The Elimination

Chapter One

It's cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and aches there. I try to remind myself that I've been colder – much, much colder – but somehow that doesn't matter. That blizzard in the forest and the night we almost died seem far away now.

The holding cell that security has me locked in is also leaky, leaving me curled in a shivering ball against the stone wall, trying to avoid the puddles growing on the floor. The only sound is the drops of water splashing onto the rock every so often. The quiet wasn't so bad at first; after all, my life has been nothing but noise and insanity, so the silence was welcome. It gave me time to think. I wish that all that time thinking had actually cleared some things up. It didn't. Instead, I have been sitting here, teeth chattering, over thinking the same problems for hours on end. Today, the problem is Archer. More accurately, Archer and the kiss.

I keep replaying it over and over in my mind – his hands tangled in my wet hair, my lips slightly parted to breathe him in, the feeling of hazy perfection that came after – and the blush rises into my cheeks even in this frigid cell. It was wrong. And I know wrong. I've broken just about every rule there is in the past month, which resulted in turning women against men after 80 years of almost peace. All things considered, I really should feel a lot less guilty about touching a man than ruining the system that kept us alive since before I was born. But as usual, I don't feel what I should. It's the complete opposite; I can't stop thinking about what I'll say to him when I see him again, which is stupid considering that I won't ever see him again. A small twinge hits my stomach at the thought. Stupid. Especially because even if I did see him, I would have to tell him that what we did was a mistake. After all that death and misery, we were both just happy to find someone alive. So we overreacted and, well, it just happened.

It's the truth.

Right?

And so it goes. Over and over I think it through, and no matter what, I reach the same conclusion: there is no conclusion.

And then of course there's Ryker. It's hard to tell how long I've been in here since there're no windows, but I spent at least the first week raging around, screaming until my voice went out. All I could picture were the bombs falling, the unmoving women in the streets, and my brother's corpse under a soiled sheet. At some point, I even kicked a wall, and I'm pretty sure that my third toe is broken. After the anger burned out, though, a more dangerous feeling took its place. It's colder, more calculating. And I know that means that it won't go away any time soon.

There's much more on my mind – like whether Luna's still in hiding, where Archer is, if Phoenix is really Matriarch, and if I'll ever get out – but the thing that I always come back to is Wes. So the cycle of confusion and anger always seems to end with me crying hot, painful tears as the image of my dead brother swims in my mind. I've almost stopped blaming myself, but I know it's not just Ryker's fault either. We have to share the responsibility for that. Somehow, knowing these things makes it harder. And so it is like this, soft sobs leaking out of me, that I meet the Matriarch for the first time since my arrest.

It takes two security officers to unlock and shove the heavy door out of her way, but I'm so surprised that I barely have time to wipe my eyes. She looks down on me without expression once she enters. She gives the officers a nod, and both step outside the cell. I think one of them is Avalon, but she doesn't look at me.

"Eroyn." She looks at me evenly, tossing a few stray strands of black hair out of her face.

"Phoenix," I try to say, but my voice cracks. I clear my throat, but don't attempt to say her name again. Plus, it occurs to me that I should probably call her Matriarch now. I know that she saved my life, but she also locked me in here. I don't think I can call her that quite yet. Not with our history.