By the time we leave the room Jane is already waiting outside our door, the drones still buzzing at her sides.

"Jane, how long have you been standing out here?" I ask.

She shrugs in response. My guess is she's been out here the whole time.

"Why didn't you come in?"

"I can't unless I am asked."

"I'm so sorry, I didn't know." I glance at the drones on either side of her. "Well, the room was a mess," I say, a little louder than I normally would. "Daniel is going to need someone in there to clean the carpet, dust all the surfaces, clean the bathroom, and make the bed." I smile and nudge Daniel with my elbow. "Right?"

"Yeah, I am just a disgusting mess," Daniel says, leaning closer to the drones. He's playing along, so it must be true about the drones recording our conversations. "We are going to need a Caregiver in the room all night, and I really wouldn't feel comfortable unless Jane would be taking care of the room personally."

A light in the center of the drone flashes green, and an automated voice follows: "Submit vocal confirmation of re-assignment."

He leans closer. "Daniel Crowley."

The light flashes green again. "Access granted. Caregiver 3-2, Jane Rosen, to be assigned to room 6, care of Daniel Crowley and Comforter Celia Rivera." My heart tenses at her name. "Correction submitted."

Daniel clears his throat, and continues in a near-comically macho voice. "Jane, you must get started right away. I expect it to be spotless by the time we come back."

Jane's deep brown eyes well with tears. "Yes sir." She smiles as she passes us into the room.

"Oh, and Jane," Daniel calls after her. She turns around, her eyebrows raised. "I have some of my favorite foods stashed in the mini-fridge. I expect them to all still be there when we get back." He winks.

She smiles and nods, finally closing the door. Daniel turns back to me and holds out his hand. "Shall we?" he asks, still in his macho voice. For a moment, it feels like we're playing one of our games back home. I grab his hand, and some of my heart strings relax as he squeezes his fingers around mine.

We descend the staircase, the drones following close behind. I whisper, "What's with the whole job situation here? Why so the women all have to be either a Caregiver, a Comforter, or a Carrier?"

He turns back to check the drone, who still buzzes a few feet from us. "That was Cooper's idea. I'll explain later."

We walk down the main hallway past the salon and the white and navy room, where dozens of men in suits and women in gowns are gathered, waiting in conversation-less clusters. Daniel nods to the silent guests as we pass. I can't imagine why they are all so quiet and still, unless that's how Cooper likes his people to be too. Everyone controlled.

A grandfather clock stands at the mouth of a room just ahead of us, and I check the time as we cross the threshold: 5:45 pm. Past the clock is an expansive, golden ballroom framed in marble pillars to match the floor. Floor to ceiling windows line the wall in front of us, making the room seem endless. To the far right, a wide marble staircase leads to a second floor balcony, where a set of wide double-doors finally cut off the openness of the room.

I turn back to the people still waiting beyond the grandfather clock. "Are we early or late?" I whisper. "I can't tell."

He squeezes my hand and nods his chin off to the left. "Through here. They're probably just finishing up dinner."

He leads me over to a small room which has since been hidden in an alcove to the left, and I see a long wooden table with twelve burgundy leather chairs around it, each one filled with a stranger's presence. The table set reminds me of the one from the captain's dining room on the Immortal.

At the sight of us, Gunther stands from his seat at the head of the table. His black hair is slicked back with so much gel that the chandelier light reflects off his head. He's left his thick lips open in a silent "ah" as we approach. He lifts a glass of white wine in his hand to toast to us, but spills some on the blonde Comforter beside him.

"Well, if it isn't our young lovers," Gunther announces. The Comforter doesn't seem to mind that she's been christened with wine, and doesn't even turn around to greet us. I wonder if she even realizes that there's wine dripping down the back of her gown. "Daniel, you already know everyone here," Gunther says, "but everyone—Leaders, Comforters—this is the infamous Isla Blume."

Those who didn't move to face us when Gunther first announced our arrival have since turned around. Well, everyone except the blonde Comforter, who has begun inspecting the stitching of her cloth napkin instead of using it to dab away some of the wine.

The faces of the men at the table seem old and apathetic, except for one man who looks vaguely familiar. He inspects me with a look of disdain, like he decided long before I walked in the room that he hated me. That's alright. If he's a leader here—a real one, not one that's being blackmailed into leadership—then I'm already not a fan of his either.

