I wake to a monster headache. Bright side: the bees left with their queen. No idea what technical time it is, but my mental clock says it’s Tayte thwacking time. I need to confront him and find out what he did to Gundy and Flint. Dim side: I still need him, regardless of any justification he gives. Let’s be real here. Chances are he won’t bother justifying anything. This is Tayte we’re talking about.

I find him in his office. Of course, he was expecting me to show up here. It’s not like I can just traipse on out of Hotel Looking Glass riding my high horse. Not when he still has me collared.

I stand at his desk, glowering my best glower at him while he diligently whittles away in his notebook, apathetic to my presence. Who even writes on actual paper anymore? Dude needs to invest in paperless technology. Bet he gets wicked hand cramps from how tight he holds that pen. Wouldn’t it be awesome if it snapped and ink bled all over his pretty pages, ruining his notes?

Being ignored is kind of annoying. Is this what it was like for people when I wielded my shield of indifference? Nah. I was only ever purposely dismissive of anyone specifically attempting to get a rise out of me. Sure, I vacated the premises on the regular if anyone tried to authentically connect, but I didn’t maintain my station, waiting to see who’d lift the silence embargo first. Chat chicken. Who’s clucking first?

“Take a seat,” he clucks after what feels like ten minutes. Point to me. Honestly, it was probably only more like two minutes, but I have somewhat of a notoriously flighty thought train. My concept of time is systematically skewed as a result.

I clench my fists at my sides. “No.”

“Really, Sheyla,” he tsks. “Must you always bypass social niceties? I thought you wanted to be human. Isn’t that the human way? I offer you a seat. You take it. We talk.”

“I guarantee what I’m feeling right now is definitely human.” If my robot wasn’t already a pile of broken bolts, my current condition would put it there. I’m a weird mix of angry and sad with a dash of helplessness sprinkled on top. A soup sandwich, for all intents and purposes.

“Pity I can’t take that, too,” he remarks.

He walks around the desk and places a stone on the surface in front of me. I count to ten as if that’ll somehow sort me out. Typically, I’d shove my feelings down deep in my gut, where they can chew happily through my stomach lining. You know, like a regular person incapable of processing heavy emotions. Thing is, with Tayte plugging my fire fuel valve, I’m free to experience the full impact of what would normally cause a flame-induced misfortune. There’s no motivation to display restraint. My fists become two tight balls. I can’t even think straight. My heart is racing. My body is shaking. This experience is all-around uncomfortable.

“Don’t be obtuse.” He points at the stone. “This is what you’ve come for.”

“That’s not what I came for.” My words are garbled, spoken through narrow lips.

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“You’ll take it all the same, won’t you?”

He forces my hand open, placing the departure stone inside. The instant it touches my skin, the rage settles. What I’m holding is far too valuable to risk crushing in my palm. Coming down from such a heightened sense of feeling is disorienting.

“Go have a look.” On cue, the sun shines in the office window. “Let the stone show you the glory of all I’m giving you.”

“I know what you’re giving me.”

“You think you know what I’m giving you,” he volleys. “Look for yourself.”

Sighing, I hold the stone in the direct path of the light. I don’t get how so much beauty can come from something dark as death, yet the departure stone shines on with its glittering red and black flecks.

“Note the darker color. A departure stone has bits of black mixed with the elemental hue. Isn’t it marvelous how it only shines when the light touches it?”

“You had no right,” I snap.

“I create the rules I live by. Everything’s in my right.” He tips his head to the side, evaluating me. “Wait, do you think that’s your friend?”

Where’s he going with this? Flint wasn’t my friend, just some rando needing my help. To clarify, that doesn’t make his life worth less. It simply means the friend moniker doesn’t apply.

He frowns. “Think with this.” He taps his head. “Not with this.” He taps his heart. “You reverted them, Sheyla.”

My cheeks heat. Okay, I’m a little embarrassed by my faulty thought process. Obviously, I’m not holding Flint, or what’s left of Flint, in my hand right now. His death wouldn’t produce a departure stone since I spooled the Sumair out of him. I’m still holding someone. Someone who mattered to someone else. My reaction was warranted, even if my aim was off.

“You’re still a monster,” I mutter. “Are Flint and Gundy safe?”

He scoffs. “Rebels do not waver. You’re a smart girl. You have to see not everything can work out how we want it to. Sometimes, to get what we need, we do things we don’t necessarily want to. That’s how these things go.”

No lies. No half-truths to placate. With Tayte, there’s only the cold, bitter, stinging, necessary truth. People are either obstacles or advantages. When their usefulness wavers, he has no continued need for them. They’re discarded as experiment refuse. I was too swept up in my need to get the departure stones to consider what he might do to obtain them.

“Two departure stones for two reversions,” he reiterates. “Let’s not pretend you don’t want the remaining one.” He lifts a brow. “Maybe a bonus fourth?”

He’s right. I do want the two remaining departure stones. I need them to storm Sheelin, but I can’t accept them. I won’t be the reason anyone else dies when it’s in my control to stop it. I’ll find another way. “No,” I refuse. “No more of this. It’s not worth it.”

Using the stones to enter Sheelin will be at the cost of two more lives. My mother couldn’t forgive me. I couldn’t forgive myself. It isn’t worth the risk, especially when there’s no guarantee I’ll get back out, no way for me to make right what I’ve done to succeed.

“This must be hard for you,” he commiserates.

“I don’t need you to tell me how I feel.”

“I’ve prepared a gift to help appease your nonsensical ethical dilemma,” he offers. “A surprise, if you will.”

“I hate surprises.”

“You won’t hate this one,” he assures me.

A thumping bass comes from the closet on the far wall. Something’s beating against the door.

“Open it.”

I sincerely don’t want to. Whatever’s on the other side of the door won’t be the type of surprise that improves my ever shrinking opinion of him. He can’t gift his way out of what he’s underhandedly forced me to be an accomplice of.

“Not curious? Very well. I’ll open it myself.” He flings open the closet door with dramatic flair. By my count, there are two gifts. His smile is one of the creepy ones that has all the teeth. I don’t reciprocate. Instead, I stare slack jawed.

“Which should it be?” he asks smartly. “One’s meant for reversion. The other’s just for fun.”

Bound and gagged, with the will to fight beaten out of them, are Cathain and Alexandria. Maybe surprises aren’t so bad.