{"product_id":"prodigy-isbn-9780399256769","title":"Prodigy","description":"Featured on \u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e's MUST-LIST!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe highly anticipated second book in Marie Lu's \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller, LEGEND—perfect for fans of THE HUNGER GAMES and DIVERGENT!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJune and Day arrive in Vegas just as the unthinkable happens: the Elector Primo dies, and his son Anden takes his place. With the Republic edging closer to chaos, the two join a group of Patriot rebels eager to help Day rescue his brother and offer passage to the Colonies. They have only one request—June and Day must assassinate the new Elector.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s their chance to change the nation, to give voice to a people silenced for too long. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut as June realizes this Elector is nothing like his father, she’s haunted by the choice ahead. What if Anden is a new beginning? What if revolution must be more than loss and vengeance, anger and blood—what if the Patriots are wrong?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for Marie Lu’s \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller, \u003ci\u003ePRODIGY\u003c\/i\u003e: \u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFeatured on \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY\u003c\/i\u003e’S MUST-LIST\u003c\/b\u003e!\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFrom \u003ci\u003eTHE LOS ANGELES TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e“Marie Lu has beaten the curse with \u003ci\u003eProdigy\u003c\/i\u003e. . . it has all the chivalry of \u003ci\u003eRobin Hood\u003c\/i\u003e and all the shine and grime of \u003ci\u003eBlade Runner\u003c\/i\u003e . . . The well-drawn worlds, political undercurrents and the believability of the characters make it all feel fresh . . . \u003cb\u003eLu proves that a Book 2 needn't play second fiddle\u003c\/b\u003e, providing intrigue and deep pleasure all its own.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFrom THE \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK JOURNAL OF BOOKS: \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“. . . \u003cb\u003eclear your calendar\u003c\/b\u003e to allow yourself the luxury of reading this book in one or two sittings. \u003cb\u003eYou will be shaken\u003c\/b\u003e . . .”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSTARRED REVIEW from \u003ci\u003ePUBLISHERS WEEKLY\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e “Lu opts for a \u003cb\u003ehigh simmer of intrigue\u003c\/b\u003e in her sequel to Legend…taut and insightful.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSTARRED REVIEW from \u003ci\u003eSHELF AWARENESS\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eStunning follow-up\u003c\/b\u003e to \u003ci\u003eLegend . . .\u003c\/i\u003e The thrilling action and futuristic settings are \u003cb\u003esure to please fans of \u003ci\u003eDivergent\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for Marie Lu’s \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller \u003ci\u003eLEGEND\u003c\/i\u003e: \u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFrom \u003ci\u003eENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e“Fine writing and excellent execution. \u003cb\u003eSequel, please\u003c\/b\u003e!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFrom \u003ci\u003eTHE NEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eLegend\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cb\u003edoesn’t merely survive the hype, it deserves it\u003c\/b\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFrom \u003ci\u003eUSA TODAY\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e“Marie Lu’s dystopian novel is \u003cb\u003ea ‘Legend’ in the making\u003c\/b\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFrom \u003ci\u003eTHE LOS ANGELES TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e“an \u003cb\u003eaction-packed love story\u003c\/b\u003e full of inventive details.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSTARRED REVIEW from PUBLISHERS WEEKLY:\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eLu’s debut is a stunner\u003c\/b\u003e. . . raises hopes high for the sequels to come. ”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSTARRED REVIEW from \u003ci\u003eKIRKUS REVIEWS\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e “\u003cb\u003eA gripping thriller\u003c\/b\u003e in dystopic future Los Angeles. This is no didactic near-future warning of present evils, but a cinematic adventure featuring endearing, compelling heroes.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSTARRED REVIEW from \u003ci\u003eBOOKLIST\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e “[D]elicious details keep pages turning . . . \u003cb\u003eyou’ve got the makings for a potent sequel\u003c\/b\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSTARRED REVIEW from \u003ci\u003eVOYA\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e “A fast-paced blend of action and science fiction (with only a hint of potential romance) means that this one will likely appeal to male and female readers alike.  