Page 84 of Retrograde

I raise my hand with the empty glass, and Otto—skinny, young, smells like he doesn’t like to shower much—heads for the bottle to refill it for me.

“Daria Volker. Ran away from home and joined them. As a member. Very publicly, offering a ton of interviews. Since so many of them aired, I’m assuming Daddy Volker first found out on a TV screen like the rest of us.”

I whistle, downing my fresh drink in one large gulp, grimacing.

“Is she still in the Rifterland?”

I already know the answer, but fuck me, that would have been one hell of a hostage opportunity if we’d managed to get our hands on her.

“Didn’t even stay a full day before Volker whisked her away to safety.” Alex shakes his head.

“He wasn’t pleased, I bet.”

The day I sold my soul, my ass was up in the air, I was crying into the stinky old mattress, and Volker wasn’t looking at my face when we had that conversation.

Riley’s words echo in my ears, and I squeeze the glass so hard it cracks in my grip. My fingers slip, the sharp edge digging into the skin between my thumb and index finger. Blood wells and drips to the ground.

“Don’t fucking worry about it,” I growl when about ten Retrogrades jerk forward to rush to my aid. “Alex, keep talking.”

“No, Volker wasn’t pleased,” Alex confirms. “But the damage was done, and he had to act like he approved for the cameras. Backing Daria, like it’s been his intention all along, to publicly endorse Reprobates and grant them permits in the Continuum. Word is this caused a pretty bad falling out between Volker and the other two Consuls.”

“It would have,” I muse out loud. “The whole point of the Consular Triad is that three persons are meant to share power and make decisions together. But Volker keeps turning it into a one-man show. I bet he’s on thin ice. Fat lot of good that will do us.” I set the fractured glass on the table, next to our map with chess figurines. “There’s no good way for Anton and Gregor to get rid of him without making themselves look weak. Pitfalls of joint leadership. Speaking of leadership, who heads Reprobates these days?”

A few men shift their weight and clear their throats.

“Lars Krane. Doubt that’s his real name. He’s mostly holed up at the Solstice Citadel up north. But he’s often seen in Everrise too these days, buzzing around Volker like a fly around a juicy pile of shit.”

Scattered recollections flash through my mind. Jet-black hair, a beak-like nose, a trimmed beard surrounding a smirking mouth. Cunning blue eyes. A scheming face. A face you can’t trust.

“We sure I didn’t kill that one too?” I ask, ransacking my memory of the Crosses.

“Pretty sure.”

“Pity. Didn’t he have a son who was a bit ...” I trail off.

“Eccentric? Yup. That’d be Rafael. A gigantic mute redhead. Get this, they say he’s a prophet.”

A sound rips from my lips, something between a gasp and a laugh.

“You’re shitting me?”

“Nope. Apparently, he goes into these trances and then starts speaking. The word is a lot of the shit he predicts actually happens.”

“Fucking hell.” I slap the back of my neck, killing another mosquito.

“Do you want to do anything about them?”

I consider this before asking, “Have they hurt anyone on the outside? Kids, innocent people ...?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“All their members joined voluntarily?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Then I don’t give a shit about them.” I wave my arm, dismissing the subject.

It’s not exactly true. Krane is the type to have an agenda, the sort of person to be fuelled by nothing but ruthless ambition. My bet is that he was a cutthroat executive—if not a politician—who somehow ended up on the wrong side of this mess and will do just about anything to regain influence. He could be a formidable enemy or a powerful ally, depending on which way the wind blows. But right now, he’s annoying the shit out of Volker—and for that, if no other reason, I’ll gladly let him live.