Page 81 of Winterveil

It was too much. It was always too much. So this time Giselle was the one who fled, chased by the deepening flurries of snow.

Twenty-Eight

Spring 2037

Camp Peary, Virginia

After circling the town square again and finding nothing of note, Julian and Klaudia made their way back to the lodge. The snow was falling thickly now, and when it landed on Klaudia’s lashes it melted. Julian watched for a disconcertingly long time as she licked a flake from her lower lip. She seemed at home in the snow, in the winter, like she belonged to it—or it to her.

They were halfway up the path to the lodge when Julian heard shouting. He turned to see a man in a bowler hat scrambling up the hill after them, speaking in rapid-fire Russian.

The hologram stopped before them, slightly breathless, and continued his angry-sounding diatribe. Julian was too taken aback to do anything except stare at Klaudia in bewilderment. “Klaudia . . . ,” he prompted, waiting for her to reply or to translate.

But her expression was shuttered. “Izvinitye,” she said coolly, and then whirled around, continuing pointedly up the path without looking back. Julian hurried after her.

Once they were at a distance, she hissed, “What were you thinking?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re supposed to be innocuous American students on spring break. You made it obvious when you looked at me that I knew Russian—you expected me to answer. Now I seem suspicious.”

Julian’s skin prickled with embarrassment. He hadn’t considered how he might implicate Klaudia; he’d been too flustered.

“It’s just a simulation,” he said. “Deckard’s not going to dock us points for pissing off a hologram.”

“You don’t know that,” Klaudia said tensely. “We have no idea what game Deckard is playing with us.”

After another moment’s consideration, he bent over, gathered a ball of snow in his fist, and then hurled it at the hologram’s retreating back.

The snowball exploded against the man’s shoulder. Briefly, Julian was shocked that it had actually made contact—that the hologram was more solid than he’d realized. The man turned, eyes flaring in outrage, but before he could say another word, Julian grasped Klaudia by the wrist and hauled her the rest of the way toward the lodge. By the time they reached the steps, they were both panting.

“There,” said Julian, between breaths. “That should give him something to mull over instead.”

Klaudia put a hand to her forehead and sighed.

Klaudia forgave his slipup as they entered the great room. That Nadiya and Giselle hadn’t made it back yet didn’t surprise Julian, but Crispin’s absence did. In order to be rid of him, Klaudia had requested that he remain at the lodge as a precaution, to at least guard their things against whatever vague threats Deckard had surely assembled. Yet now Crispin was nowhere to be found.

“Do you think he’s gone for good?” Julian asked hopefully.

“I can’t imagine we’d be so lucky.” Klaudia regarded the cans that he and Giselle had neatened into stacks on the table. “Deckard wouldn’t give up his little mole.”

“That’s what you think he is? A mole?”

“There’s no other explanation. Deckard believes we’re naive enough to divulge our plans in front of him. It’s a test.”

“Then Deckard should’ve chosen someone with more charisma,” Julian said. “I’m not giving up my secrets to Casper the Unfriendly Ghost.”

“We can’t all refine our charms by kissing babies or playing flip cup on The Tonight Show.”

Julian’s stomach dropped. “Tell me you didn’t see that.”

“Mikhail researched his new roommate very thoroughly.”

It was possibly the most asinine thing he had done in pursuit of the party nomination. While the other Democratic candidates recited their stump speeches outside Faneuil Hall, Julian chugged nonalcoholic beer with the host of The Tonight Show, who was so enamored with the idea of an eighteen-year-old mayor that he had invited Julian on twice.

The first time was a standard interview, with questions Julian had been briefed on in advance. The second—

“I didn’t know that was going to be the show,” Julian said. “It was a ploy by the host to get an authentic reaction. You should feel sorry for me.”