The women's faces are different though. They seem to be filled with worry as they meet my gaze, like they would apologize for my being here if they felt comfortable speaking in front of the men. Their make-up, hair, and dresses all remind me of tropical birds—vivacious, beautiful, and full of color—but their eyes look like Declan's: older with what they've seen.

"Go around and introduce yourselves," Gunther orders as he returns to his seat.

Before she even speaks, I know which of the girls is Celia. She looks nearly identical to Gabriela, with her same dark skin and black hair that rests in wide curls around her shoulders. My mind replays the moment Nate shot Gabriela as Celia and I make eye contact. The mangled entry wound of the bullet through Gabriela's face, tearing through her skin and skull and spilling blood. Red soaked curls springing back as she fell. I swallow hard and try to blink away the image from my sight.

Celia introduces herself, but if I didn't already know her name, it would have been inaudible. Luckily, she brushes the curls behind her shoulders, and I can finally just see the girl in front of me, not the one who died in the bunker.

"Celia," Gunther starts, as if he's talking to a little girl, "this young lady here is the one who is responsible for Auntie Gabriela's death."

I glare at Gunther, remembering what Daniel told me about his preferred method of torture—mental over physical. Looking back at Celia, I can see it's been working on her for some time. Instead of reacting negatively toward me at all, she just curls into herself and returns to her plate.

The introductions continue, and after another blonde Comforter, I recognize one of the names from Jane's list of Leaders. Captain Keith Jones, the one who looks familiar and seems to hate me. But where have I seen him before? I assume I must have seen him in the bunker... until he smiles.

I remember that smile.

I saw it the day the Prowlers were left at my farm: This is the same soldier who searched my house, who found the safe room, and who left the Prowlers behind for us before smiling and shrinking back into his tank. I remember wanting to snap his neck and the urge returns now, but I push it down. His time will come.

The next name I recognize is Flynn O'Neil, but I almost miss it through his Scottish accent. He smiles a near perfect U shape on his face, leaving deep dimples in his cheeks. He looks perfectly harmless, but as Gabriela taught me, looks can be deceiving.

A girl named Nina is seated beside him. She must be O'Neil's Comforter. She's looks to be a few years older than me, her body matured to that of a woman's, but her skin still retains a youthful glow. Her hair is dark brown, but in the light, I can see a subtle fire in it. Her skin is darker than mine, the same shade as Daniel's, and her eyes are almost black. She smiles so that only one corner of her mouth lifts.

Then, someone I know well greets me: Mitchell Harper. "Hi Isla," he says meekly, his angles even pointier than I remember.

"Your new Comforter, Mitchell. Isn't that right, Isla?" Gunther asks, mid-laugh. "Well, aren't you going to say hello to your new man?"

Daniel squeezes my hand, and I take that as my cue to stay calm. "Hi," I say through clenched teeth. It's all I can do to not jump the space between us and strangle him.

"And finally," Gunther says, pointing down to the blonde beside him. "My Comforter, Ms. Phoebe Clark."

Daniel squeezes me even tighter, but this time, I can't stop myself.

I run to Phoebe's side, nearly pushing Gunther over with my skirt, and some of his wine spills down my back now too. I kneel beside her and look into her eyes. They are still bright and blue like they were when she found me in the Prowler, but they're lost now. She has trouble even focusing on my face in front of her, like she's drunk or something.

"Hello," she says dumbly.

"Phoebe, it's me." She stares, blinks twice, and maintains a stupid grin. "Isla Blume." Still no reaction. I thought my name would have at least elicited a look of disdain from her. "Phoebe, what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," she giggles. She looks over my shoulder at Gunther. "What a silly little girl."

I turn back to Gunther, who laughs at the whole exchange. I can't stop the anger from pulsing through my limbs like air through a tarantula, forcing me to move. I slap the glass of wine from Gunther's hand, and it shatters in a firework of glass and alcohol against the wall.

Gunther stands, the guests at the table gasp, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Captain Jones stand as well. Daniel's hand clutches my shoulder, but I don't step down, I don't look back. All I can do is glare at Gunther and take deep breaths. So he feels how hot my breath is. So he knows I'm not backing down.

"What did you do to her?" I yell.

Gunther sits down in his chair at the head of the table, and I finally notice that Cooper isn't here. Dinner must be Gunther's time to shine, and from what I know about Gunther, he must love it.

"Isla Blume, everyone," he says with a quick breath. "Let's give her a round of applause."

He smiles as the guests tentatively clap.

"Tell me what you did to her," I growl.

