BLUEMANTLE by Karen Langston (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📕

strong enough. It couldn’t undo fifteen years of influence. It wasn’t enough to stop me. Stop me from…” Chase buried his head in his hands, his body hunching over, cowering from the horror.

Wella waited, giving space through silence. Eventually, she pressed. “The Contest. Ursel told you where and when. You told the Authority.”

“No! I swear on my life. She told me everything: the time, the coordinates. She trusted me. And I couldn’t betray that trust. Also, I’d begun to realise. All the confusion, all the conflict; things began to separate. Parts of it started to make sense. You’ve no reason to believe me, I know. But I promise you, I didn’t tell the A about the Contest.”

“Then what? What can be as bad as…” Then she faltered, her voice breaking to a stifled cry.

Chase forced out the words. “I led them to Cole. I figured, if I stopped Bluemantle, the Scene would struggle to survive. The change in me came too late. I thought… I still thought it had to be done. I… I’m so, so sorry.” He finally raised his wretched face and met her eyes.

Tears welled and rolled down her cheeks. Her tightened lips trembled.

“Wella…” he said, daring to reach out a hand.

“Don’t touch me.” She slowly rose, gripping the back of her chair for support. She looked around, wide-eyed, as if comprehension was an ornament she might find in the room. “Cole,” she murmured. Then she turned to look at Chase, her face flushed and contorted. “You…? Oh, crow. Cole? I can’t believe… How could you?”

Chase dropped his head. He felt his skin burning, his pulse racing.

Wella stared at him, her eyes black wells of disgust. “You have no idea,” she said. “No idea at all. Who he was, what he did for us. The sacrifice.” She slumped down on the bunk. “The person he was. A good man. Generous, kind, honest. All of that… And all that he stood for, what he achieved, you destroyed. All because of your fucking arrogance and spineless self-righteousness.”

She glared at her brother, who cowered, head down. Then she closed her eyes and let silence say the rest.

Chase did not move.

Eventually, she got up from the bunk, took a deep breath and said, “I’m going out.”

Chase looked up in horror. “But it’s not safe. The A… The curfew—”

“The A are watching you, not me. And I don’t care about the curfew. I’m used to hiding.”

“Please—”

“Stay here. Do not leave this room. They will catch you if you do.” She moved towards the door. “I need some time.” Then she slipped through, closing the door silently behind her.

Alone, Chase became the sole judge of his actions. His scrutiny was brutal and thorough. He despised himself. Thoughts about the implant resurfaced now and then, but he suppressed these diversions. He would no longer entertain excuses. He had betrayed Cole, put innocent lives at risk, caused untold suffering. And now the A had Ursel.

He couldn’t think beyond that horrifying fact. He felt appalled by his actions; hated the person he had become. He wanted to suffer, to face and endure the punishment for every consequence he had caused. Yet, the moment he thought of Ursel, the pain was too much to bear.

He sat on the hard floor, leaning against the concrete wall. The table eclipsed the light from the lamp, leaving him in a welcome half-light. Wallowing in the pitiful penumbra, Chase waited for Wella, both willing and dreading her return.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The three Troubadours stood in silence. A solemn triumvirate.

Their retreat had been swift. The precautions they had taken had paid dividend. They had evaded capture, as had every one of their players.

However, despite their best efforts to protect their followers, they knew a number had been trapped, unable to flee. They had heard their screams reverberate through the mountain’s arteries. Heard the shouts of their captors as they stormed the caves and marched them away. The Troubadours mourned, fearing the fate of their lifeblood.

Pale Dexter chose his moment to change the subject. “We must consult the adjudicators,” he said, his voice tentative.

Bend Sinister spun around and glared at him. “What? You dare raise that issue now? After what’s happened?”

“We don’t want to make it all for nothing.”

“Nothing? Don’t you see? It was all for everything.”

“Now, let us maintain perspective…”

Bend Sinister stepped forward, bearing his greater size down upon Pale Dexter.

Chief slipped between them, forcing them apart. “Stop,” she said. “Division will get us nowhere.”

Pale Dexter crossed his arms. “Bend Sinister is adopting the moral high ground because he was opposed to the Contest from the start.”

“And for good reason,” said Bend Sinister. “But mistake me not, I take no pleasure in being proven right.”

“Ha!”

“I mean it. My point is, consulting the adjudicators is not only inappropriate, it’s entirely irrelevant. We have been forced down into the furthest reaches of this forsaken warren, potentially trapped and, thereby, doomed. There is the capture and likely demise of Bluemantle. It is possible we have lost a significant proportion of our followers, on whom our lives depend. Our underground haven, the one place it was possible to perform with a degree of safety, has been breached. In the face of this devastation, what relevance is the role of leader?”

Lacking a comeback, Pale Dexter huffed, expressing objection through a scornful glare.

“I was in favour of the Contest, as you know,” said Chief. “Now, however, I agree with you, Bend Sinister. The question of leadership is redundant. The Scene is all but destroyed. If we are to survive, we need a plan. We have each performed and connected; we are satiated. But it is only a matter of time before we will need to perform again.”

“There is a more immediate issue,” said Bend Sinister. “For many years we have succeeded in evading capture, thanks to our karst kingdom. Now, our fortress has been discovered. It is only through our ingenuity that we escaped last night. But our hunters will be back – of that I am certain. And