Page 135 of Shades of Silver City

Frantically, I search my surroundings. Sure enough, I’m in a glass cell of some sort. It’s about the size of Archer’s king-sized mattress. There’s enough space to stretch out, but it’s still cramped. The enclosure looks to be at least twice my height.

I check my pockets for my phone, and my chest tightens when I come up short. My pulse picks up, the blood pounding in my temples.

Beyond the glass cell, the room is empty. I appear to be in a warehouse of some sort. There’s an unmarked door a few steps away and a few more doors across the room.

A carton of water and a plate of food sit beside me.

Greedily, and without hesitation, I open the carton and chug the water.

What happened?

I close my eyes and wince against the headache, trying to remember how I got here.

Dreamdust.

Holy shit.

I’m alive.

How am I alive?

“Hello?” I call out, listening for any movement in the distance.

Silence greets me.

When I bang my fist against the glass, I’m unsurprised to discover it’s sturdy, likely shatterproof. There’s a door built in, but it’s almost seamless with the rest of the glass. It has no hinges, only a handle on the outside and a small food slot at the bottom. As I work to keep my panic at bay, I inspect the door closely for any weak spots. Nothing gives. I search each wall of the cage, finding nothing of significance.

“Fantasia,” a familiar voice says.

Spinning around, I spot the newcomer. I didn’t even hear him enter the room. I’m easily able to make out his features in the harsh fluorescent lighting. His skin is a deep olive color, his irises and hair pitch-black. A stern, formidable expression sits on his face.

His expensive tailored suit hugs him perfectly, highlighting his pristine posture.

“Arlo Osiander.” My blood goes still. “The man behind the mask,” I say. Metaphorically and literally.

He steps forward, hands in his pockets, until he’s just beyond the glass separating us. He tilts his head down, scrutinizing me.

“You’re a very difficult woman to get a hold of.”

He’s been trying to reach me? I frown at that. Why would—

“You,” I say, stepping forward and slamming my hand into the glass in front of his face. He doesn’t even flinch. A single brow rises on his face, and the corners of his lips tilt up ever so slightly. “You’re the one who plastered my photo on the UIS. You sent the Scouts after me.”

“Like I said, you are very difficult to reach.”

“What could you possibly want with me? You knew who I was at the masquerade.”

The humor fades from his eyes, and he frowns. “Yes, but unfortunately, due to unforeseen circumstances—”

“You mean the massacre?” I hiss. “That you set up!”

“That was not at my hand. Humans are often beyond my control, glamour excluded. They love to flout rules and make poor choices. They often destroy themselves.”

“So you have nothing to do with the dreamdust?” I say, crossing my arms.

“I never said that. But I had nothing to do with the mass overdose at Splendor Hall last night.”

Last night.

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