“Sorry,” I say to the wardrobe mistress.
She tilts her head to the side. “For what?”
I swing at her masked face with my left. She jumps back, but I surge forward with an uppercut to the cheekbone. It knocks her harder than expected. She stumbles toward the wall and crashes against the mirror.
The next closest woman grabs my arm. Pivoting, I slam my fist into her ribs. Something cracks beneath my knuckles. She doubles over and screams. The third woman races at me with a four-inch-long electroshocker crackling with power. I shove her colleague into her path. They both stiffen and hit the floor, just as a hissing sound fills the room.
The wardrobe mistress groans and picks herself off the floor. “What are you doing?”
I turn to the screen to find Byron addressing the camera. Mom drifts away in a boat in the background. The next shot is of Scorpio, who stands at the waterside, raising his pincers.
The wardrobe mistress staggers toward me through the gas. “You can’t beat us into setting you free.”
Her steps falter, reminding me that I need to pretend to appear unconscious for my plan to work, even though strength courses through my veins. The whole point of attacking them was for someone to open that door. The wardrobe mistress’ posture droops, her eyelids flutter, and she looks seconds away from falling asleep.
Faking a yawn, I sway from side to side. “You’re lying.” I slur my words. “One of you must have a key.”
I fall to my knees and make a show of patting the pockets of the closest woman. Footsteps rush toward us from the direction of the external door. I fall toward the other two women, palm the electroshocker, and hope whoever is watching me believes the gas has rendered me unconscious.
A mechanism turns in the door, letting in humid air along with the sound of hurried footsteps. My pulse races, and I force every ounce of self-control into not charging.
“Report,” says a distant voice.
“They appear unhurt, Your Majesty.”
“And the girl?” asks the queen.
“We’re moving her to the waterfront. Byron can interview her while she waits her turn.”
“Restrain her if you must.” The queen chuckles. “I’d love to watch her commentary of Scorpio tearing apart her family.”
I clench my teeth at the implication that Dad and the twins are also waiting somewhere in a cell like mine. As soon as I disable Scorpio and save Mom, I’ll use this newfound strength on the queen.
The two newcomers walk to my sides and each grab an arm. They drag me over their fallen colleagues and out into a mossy landscape that reminds me of compost before it gets a chance to rot. The sound of running water is close, and I’m moving over soft, muddy ground.
Deep, deliberate breaths fill my lungs, and I use every mental technique I learned from the Red Runners to counter the adrenaline seething through my veins. I can’t attack these women until they take me to Byron Blake.
After what feels like an eternity, I hear Byron’s excited voice telling the audience in the viewing theater that Scorpio’s armor won’t allow him to float in water. “But will Mrs. Calico’s boat stay afloat for long enough to reach safety?” he says with a chuckle. “Let’s find out after we hear from her daughter.”
I take that as my cue to act. Using the momentum of the woman on the right, I kick at the feet of her colleague. She releases my left arm and stumbles into the moss.
The second woman reaches for her baton, but I jam the electroshocker under her neck and press the button. Blue lightning erupts from its tip. She goes rigid and falls like a log.
“Zea-Mays.” Byron stands at the waterfront with his palms raised. “Whatever you think you’re doing, this isn’t the answer.”
I advance on him with the shocker outstretched. “Where’s my mother?”
His gaze darts to my left.
I spin around to find the first woman pulling herself off the ground. With one swift kick in the head, she falls onto her front and stops moving.
The camerawomen scramble out of my way. I ignore them and continue toward Byron, who stumbles backward toward the water.
“Zea.” He moves his forearms up and down in a motion that’s more aggravating than calming. “Please, don’t do this.”
“Take me to my mother.”
Byron’s mouth drops open. “But the rules state—”
I punch him hard in the face, and the sensation of cracking bones explodes under my knuckles. Byron’s head snaps back. He falls onto his behind and clutches his nose.
“What would happen to your brain if I kept electrocuting you with this?”
He raises a palm. “There’s no need for violence.” Byron’s voice is thick with agony. “I’ll take you to her, but you’ll need to use a glider.”
This is probably a trick. They’ll give me a glider and cut its power while I’m moving over the water, but I nod anyway. Byron beckons one of the production assistants, who rushes behind the pop-up studio and pulls out an air glider thicker and longer than the one they gave us in the Gloria National Park.
She scurries forward, places it at my feet, and backs toward the studio.
“There.” Byron gestures at the stream. “Follow the water around the stadium, and you’ll find your mother drifting away on a boat.”
I flick my head toward the board. “Stand in front of the foot straps.”
His lips part, and all the color leaches from his face. “What?”
My eyes narrow. He probably expected me to step on first, and one of the production assistants would program it to do something dangerous. I squeeze the trigger, and sparks of blue lightning erupt from the shocker’s tip.
Byron flinches. When I shake the electroshocker, a resigned look crosses his features, and he steps onto the glider’s front half. I step behind him and slide my feet into the straps. It rises