Debut author Lu has managed a great feat—emulating a highly successful young adult series while staying true to her own voice. \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eLegend\u003c\/i\u003e will give \u003ci\u003eHunger Games\u003c\/i\u003e fans something worthwhile to read\u003c\/b\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSTARRED REVIEW from \u003ci\u003eLIBRARY MEDIA CONNECTION\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e “\u003cb\u003eThis book stands out\u003c\/b\u003e . . .”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFROM KAMI GARCIA, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling co-author of the Beautiful Creatures trilogy\u003cbr\u003e“A romantic thriller set in a post-apocalyptic world where nothing is what it seems—\u003ci\u003eLegend\u003c\/i\u003e is \u003cb\u003eimpossible to put down and even harder to forget\u003c\/b\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFROM SARAH REES BRENNAN, author of The Demon Lexicon trilogy\u003cbr\u003e“A compelling dystopic world, with diverse characters, high tension and political intrigue. \u003cb\u003e[If] you liked the Hunger Games, you'll love this\u003c\/b\u003e.”Marie Lu (www.marielu.org) is the author of the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling novel, \u003ci\u003eLegend\u003c\/i\u003e. After graduating from the University of Southern California, she jumped into the video game industry, working for Disney Interactive Studios as a Flash artist. Now a full-time writer, she spends her spare time reading, drawing, playing Assassin’s Creed, and getting stuck in traffic. She lives in Los Angeles, California (see above: traffic), with one boyfriend, one Chihuahua mix, and two Pembroke Welsh corgis.\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMAKING BLIND PROMISES\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’ll be blunt with you. Your skills are not as valuable to me as they used to be, Day. Over the years, we’ve recruited other Runners—and now, with all due respect, adding another one to our team isn’t a priority. Your friend already knows”—he pauses to nod at June—“that the Patriots are not a charity. You’re asking us for a great deal of help. What will you give us in return? You can’t be carrying much money.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJune gives me a pointed look. If the Patriots turn us down, we’ll really be on our own. “We don’t have a lot of money,” I admit. “I’m not going to speak for June, but if there is anything I can do in exchange for your help, just say the word.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’d be happy to take you in, and you’ll both be well cared for. In return, we’d ask for your help with a new project. No questions asked. But you’ll both need to pledge your allegiance to the Patriots before I’ll reveal any details about what you’ll be doing. These are my terms. What do you think?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJune looks from me to Razor. Then she lifts her chin higher. “I’m in. I’ll pledge allegiance to the Patriots.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere’s a slight falter in her words, like she knows she’s truly turned her back on the Republic. The fact that she said yes tugs at my heart. If June is giving herself to the Patriots, then she must realize that we have no better choice. And she’s doing this for my sake. I raise my own voice. “Me too.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eRazor smiles, rises from the couch, and holds up his drink as if to toast us. “It’s official, then. You’re going to help us assassinate the new Elector Primo.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn \u003cb\u003eLEGEND\u003c\/b\u003e, you met Day, a wanted criminal, and June, the government’s most promising asset. When June’s brother is murdered, Day becomes the prime suspect. But when they meet, the truth is unleashed, and together, they fight for revenge . . . and each other.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003ePRODIGY\u003c\/b\u003e takes you deeper into the revolution. June and Day have escaped from the Republic’s stronghold in Las Vegas just as the Elector Primo dies, leaving his son to take his place. But is the new Elector anything like his father? And was joining the Patriot rebels the right decision for June and Day?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe trilogy concludes with \u003cb\u003eCHAMPION\u003c\/b\u003e, and surprises are in wait. You may think you know what’s coming . . . but even June and Day are shocked by how their story ends.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLAS VEGAS, NEVADA\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eREPUBLIC OF AMERICA\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePOPULATION: 7,427,431\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJAN. 4. 1932 HOURS.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOCEAN STANDARD TIME.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTHIRTY-FIVE DAYS AFTER METIAS’S DEATH.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDAY JOLTS AWAKE BESIDE ME. HIS BROW IS COVERED with sweat, and his cheeks are wet with tears. He’s breathing heavily.