The others have stopped clapping, but Gunther continues. "You see, folks," he says, rubbing his hands together. The skin on his palms scratches together. "Isla Blume has a little problem with anger. It was her weakness with the rebels, and they exploited it. Isn't that right?" He turns to me, and wipes the smile from his lips with his napkin. "I thought Nathan taught you better."

Something inside me snaps, and I know he wants me to lunge, to prove that I'm the Deathless animal he's told them I am; but his little jab at me has the opposite effect: I snap into focus as I remember Nate.

I think of his sacrifice, of how his face reminded me of pancakes, my favorite food, of the pills he helped create for my mom. I remember him begging me to control my emotions. So I do... for him.

I take a breath. "Yes... you're right, Gunther." He raises his eyebrows. "He did teach me better." I turn to the rest of the table. "Friends, colleagues: I apologize for my behavior. The woman beside me was one of the leaders with the Deathless. She is the reason I am here today, with all of you in this beautiful mansion, wearing this beautiful gown." I am sure they can all hear the sarcasm in my voice, but I continue, just in case it isn't clear. "So it pains me to see that she is no longer the feisty and courageous woman who I once knew. Please accept my humblest apologies." And then I curtsy. Just to really piss Gunther off.

"Take your seat then," Captain Jones barks at me.

There are two spaces at the other end of the table between Celia and Captain Jones's golden haired Comforter, whose name I didn't catch. Daniel takes my hand and leads me over to sit.

Everyone's eyes are still locked on me and continue to be until I finally take my seat. Then they resume eating, and O'Neil, who was apparently interrupted when Daniel and I arrived, continues a story from his childhood in Glasgow. The golden-haired Comforter beside me sucks her teeth and swirls a spoon through her tea while pretending to listen.

I look down the table at Phoebe. Her hair is curled, but it's still long and blonde, and she plays with it through her now perfectly manicured fingers. What happened to her? It can't be the knock out gas, because she would be blank, not giddy and playful.

Maybe she's a cyborg, like Nate, I think. Maybe somehow Gunther is controlling her personality and memory. Is that even possible? Maybe if he somehow altered her prefrontal cortex and hippocampus....

I am thrown from my thoughts when I catch Gunther staring at me as he refills his glass of wine and mouths the words, "watch it."

I take a second to process the situation and think of all the ways he could mentally torture me if he wanted to.

He could hurt Daniel, my mom, or Declan—he knows where they all are—General Sato or Winston, if they are still alive. Or Alexander. Where is he? I shouldn't care about Winston, Alexander, or Phoebe—they didn't care about me—but I'm not capable of hating them that much. That's always been my real weakness: my forgiving nature, not my temper.

"Hi," a small voice pulls me away, and I look across Daniel's body to the source, Celia. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm not mad at you." Her voice is lightly accented and has an airy calm to it, like Gabriela's was.

"Thanks," I say, checking to make sure the table isn't paying attention to us. I whisper, "But you would have no reason to be. I didn't kill her."

"They said you did," she whispers in reply, genuinely confused. "They told us to beware of you. They said you're a killer... are you?"

I look down at myself, then back at her. "Do I look like a killer?"

"I don't know," she says with a slight shrug. Fair enough.

"No, I'm not a killer." What about Nate? my inner demons wonder. I try not to remember how his hot blood felt when it hit my skin, and I swallow hard. "I shot my friend, because he was dying and in pain. He's the only person I've ever...." Killed. Killed should be the next word, but I can't get it out of my mouth. I didn't kill Nate. He was already dead. Right?

"So Daniel was right," she whispers, and looks at him with wide eyes, "they lied to us."

I nod. "And I don't think that's the only thing they've lied about either," I whisper in reply.

Daniel smiles at me. Make friends with Celia? Check. Well, sort of. We spoke. That's enough, right? At least I didn't glare at her.

Alexander walks into the room, his gruff voice announcing his entrance. "Sorry I missed dinner," he says, and I almost don't recognize him. He's replaced his gold-rimmed goggles for a pair of thick, circular glasses that rest at the tip of his nose on purpose and make his scruffy grey beard look like it's on purpose too. He wears a burgundy suit that I can't help but think looks cheap (but maybe that's just the betrayal talking), and he's smiling, like his friend Phoebe isn't sitting there brainwashed or anything.

I guess this answers the question of whether or not he got out of the bunker all right. He left with Gunther.

