Page 77 of Uncontrolled

The narrow hallway leads to an entrance parlor and from there, branches off in several directions. I don’t take time to choose. There’s a fine layer of plaster dust and other detritus on the floor. All I have to do is follow the fresh footprints in it.

Except the room the smudges of footprint lead to, some sort of small study, is empty.

On the desk is a closed laptop, a notebook next to it with a pen abandoned on the lined paper. I lean closer to read. On it are details about me, my life, places I frequent, the address of the gym where I meet Talia. Christopher doesn’t know where Talia and I work out, so if they have this information, it means they were tracking me on their own, the dangerous bastards.

I flip a page. “Ploy” is written in the margin, each chunky block letter decorated with stripes and half-filled in polka dots. Dates are noted, starting over a week ago. Next to some are the places he went downtown and several of the more touristy areas. At one point there’s a note that simply says “train car place?” and in my head I picture the path into the woods. They must not have followed him farther. To the right of the page, there’s a column and at the end of each day, a box with a check mark in it. I trace them up to the top. In neat letters it says “stayed night at Allie’s?”

They were tracking him, too, then, testing whatever he told them to see if it held up. Sure enough, beside three of the check-marked boxes are notes, each one underlined. Lied.

I got him out before they confronted him. I shouldn’t feel relief, but I do.

With a finger, I flip through the rest of the notebook pages, but there’s nothing other than what appears to be a class schedule and then, on the back cover, a sketched heart. In loopy scrawl in the center is the name Ploy. A dozen tiny stars and little doodles decorate the surrounding space.

My first instinct is humor rather than jealousy. I remove the paper Christopher left me at the apartment from my pocket and go down the list of hunters. The last one listed is Keeley and beside her name is a guess at her age, a thirteen with a question mark next to it. Thirteen.

At thirteen, I was well versed in combat and weapons training, the basics of resurrecting, human anatomy. In addition, I carried a vial filled with poison, ready to ingest it to keep my blood out of the wrong hands. I have my vial now, in case this goes bad. It’s tucked into a tiny pocket sewn along the under wire of my bra.

Point being, if this thirteen-year-old is half as deadly as I was at that age, I’m taking her as a threat. Not to mention, judging her notes on me with this additional information, she’s the one who followed me.

Baby viper, I think with quite a bit of appreciation.

I’ve spent enough time here. I need to get moving, to find them. To end this.

Instead of following the footsteps along the floor, I head in the opposite direction, into the shadows hiding a staircase off the main path. I’m guessing servants used the less-flashy staircase when this house was new. Now, I’m going to use it to sneak onto the upper level.

A woman speaks, then the rough baritone of a man. With each step I climb, the din of voices grows clearer. I still can’t quite make out the conversation. Someone laughs. I can’t be sure if it’s a third person. When I was coming up to the house, three was my limit. I need to draw one away, separate them in a way that won’t have them investigating and on edge.

I’m still tucked into the relative safety of the servants’ staircase. I know myself. If I wait too long, I’ll get second thoughts over this entire plan. Instead, I do the reckless thing and lean around the corner to take a quick scan of the upstairs hallway. The trampled carpet will muffle my steps, but there’s no cover and I can’t be certain which room the voices are coming from.

I skate along the edge of the wall, trailing my fingers over the tattered wallpaper, the patterns decades-old and sun-faded. I pass two rooms with closed doors before I make it to my first open one, but it’s unoccupied and the voices are further down the hall.

Three voices and then in chimes a fourth.

Four, all in the same room. Shit.

I freeze, as if with my lack of movement, they won’t spot me as soon as they exit. For some reason it’s Christopher chastising me in my head. You never stop to think. You just charge in and hope for the best. You’re going to get yourself killed, Allie.

I’m not a grenade. There’s time to rethink this. They haven’t seen me yet.

If I can make it to the staircase, I can retreat to the porch where I came in and be down the driveway before anyone notices I’ve breached their stronghold. I’ll confide in Talia, tell her everything Christopher discovered about the hunters, and we’ll come back with reinforcements, stronger.

Unstoppable.

“So!” The woman’s voice startles me enough to make me gasp. I clamp a hand over my mouth, silently praying before she goes on. “Basic text for help or something more elaborate?”

And then I hear Christopher. “Your call, Nico,” he says.

“No.” The denial slips out between my fingers. He can’t be here.

“Hurt,” Nico says. “Bleeding bad and need help.” I can’t follow the conversation. Did they hurt Christopher? He sounded fine. There’s a pause. “Sent!”

The vibration drones in my pocket a split-second before my text message notification chimes loudly. I groan, not bothering to hide my blown cover.

A shocked silence rolls through the room. In the scramble after, I race for the stairs, tumbling when I lose my footing before I catch myself on the wall and peal down the warped wood of the treads.

“What the hell?” someone says from below me and I yank my attention off my feet to find a girl about my age with jet black hair making her way up the same stairs I’m descending.

“Get her, Zen!” another yells.

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