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI lean over him and brush a wet strand of hair out of his face. The scrape on my shoulder has scabbed over already, but my movement makes it throb again. Day sits up, rubs a hand wearily across his eyes, and glances around our swaying railcar as if searching for something. He looks first at the stacks of crates in one dark corner, then at the burlap lining the floor and the little sack of food and water sitting between us. It takes him a minute to reorient himself, to remember that we’re hitching a ride on a train bound for Vegas. A few seconds pass before he releases his rigid posture and lets himself sag back against the wall.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI gently tap his hand. “Are you okay?” That’s become my constant question.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDay shrugs. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Nightmare.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNine days have passed since we broke out of Batalla Hall and escaped Los Angeles. Since then, Day has had nightmares every time he’s closed his eyes. When we first got away and were able to catch a few hours of rest in an abandoned train yard, Day bolted awake screaming. We were lucky no soldiers or street police heard him. After that, I developed the habit of stroking his hair right after he falls asleep, of kissing his cheeks and forehead and eyelids. He still wakes up gasping with tears, his eyes hunting frantically for all the things he’s lost. But at least he does this silently.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSometimes, when Day is quiet like this, I wonder how well he’s hanging on to his sanity. The thought scares me. I can’t afford to lose him. I keep telling myself it’s for practical reasons: we’d have little chance of surviving alone at this point, and his skills complement mine. Besides . . . I have no one left to protect. I’ve had my share of tears too, although I always wait until he’s asleep to cry. I cried for Ollie last night. I feel a little silly crying for my dog when the Republic killed our families, but I can’t help myself. Metias was the one who’d brought him home, a white ball of giant paws and floppy ears and warm brown eyes, the sweetest, clumsiest creature I’d ever seen. Ollie was my boy, and I’d left him behind.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What’d you dream?” I whisper to Day.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Nothing memorable.” Day shifts, then winces as he accidentally scrapes his wounded leg against the floor. His body tenses up from the pain, and I can tell how stiff his arms are beneath his shirt, knots of lean muscle earned from the streets. A labored breath escapes his lips. \u003ci\u003eThe way he’d pushed me against that alley wall, the hunger in his first kiss.\u003c\/i\u003e I stop focusing on his mouth and shake off the memory, embarrassed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe nods toward the railcar doors. “Where are we now? We should be getting close, right?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI get up, glad for the distraction, and brace myself against the rocking wall as I peer out the railcar’s tiny window. The landscape hasn’t changed much—endless rows of apartment towers and factories, chimneys and old arching highways, all washed into blues and grayish purples by the afternoon rain. We’re still passing through slum sectors. They look almost identical to the slums in Los Angeles. Off in the distance, an enormous dam stretches halfway across my line of vision. I wait until a JumboTron flashes by, then squint to see the small letters on the bottom corner of the screen. “Boulder City, Nevada,” I say. “Really close now. The train will probably stop here for a while, but afterward it shouldn’t take more than thirty-five minutes to arrive in Vegas.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDay nods. He leans over, unties our food sack, and searches for something to eat. “Good. Sooner we get there, sooner we’ll find the Patriots.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe seems distant. Sometimes Day tells me what his nightmares are about—failing his Trial or losing Tess on the streets or running away from plague patrols. Nightmares about being the Republic’s most wanted criminal. Other times, when he’s like this and keeps his dreams to himself, I know they must be about his family—his mother’s death, or John’s. Maybe it’s better that he doesn’t tell me about those. I have enough of my own dreams to haunt me, and I’m not sure I have the courage to know about his.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re really set on finding the Patriots, aren’t you?” I say as Day pulls out a stale hunk of fried dough from the food sack. This isn’t the first time I’ve questioned his insistence on coming to Vegas, and I’m careful about the way I approach the topic. The last thing I want Day to think is that I don’t care about Tess, or that I’m afraid to meet up with the Republic’s notorious rebel group. “Tess went with them willingly. Are we putting her in danger by trying to get her back?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDay doesn’t answer right away. He tears the fried dough in half and offers me a piece. “Take some, yeah? You haven’t eaten in a while.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI hold a hand up politely. “No, thanks,” I reply. “I don’t like fried dough.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eInstantly I wish I could stuff the words back in my mouth. Day lowers his eyes and puts the second half back into the food sack, then quietly starts eating his share. What a stupid, stupid thing for me to say. \u003ci\u003eI don’t like fried dough.