Storm Girls (The Juniper Wars Book 4) by Aaron Ritchey (best books to read for teens .txt) 📗

Sharlotte stood on the very best prosthetic leg money could buy. She looked good in her dress, which wasn’t gray, but a pale peach with a little lace on the collar and sleeves. Not New Morality, but almost. Kinda surprised me.

She smiled at me when she noticed me looking. “I’m tired of looking like a storm cloud. I’d rather have a little flair. And June Mai helped me pick it out.”

“June Mai?” I asked.

Sharlotte reddened. “Her. Yes. She’s being very nice to me. She knew all about Mama and our family from her spies.”

“Where is June Mai? With Pilate?” I asked.

Sharlotte scowled. “Now why would you say that? And no, she isn’t. We’re all meeting in Alcove B to get ready for the press conference. I’m sure they are in their separate rooms.” She seemed upset, too upset, about what I had said. Why should she be? Jealous of June Mai being with Pilate? It didn’t make sense, but I let it go.

Alice stood over us, mouthing words, trying not to go coco and murder us all. My life had become very strange, that I wasn’t so much worried about Alice and her insanity, but more about what was happening between Sharlotte and June Mai Angel.

“Where’s Wren?” I asked.

Sharlotte sighed. “Still in her room. Can you go talk to her?”

Then I got afraid, very afraid. Wren hadn’t left her room, and the way Sharlotte’s face blanched when I asked, it could only mean one thing.

I put Alice’s hand in Sharlotte’s. “Take Alice over to Alcove B,” I said. “Be gentle. She’s having trouble.”

“Just a poor wayfaring stranger, just a poor stranger, oh,” Alice whispered the song lyrics.

Sharlotte agreed and led her away.

Panic choked me. What was going on with Wren? How fast was she changing? Micaiah had said the genetic mutations could linger underneath the surface for months and then come out in days, with a rapid metamorphosis, turning humans into Gammas.

Shaky, I walked from the convention center to the lobby of the hotel proper and found a complimentary slate. I swept my fingers over the screen to dial Wren’s suite.

Wren picked up. Only I couldn’t see her. No, I could only see a shadowy face, thick and distorted, then a roar, and I was disconnected.

I forced a swallow down my throat. She was changing. Terrible timing. Worst timing ever.

(iii)

The slate’s screen returned to the schedule of the convention center. There was only one event, Micaiah’s press conference at 10:00 am in the Grand Ballroom.

I shivered. It was a mistake. Micaiah had set it for noon, straight up. I had joked that at high noon we were going to gun Tibbs Hoyt’s empire down, using tech and information instead of bullets.

But on the slate, it said the fireworks would start at 10:00 am.

I moved to the desk. I wanted to call Wren back, but I knew I needed to face her in person, whatever she was becoming.

“What time is the press conference?” I asked the clerk.

She checked her schedule. “10:00 am. It’s happening right now. All the news people are already in there.”

My knees went weak. I’d been betrayed.

I walked on my trembling legs past Alcove B, where my people were gathering to talk about something that was already taking place.

Inside the Grand Ballroom, on the other side of the conference center from Alcove B, a crowd of people and reporters filled the room. Too many people to allow any seats at all. Everyone stood, packed in solid.

All the lights were focused on the stage in front, at Micaiah, who sat at a table. Behind him stood Marie Atlas and Marisol, both dressed in New Morality dresses, looking prim and proper.

I was mystified for a minute, and then I was pissed.

Micaiah. Severins. Together. What was going on?

What ... in ... the ... hell?

I shoved my way through, pushing people out of the way viciously, trying to get to the front and the stage there.

Security guards threaded their way through the crowds, coming for me. I was seized by two big women with dead eyes. Even though they wore police dresses, I knew they were Cuius Regios.

I still held the complimentary slate in my hand from the Marriott, that was my only weapon. But who was I fighting?

“Micah!” I yelled up to the stage.

Micaiah smiled. “Yes, there she is now. One of the people who saved me. Cavatica Weller. Please, bring her up. I wasn’t sure they would show up. They are a very private family.”

Instead of escorting me out of the room, they marched me onto the stage.

Marie Atlas and Marisol smiled and kept masks on their faces, but their eyes remained dead. Marie Atlas had an earpiece like she was also working security even as she stood there smiling.

I was plunked down next to Micaiah.

The lights blinded me, the noise was so loud, the murmuring, the noise of the crowd, and I realized I was on live video, broadcasted around the world. And I looked terrible. Vain of me, but that was what I thought.

Before I could say a word, Micaiah drew me to him and kissed me.

In front of everyone, he kissed me, and I felt it, felt him, the emotion, the power, the wonder of the kiss. He pulled back. Tears were in his eyes. One slid down his cheek.

He was back. He had taken his serum, and he was back, I knew it. It wasn’t a trick. He was feeling. An excited joy bubbled up through me, and I truly believed Micaiah had a plan and everything would turn out just perfectly. We’d win, and Tibbs Hoyt would lose.

Then: “I am sorry,” he whispered. He then bent close and whispered into my ear. “I made a deal. My life and the cure for your safety. If you do not keep quiet and cooperate, your family will be killed. I love you. I apologize. But this is the only way.”

It was a Judas kiss he gave me.

He wasn’t medicated. He was his old, cold