, having an infected—with anything, much less the Flare—on a floating vessel wasn’t a good idea. Cowan was lucky they weren’t in the Remnant Nation—it’d be the Flare pits for her.

  “We can’t leave her out here alone . . . ,” Isaac offered.

  “She won’t be alone.” Minho locked eyes with Isaac until the other boy’s eyes reflected the unwanted understanding. Isaac shook his head, but Minho nodded. “You’ve got to stay with her. Take her to the Villa to get help. No arguments.”

  “I’m sensing a pattern. Not a good one.”

  “Look,” Minho said, “if Cowan has something it could be a virus or it could be a genetic reaction.” He paused, wondering if he should admit what he really thought out loud. Old Man Frypan certainly always did. “I’d shoot her dead right here behind this bush if it were up to me and it’d be done. She’d be safe and we’d be safe. But you all have this little experiment going on and if Cowan’s sick, that means Sadina’s blood—at least half of it—might not be as precious as everyone thinks.” Minho finally let his gun fall to the side. Sometimes it just all seemed pointless.

  “I didn’t think about that.” Isaac slowed; his shoulders slumped. Minho had really ruined the kid’s day.

  They walked back into view of the group. Trish and Sadina were doing some goofy dance-thing as everyone clapped but Minho couldn’t keep his eyes off of Cowan. He looked her up and down. His training and every last one of his instincts screamed at him to shoot her, but he couldn’t, he just couldn’t—not if he wanted to have friends. Minho looked at Orange, Roxy, Old Man Frypan. Were these friendships worth ignoring his instincts?

  “By the way,” Isaac said from behind. “Don’t say anything. I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

  For some reason, that statement annoyed Minho more than anything else he’d heard.

  Weak, he thought. All of these people are weak.

  PART TWO

  Believing the Belief

  Nothing feels good and nothing feels bad, anymore. Nothing feels right or wrong. Hot or cold. Happy or sad. Exciting or dull. I heard an old saying once: Ignorance is bliss. They even named that damn Crank drug after such a notion. The Bliss. All these things relate to each other, and I neither care nor don’t care.

  I might be losing my mind, or I might finally understand the whole of it.

  —The Book of Newt

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Control Subjects

  He waited for a chance to talk to Ms. Cowan alone, but day turned into night. He had to wake her up while everyone else slept. “Psst . . .” He gently shook her shoulder while avoiding the rash near her neck. “Ms. Cowan. We—”

  “What? I’m fine.” She slowly opened her eyes and tried to smile but the corners of her mouth drooped. So did the corners of her eyes. She was more than just tired. This lady was sick.

  “You’re not fine, and I talked to—”

  “I’m not coughing anymore. And my throat felt tight before, but it’s not now.” She sat up, groggily rubbing her eyes. “It must have been those plants where we. . . . Somewhere, or the bugs when we slept. . . . Somewhere. An ant bite, maybe.” She lifted her hands in the air as if it were all a bad dream. “I was allergic and now—”

  “Your neck,” Isaac whispered. He didn’t want to mention the change in her speech patterns. She used to talk in such a refined manner and now her thoughts were all over the place.

  “My neck’s fine. It’s not itchy anymore.”

  “Itchy? You said it wasn’t!” He took a deep breath and looked around to make sure he hadn’t awakened anyone else. Being responsible for Cowan weighed heavily on him. He had to get her to the Villa. What if something happened to her before they got there? What if she infected him? He focused on whispering as quietly as he could while still making his words clear. “We’re going to the Villa. You and me.” He made it sound like a fun vacation.

  Ms. Cowan didn’t respond but her eyes and her open mouth made it look like she wanted to protest.

  “It’s not an option, it’s an order. From Minho.” Isaac paused and waited for the backlash, for her to be disappointed in Isaac for blabbing, telling Minho, the guy with a gun of all people. But she just took the news. Did she even understand what he just said?

  “Okay. Thank you,” Cowan replied.

  “You understand what’s going to happen? We’re going to have to split from the others”

  “We’ve got to get to the Villa.” Cowan said it like a government decree, as if she had already been thinking it before he brought it up. And suddenly the heaviness in Ms. Cowan’s eyes made sense to Isaac; she wasn’t afraid of being sick—the sadness and weight in her eyes were all about knowing she had to split up from Sadina. Isaac felt the same heaviness wash over him in that exact moment. The likelihood that once they did separate, they may never see each other again. The world was hard enough to navigate together, and there were too many things that could pull them apart, but he’d voted for the Villa and he needed to keep his promise. If Isaac could have saved his own parents he would have in an instant. He owed it to Sadina to try whatever it took to get Cowan the help she needed.

  “Ms. Cowan . . . we might never see them again.”

  “That isn’t an option. We will see them again.” She said it firmly, but it didn’t erase the doubt in Isaac’s mind. Going to the Villa felt like it would take him further from anything that reminded him of home again. Like Sadina. “I appreciate your help. If I can admit it. I’m a little . . .” Her eyes traveled slowly from the stars above back to Isaac.

  “Scared.” He answered for her.

  “I’d say you don’t have to come with me, that I could find the Villa myself, but I don’t know if that’s true.” A tear dripped out of her left eye.

  Isaac felt the silly urge to wipe it from her face. Thank the gods, he relented. “You and I voted the same: to go to the Villa. I gave Minho my word that I’m going with you. We’ll figure out what this is.”

  Ms. Cowan took a deep breath and reached for Isaac’s hand; it held all the comfort of a mother’s love. He decided he’d look after this lady, not just for Sadina, but also to make his own mom proud. “Kletter wasn’t entirely truthful about everything with you kids.”

  Isaac pulled back a bit from her touch. “What do you mean?”

  “Sadina’s blood is important, yes. But . . .” She paused.

  “But—what?”

  “Well, didn’t you wonder why I let eight other teenagers trot along on this adventure if it was just about Sadina’s bloodline? We all come from immune blood. Every single person born on the island comes from a bloodline of immunes.” Isaac hadn’t thought about it before, but she was right. “It was never about just one of us. It was all of us.” Cowan coughed. “Well, except for you.” Her words stung Isaac like he imagined a Griever might sting. Hard and fast. “You’ll remember you weren’t originally on the roster to come . . .”