\u003c\/i\u003e I can practically hear what’s going through his head.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003ePoor little rich girl, with her posh manners. She can afford to \u003c\/i\u003edislike\u003ci\u003e food.\u003c\/i\u003e I scold myself in silence, then make a mental note to tread more carefully next time.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAfter a few mouthfuls, Day finally responds, “I’m not just going to leave Tess behind without knowing she’s okay.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOf course he wouldn’t. Day would never leave anyone he cares about behind, especially not the orphan girl he’s grown up with on the streets. I understand the potential value of meeting the Patriots too—after all, those rebels \u003ci\u003ehad\u003c\/i\u003e helped Day and me escape Los Angeles. They’re large and well organized. Maybe they have information about what the Republic is doing with Day’s little brother, Eden. Maybe they can even help heal Day’s festering leg wound—ever since that fateful morning when Commander Jameson shot him in the leg and arrested him, his wound has been on a roller coaster of getting better and then worse. Now his left leg is a mass of broken, bleeding flesh. He needs medical attention.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eStill, we have one problem.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The Patriots won’t help us without some sort of payment,” I say. “What can we give them?” For emphasis, I reach into my pockets and dig out our meager stash of money. Four thousand Notes. All I had on me before we made a run for it. I can’t believe how much I miss the luxury of my old life. There are \u003ci\u003emillions\u003c\/i\u003e of Notes under my family name, Notes that I’ll never be able to access again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDay polishes off the dough and considers my words with his lips pressed together. “Yeah, I know,” he says, running a hand through his tangled blond hair. “But what do you suggest we do? Who else can we go to?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI shake my head helplessly. Day is right about that—as little as I’d like to see the Patriots again, our choices are pretty limited. Back when the Patriots had first helped us escape from Batalla Hall, when Day was still unconscious and I was wounded in the shoulder, I’d asked the Patriots to let us go with them to Vegas. I’d hoped they would continue to help us.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey’d refused.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You paid us to get Day out of his execution. You \u003ci\u003edidn’t\u003c\/i\u003e pay us to carry your wounded asses all the way to Vegas,” Kaede had said to me. “Republic soldiers are hot on your trail, for crying out loud. We’re not a full-service soup kitchen. I’m not risking my neck for you two again unless there’s money involved.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eUp until that point, I’d almost believed that the Patriots cared about us. But Kaede’s words had brought me back to reality. They’d helped us because I’d paid Kaede 200,000 Republic Notes, the money I’d received as a reward for Day’s capture. Even then, it had taken some persuasion before she sent her Patriot comrades in to help us.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAllowing Day to see Tess. Helping Day fix his bad leg. Giving us info about the whereabouts of Day’s brother. All these things will require bribes. If only I’d had the chance to grab more money before we left.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Vegas is the worst possible city for us to wander into by ourselves,” I say to Day as I gingerly rub my healing shoulder. “And the Patriots might not even give us an audience. I’m just trying to make sure we think this through.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“June, I know you’re not used to thinking of the Patriots as allies,” Day replies. “You were trained to hate them. But they \u003ci\u003eare\u003c\/i\u003e a potential ally. I trust them more than I trust the Republic. Don’t you?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI don’t know if he means for his words to sound insulting. Day has missed the point I’m trying to make: that the Patriots probably won’t help us and then we’ll be stuck in a military city. But Day thinks I’m hesitating because I don’t trust the Patriots. That, deep down, I’m still June Iparis, the Republic’s most celebrated prodigy . . . that I’m still loyal to this country. \u003ci\u003eWell, is that true?\u003c\/i\u003e I’m a criminal now, and I’ll never be able to go back to the comforts of my old life. The thought leaves a sick, empty feeling in my stomach, as if I miss being the Republic’s darling. Maybe I do.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf I’m not the Republic’s darling anymore, then who am I?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Okay. We’ll try to find the Patriots,” I say. It’s clear that I won’t be able to coax him into doing anything else.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDay nods. “Thanks,” he whispers. The hint of a smile appears on his lovely face, pulling me in with its irresistible warmth, but he doesn’t try to hug me. He doesn’t reach for my hand. He doesn’t scoot closer to let our shoulders touch, he doesn’t stroke my hair, he doesn’t whisper reassuringly into my ear or rest his head against mine. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve grown to crave these little gestures. Somehow, in this moment, we feel very separate.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaybe his nightmare had been about me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e*   *   *\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt happens right after we reach the main strip of Las Vegas. The announcement.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFirst of all, if there’s one place in Vegas that we shouldn’t be, it’s the main strip. JumboTrons (six packed into each block) line both sides of the city’s busiest street, their screens playing an endless stream of news. Blinding clusters of searchlights sweep obsessively along the walls. The buildings here must be twice as large as the ones in Los Angeles. The downtown is dominated by towering skyscrapers and enormous pyramid-shaped landing docks (eight of them, square bases, equilateral triangle sides) with bright lights beaming from their tips. The desert air reeks of smoke and feels painfully dry; no thirst-quenching hurricanes here, no waterfronts or lakes. Troops make their way up and down the street (in oblong square formations, typical of Vegas), dressed in the black, navy-striped uniforms of soldiers rotating out to and back from the warfront. Farther out, past this main street of skyscrapers, are rows of fighter jets, all rolling into position on a wide strip of airfield. Airships glide overhead.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis is a military city, a world of soldiers.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe sun has just set when Day and I make our way out onto the main strip and head toward the other end of the street. Day leans heavily on my shoulder as we try to blend in with the crowds, his breath shallow and his face drawn with pain. I try my best to support him without looking out of place, but his weight makes me walk in an unbalanced line, as if I’d had too much to drink. “How are we doing?” he murmurs into my ear, his lips hot against my skin. I’m not sure if he’s half-delirious from the pain or if it’s my outfit, but I can’t say I mind his blatant flirtation tonight. It’s a nice change from our awkward train ride. He’s careful to keep his head down, his eyes hidden under long lashes and tilted away from the soldiers bustling back and forth along the sidewalks. He shifts uncomfortably in his military jacket and pants. A black soldier’s cap hides his white-blond hair and blocks a good portion of his face.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Well enough,” I reply. “Remember, you’re drunk. And happy. You’re supposed to be lusting over your escort. Try smiling a little more.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDay plasters a giant artificial smile on his face. As charming as ever. “Aw, come on, sweetheart. I thought I was doing a pretty good job. I got my arm around the prettiest escort on this block—how could I \u003ci\u003enot\u003c\/i\u003e be lusting over you? Don’t I \u003ci\u003elook\u003c\/i\u003e like I’m lusting? This is me, lusting.” His lashes flutter at me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe looks so ridiculous that I can’t help laughing. Another passerby glances at me. “\u003ci\u003eMuch\u003c\/i\u003e better.” I shiver when he nudges his face into the hollow of my neck. \u003ci\u003eStay in character. Concentrate.\u003c\/i\u003e The gold trinkets lining my waist and ankles jingle as we walk. “How’s your leg?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDay pulls away a little. “Was doing fine until you brought it up,” he whispers, then winces as he trips over a crack in the sidewalk. I tighten my grip around him. “I’ll make it to our next rest stop.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Remember, two fingers against your brow if you need to stop.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yeah, yeah. I’ll let you know if I’m in trouble.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnother pair of soldiers pushes past us with their own escorts, grinning girls decked out in sparkling eye shadow and elegantly painted face tattoos, their bodies covered thinly by dancer costumes and fake red feathers. One of the soldiers catches sight of me, laughs, and widens his glazed eyes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What club you from, gorgeous?” he slurs. “Don’t remember your face around here.” His hand goes for my exposed waist, hungering for skin. Before he can reach me, Day’s arm whips out and shoves the soldier roughly away.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Don’t touch her.”\u003c\/i\u003e Day grins and winks at the soldier, keeping up his carefree demeanor, but the warning in his eyes and voice makes the other man back off. He blinks at both of us, mumbles something under his breath, and staggers away with his friends.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI try to imitate the way those escorts giggle, then give my hair a toss. “Next time, just go with it,” I hiss in Day’s ear even as I kiss him on the cheek, as if he were the best customer ever. “Last thing we need is a fight.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What?” Day shrugs and returns to his painful walk. “It’d be a pretty pathetic fight. He could barely stand.