He looks around the table, smiling and catching his breath, until his eyes stop on me. He almost passes over me, probably since I just look like one of the Comforters now or since my hair's different, but his expression melts. "Isla," he mumbles.

I bite my tongue, but not before clenching my teeth behind closed, painted lips.

The grandfather clock at the entrance of the ballroom sounds six times, and on its cue, the soldiers in uniform and scientists in suits begin entering the ballroom with their Comforters, beautiful girls young and old, all wearing colorful dresses, many even wearing smiles.

Men, who Daniel tell me are the workers Jane told me about, and Caregivers take posts around the room, some with trays of food from which the scientists and soldiers pick. I'm amazed at how quickly the room fills, and at how quickly the thirteen of us—twelve at the table and Alexander—abandon our plates to join the others. From some unseen location, orchestral music begins to play, and the crowd begins to sway.

Daniel takes my hand again as we walk out to the dance floor. He pulls me close and whispers, "You have to be more careful. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves."

"Too late."

"Daniel?" Celia's soft voice calls from behind us.

"Isla and I need to catch up. Will you be okay on your own?" he asks, stopping.

"Sure," she says. "I don't like to dance, anyway."

"Are you sure?" he asks.

What does it matter? I want to yell. We have spent hardly any time together in months. She can wait a night.

She smiles meekly. "Yes."

Daniel turns back to me, and we keep walking to the center of the floor, when I feel someone grab my other hand. I turn and meet dark eyes.

"Nina," I say. "So nice to meet you."

"You can't hit his glass away like that," she says, her voice deeper and rougher than I expected. I don't know how to respond, but she continues with a smile, "Next time you have to aim it at O'Neil. Maybe that'll get him to stop talking."

I laugh, cautiously at first, until she laughs too. She looks around her, but we are so surrounded by people dancing that our conversation goes unnoticed. "Meet us in the Comforter bathroom at the end of the hall. Midnight. The drones will stop you, just tell them your name and that you've got the runs. They won't ask questions," she smiles at her last instruction. "See ya then."

I turn back to Daniel and he rolls his eyes in defeat. "Well, don't get anyone else's attention," he says.

We continue into the ballroom, until we are at its center, and he pulls me to face him for a dance. He squeezes me closer, so that his lips brush my earlobe. "Do you remember the last time we tried dancing like this?"

The week before he was taken, his dad Ben took an afternoon to try to teach us to waltz. Apparently it was easy, but Daniel and I couldn't stay focused. We were stepping all over each other, continuously bursting into laughter at the drop of a hat. Finally, Ben gave up, and we made up our own dance steps to the music.

"Yes." I smile. "We're doing better this time."

"There's nothing to laugh about this time."

He spins me, and I see that he's watching Phoebe and Gunther dance in the corner of the ballroom.

"What could he have done to her?" I ask once I'm back in his arms.

"I don't know. He's either converted her to a cyborg or he's messed with her brain."

"How do we fix her?"

He shakes his head. "I think she might be a lost cause."

My heart sinks a little, but other than calling me an idiot and telling me to run, I'm not sure I owe her much. I just wish she had more of a chance. Daniel spins me again, and for a moment, I make eye contact with Phoebe as she dances with Gunther. She smiles at me—not a giddy smile, but something more genuine. For a brief moment she looks like herself again. Then, of course, she starts laughing stupidly at something Gunther's said.

When I return to Daniel's arms, I see Alexander is standing behind him, and I'm so startled, I gasp.

"May I cut in?" he asks. His helpless eyes peer over the rim of his glasses.

"No," I say.

"Isla, please, I'd like to—"

"—I said no, Dr. Ovis."

He takes a heavy breath. "Fine. But I'd like to talk whenever you're ready to."

"What a jerk," I say once he's out of earshot.

We resume dancing, and I rest my chin on Daniel's shoulder as I take in my surroundings. Slaves and their masters dancing. All in an opulent ballroom, in costumes that make it look like this is all part of a beautiful life. Was that all the Deathless was for me? A beautiful mirage?

The music stops, and so do we. All of us, except for Gunther, who races up the flight of marbled stairs. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he calls over our heads from the banister, "may I present our benefactor, not only of the party, but of our survival, Mr. George Cooper."

Everyone around me erupts into applause, genuine or not, and I hold my breath to see the man behind all of this. Behind the end of the world, behind the bunker, and behind this crazy mansion and its even crazier hierarchy.

The door opens, and I let out a panicked breath. The only other sound is the grinding of gears.