The placers.
They’d finished after us, and according to Rout, the interference of the storm meant that this year’s batch of placers was the smallest the race had ever seen. Fewer than a hundred other ships had finished. Many had been grounded by the storm or forced to wait it out and then struggle to repair their ships to continue. Others had gotten lost because of their instruments taking damage by the storm. More, of course, had been brought down in a skirmish but had managed to narrowly escape and limp across the finish line much later.
Scanning the crowd, my eyes darted from couple to couple, studying them and looking shamelessly for one person in particular. But Sienne was nowhere to be seen. Wasn’t she coming? She’d finished second, right? Surely, she wouldn’t skip out on receiving her award.
Looking up, I used gawking at the sweeping, glass dome ceiling above as an excuse to steal another glance at Phox. He stared off into the distance, his brow locked into a slightly mortified scowl as he walked stiffly at my side. I supposed neither of us was comfortable in settings like this. Granted, he was the biggest guy in the room by at least a foot. That probably didn’t help.
Standing beside him and holding on to his arm like this made that rotting ache in my chest spread to every corner of my body. I couldn’t bear to look at him for long. As soon as we arrived at the crowd of placers, I pulled away. Phox didn’t resist, although he still stuck close at my side like a silent gargoyle. I could feel his gaze on me like the heat of a sunlamp, tracing over my body and lingering on my face—as though he were studying me carefully. Why? Was it the dress? The weird makeup?
Regardless, he didn’t say a word.
God, what if Rout was right? Should I try talking to him? Try to clear the air so our interactions in the next race weren’t, you know, like this?
Before I could decide, a collective hush fell over the assembly as another couple appeared at the top of the cascading glass staircase. I turned, my pulse stammering as I spotted her.
Sienne.
She walked alongside a taller, masculine-looking figure who must have been her partner. The closer they came, the harder it was to breathe. Rout was right—Sienne wasn’t dressed like everyone else here. She wasn’t even wearing a dress. Her blood-red bodysuit fit against her smaller, though still athletically muscular frame, stitched in panels of black that curved along the contours of her thighs, abdomen, and shoulders. A pair of dark angelic wings were embroidered onto the back, starting at her shoulders with tips that brushed at the base of her spine. Combat-style black boots, fingerless gloves, and a much more complex-looking facemask hanging around her neck made it seem like she might have stepped right out of her runner craft and swaggered in without a thought.
Sienne didn’t have any weapons on her that I could see, but that didn’t matter. The way she moved, prowling forward like a powerful jungle cat, oozed predatory grace. Her gaze locked with mine, making my stomach drop to the soles of my fancy gold heels as she headed straight for me.
Oh, no.
Phox took a step in closer to my side and crossed his arms. I could have sworn I heard him growl.
At the last instant, she turned sharply and went to stand on the opposite end of the crowd of placers, her alien partner still tagging along a few paces behind like a tall, lean, blue-skinned shadow. He glanced my way as he passed, his lips pressed into a crinkled, strained line. His lengthy, stark-white hair fell over his brow, almost hiding his strange yellow-gold eyes.
It didn’t take long after they arrived for the ceremony to begin.
One by one, the panes of glass that made up the walls around the atrium went dark, then flickered to life with scenes and replays from the race. A hard knot lodged in the back of my throat as I stared around at them, mortified whenever I saw myself or Phox.
Every second, every scene, burned at my brain like drops of acid rain. The start of the race. Our crash. Sienne’s ship taking the lead. Phox and I giving the camera the finger from atop our ship. The brawlers attacking us. Me running like a maniac as our ship blew up behind me. Carnage. Explosions. Flashes of flame. Our plunge off the cliffside. The storm. That moment in the cave when I’d tricked Phox into thinking I was going to jump to my death. More explosions. Sienne cutting down other runners with that glowing purple scythe. Her ship bursting out of a pile of rubble right where they must have been hiding after we’d zipped by. Them ramming us. Sienne cutting our hull open. Me shattering her blade.
Phox dying in my arms.
I bit down hard and looked away as my throat went dry and my eyes welled. Beside me, Phox shifted. His arm brushed mine, warm and firm. Had that been an accident? I couldn’t tell.
Suddenly, my final sprint for the finish line appeared on all the panels, playing from numerous angles as the spec-cams zoomed along beside me. I watched my own blood-spattered face, twisted with desperate fury, sucking in those calculated breaths as my body moved in perfect synchronization.
Behind me, Sienne’s ship choked and sputtered, rattling close and threatening to overtake me.
Then I crossed the finish line. An explosion of applause and cheers went up all around the atrium, making me cringe and draw in closer to Phox’s side. I couldn’t stop my chin from trembling as a few cool tears slipped down my cheeks.
How could they enjoy that? Watching us