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI shake my head and decide not to point out the irony.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA third group of soldiers stumbles past us in a loud, drunken daze. (Seven cadets, two lieutenants, gold armbands with Dakota insignias, which means they just arrived here from the north and haven’t yet exchanged their armbands for new ones with their warfront battalions.) They have their arms wrapped around escorts from the Bellagio clubs—glittering girls with scarlet chokers and \u003ci\u003eB\u003c\/i\u003e arm tattoos. These soldiers are probably stationed in the barracks above the clubs.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI check my own costume again. Stolen from the dressing rooms of the Sun Palace. On the surface, I seem like any other escort. Gold chains and trinkets around my waist and ankles. Feathers and gold ribbons pinned into my scarlet (spray-painted), braided hair. Smoky eye shadow coated with glitter. A ferocious phoenix tattoo painted across my upper cheek and eyelid. Red silks leave my arms and waist exposed, and dark laces line my boots.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut there’s one thing on my costume that the other girls don’t wear.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA chain of thirteen little glittering mirrors. They’re partially hidden amongst the other ornaments wrapped around my ankle, and from a distance it would seem like another decoration. Completely forgettable. But every now and then, when streetlights catch it, it becomes a row of brilliant, sparkling lights. Thirteen, the Patriots’ unofficial number. This is our signal to them. They must be watching the main Vegas strip all the time, so I know they’ll at least notice a row of flashing lights on me. And when they do, they’ll recognize us as the same pair they helped rescue in Los Angeles.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe JumboTrons lining the street crackle for a second. The pledge should start again any minute now. Unlike Los Angeles, Vegas runs the national pledge five times a day—all the JumboTrons will pause in whatever ads or news they’re showing, replace them with enormous images of the Elector Primo, and then play the following on the city’s speaker system: \u003ci\u003eI pledge allegiance to the flag of the great Republic of America, to our Elector Primo, to our glorious states, to unity against the Colonies, to our impending victory!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNot long ago, I used to recite that pledge every morning and afternoon with the same enthusiasm as anyone else, determined to keep the east coast Colonies from taking control of our precious west coast land. That was before I knew about the Republic’s role in my family’s deaths. I’m not sure what I think now. Let the Colonies win?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe JumboTrons start broadcasting a newsreel. Weekly recap. Day and I watch the headlines zip by on the screens:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eREPUBLIC TRIUMPHANTLY TAKES OVER MILES OF COLONIES’ LAND IN BATTLE FOR AMARILLO, EAST TEXAS\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFLOOD WARNING CANCELLED FOR SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eELECTOR VISITS TROOPS ON NORTHERN WARFRONT, BOOSTS MORALE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMost of them are fairly uninteresting—the usual headlines coming in from the warfront, updates on weather and laws, quarantine notices for Vegas.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen Day taps my shoulder and gestures at one of the screens.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eQUARANTINE IN LOS ANGELES EXTENDED TO EMERALD, OPAL SECTORS\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Gem sectors?” Day whispers. My eyes are still fixed on the screen, even though the headline has passed. “Don’t rich folks live there?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’m not sure what to say in return because I’m still trying to process the information myself. Emerald and Opal sectors . . . Is this a mistake? Or have the plagues in LA gotten serious enough to be broadcast on \u003ci\u003eVegas\u003c\/i\u003e JumboTrons? I’ve never, \u003ci\u003eever \u003c\/i\u003eseen quarantines extended into the upper-class sectors. Emerald sector borders Ruby—does that mean my home sector is going to be quarantined too? What about our vaccinations? Aren’t they supposed to prevent things like this? I think back on Metias’s journal entries. \u003ci\u003eOne of these days,\u003c\/i\u003e he’d said, \u003ci\u003ethere will be a virus unleashed that none of us will be able to stop.\u003c\/i\u003e I remember the things Metias had unveiled, the underground factories, the rampant diseases . . . the systematic plagues. A shiver runs through me. Los Angeles will quell it, I tell myself. The plague will die down, just like it always does.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMore headlines sweep by. A familiar one is about Day’s execution. It plays the clip of the firing squad yard where Day’s brother John took the bullets meant for Day, then fell facedown on the ground. Day turns his eyes to the pavement.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnother headline is newer. It says this:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMISSING\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSS NO: 2001963034\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e------------------------\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJUNE IPARIS\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAGENT, LOS ANGELES CITY PATROL\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAGE\/GENDER: 15, FEMALE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHEIGHT: 5’4”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHAIR: BROWN \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEYES: BROWN\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLAST SEEN NEAR BATALLA HALL, LOS ANGELES, CA\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e350,000 REPUBLIC NOTES REWARD\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIF SEEN, REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO YOUR LOCAL OFFICIAL\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat’s what the Republic wants their people to think. That I’m missing, that they hope to bring me back safe and sound. What they\u003ci\u003e don’t\u003c\/i\u003e say is that they probably want me dead. I helped the country’s most notorious criminal escape his execution, aided the rebel Patriots in a staged uprising against a military headquarters, and turned my back on the Republic.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut they wouldn’t want that information going public, so they hunt for me quietly. The missing report shows the photo from my military ID—a face-forward, unsmiling shot of me, barefaced but for a touch of gloss, dark hair tied back in a high ponytail, a gold Republic seal gleaming against the black of my coat. I’m grateful that the phoenix tattoo hides half of my face right now.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe make it to the middle of the main strip before the speakers crackle again for the pledge. Day and I stop walking. Day stumbles again and almost falls, but I manage to catch him fast enough to keep him upright. People on the street look up to the JumboTrons (except for a handful of soldiers who line the edges of each intersection in order to ensure everyone’s participation). The screens flicker. Their images vanish into blackness, and are then replaced by high-definition portraits of the Elector Primo.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eI pledge allegiance—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s almost comforting to repeat these words with everyone else on the streets, at least until I remind myself of all that’s changed. I think back to the evening when I’d first captured Day, when the Elector and his son came to personally congratulate me for putting a notorious criminal behind bars. I recall how the Elector had looked in person. The portraits on the JumboTrons show the same green eyes, strong jaw, and curled locks of dark hair . . . but they leave out the coldness in his expression and the sickly color of his skin. His portraits make him seem fatherly, with healthy pink cheeks. Not how I remember him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—to the flag of the great Republic of America—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSuddenly the broadcast pauses. There’s silence on the streets, then a chorus of confused whispers. I frown. Unusual. I’ve \u003ci\u003enever \u003c\/i\u003eseen the pledge interrupted, not even once. And the JumboTron system is hooked up so one screen’s outage shouldn’t affect the rest.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDay looks up to the stalled screens while my eyes dart to the soldiers lining the street. “Freak accident?” he says. His labored breathing worries me. \u003ci\u003eHang on just a little longer. We can’t stop here.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI shake my head. “No. Look at the troops.” I nod subtly in their direction. “They’ve changed their stances. Their rifles aren’t slung over their shoulders anymore—they’re holding them now. They’re bracing themselves for a reaction from the crowd.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDay shakes his head slowly. He looks unsettlingly pale. “Something’s happened.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe Elector’s portrait vanishes from the JumboTrons and is immediately replaced with a new series of images. They show a man who is the spitting image of the Elector—only much younger, barely in his twenties, with the same green eyes and dark, wavy hair. In a flash I recall the touch of excitement I’d felt when I first met him at the celebratory ball. This is Anden Stavropoulos, the son of the Elector Primo.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDay’s right. Something big has happened.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Republic’s Elector has died.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA new, upbeat voice takes over the speakers. “Before continuing our pledge, we must instruct all soldiers and civilians to replace the Elector portraits in your homes. You may pick up a new portrait from your local police\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons Books for Young Readers","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304738148581,"sku":"NP9780399256769","price":20.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780399256769.jpg?v=1767735149","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/prodigy-isbn-9780399256769","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}