Olivia slowed as they came upon the city. Tents—hundreds of them—were scattered on either side of the road, a drab forest of canvas flickering with the glow of cooking fires. A crowd of people gathered as the vehicle approached, all draped in flowing white robes.

“They never give up,” muttered Olivia.

Pity watched as the robed figures waved signs covered in scripture and called out soundlessly from beyond the thick windshield. Some kneeled at the edge of the asphalt, hands folded in prayer. “Who are they?”

“They call themselves Reformationists,” Max said. “Don’t mind them. They preach on the streets and march through the city sometimes, but otherwise, they don’t do much more than what you see now.”

“They’re masochists,” said Olivia. “Who else would come all this way to squat in the desert, eat out of cans, and try to save souls that don’t need saving?” She slammed a fist against the console. A horn pierced the air. The Reformationists jumped and stumbled back, faces stiff with fright.

“Was that necessary?” said Max.

Olivia chuckled. “No.”

The camp ended and the city began, jutting from the soil like a fairy-tale oasis. For a moment, Pity could see only lights. There were more than she had ever seen in one place, an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of colors. Unlike the eastern cities she’d seen on the broadcasts, there were no proud towers standing in perfect array, no sage gold domes floating above thick columns. The buildings in Cessation were tightly packed and varied, enveloping the streets like a motley cave. Pity shrank in her seat, senses overloaded.

Blinking. Flashing. Twists of shadow. Words and images flickered and disappeared—a snippet of a news broadcast; a beautiful woman with wet, pouting lips. Signs sizzled and drenched doorways in red and purple and green. Laser-writ words appeared on the sides of buildings—advertising drinks, entertainment, and things Pity didn’t comprehend—only to disappear a few seconds later.

And the people…

The street steadily filled until there were so many pedestrians that Olivia had to reduce their speed to a crawl. Folks strolled or walked or ran, paying little attention to the massive conveyance rumbling in their midst. A woman danced in front of their headlights, wearing a gown that shimmered like the ripples in a lake. She nearly collided with a man in rags, who yelled at her, his mouth full of stained teeth.

On one corner, Pity spotted a band of men and women astride motorcycles, brandishing rifles and razor-edged stares. Patches marked them as Ex-Pats—former United Patriot Front fighters and their supporters. Unwilling to accept defeat, even after two decades, they still attacked CONA outposts from time to time. Seeing them stirred an odd sensation in Pity. Had any of them fought alongside her mother? If her mother hadn’t been captured, was this where her life’s path would have led? Pity stared until they were out of sight.

Gilding the chaos, hawkers weaved among the crowd, proffering their goods and services. Booths, erected in every bare spot on the sidewalk, displayed trinkets and food and things Pity didn’t recognize. But she could almost hear the sizzle of the hot fat, smell the roasting meat.

Beyond the booths were alleys, where the lights abruptly ceased. Some folks gave these a wide berth. Others slipped into them, alone or in groups, the shadows swallowing them like dark water.

A series of thumps sounded on the roof.

Olivia slammed on the brakes. “What the hell?”

Two youths slid into view, dressed entirely in crimson. Grinning madly, they clung to the top of the vehicle with one hand. With the other, they banged on the windshield of the cab.

“Goddamn Old Reds,” Olivia said through gritted teeth.

The blond girl dangling in front of Pity waved in a way that was anything but friendly.

“One of the gangs,” Max explained.

The girl pointed a finger at Pity and then put it in her mouth. Pity started as she bit down hard. As blood dribbled from the wound, the girl drew a smiley face on the windshield.

“That’s it,” said Olivia. “I’m gonna shoot those little—”

Something out of sight caught the Old Reds’ attention. They traded a look of manic desire and jumped from the vehicle, bolting away like wolves after prey. Pity’s stomach clenched, the cold fear returning. Before her, the bloody smile ran in rivulets down the glass. Is this a city, she thought, or an asylum?

“Should have left her in back,” said Olivia. “Look—her mind is going to break into pieces before we even make it to Cas.”

Pity stiffened. “No, it’s not.”

“You’d better keep your wits—it doesn’t get any easier than this.”

“I’m fine.” She stared straight ahead, her jaw set. “Who’s Cas?”

Max pointed. “Not who, where. It’s home.”

Ahead of them the structures ceased, creating a circular perimeter around a large, open area. At the center stood a bone-white building flooded in light, dwarfing everything around it. The road they were following split and circled around a massive marble fountain before joining again at the building’s entrance. Above that, written in lights that blinked and chased one another into infinity, was a single word.

CASIMIR.

Despite her unease, Pity felt a twinge of disappointment when Olivia steered them off the main road and onto a plainer, narrower avenue. It snaked around the side of the building, where they turned onto a ramp that descended into a concrete tunnel. The open air and bright lights disappeared, replaced by sour yellow incandescence and vague claustrophobia. Finally, they entered a sprawling garage. The mobile command pulled off to one side and ground to a stop.

“Let’s move.” Olivia shoved the cab door open and leapt out, Max on her heels.

Pity was descending with more caution when a skinny, dun-haired man in oil-stained coveralls appeared.

“Baby! You’re back!” he cried.

Pity glanced at Olivia.

“Oh, no, he is not talking to me. Relax, Widmer, we brought her home safe and sound.”

“You damn well better have!” He ignored Pity completely, hands running over the mobile command’s treads and exterior armor. “Why is there blood on the windshield?”

“It’ll wash off, Wid.” Santino sauntered up from the back of the vehicle. In one hand he carried Pity’s gun belt. Her heart jumped, but he tossed it to Olivia, who strapped it around her waist. “Call the porters. Big crate in the back. We’re heading upstairs.”

Widmer dipped his head. “You got it.”

Pity trailed behind as they crossed the garage, the click of their steps echoing through its vast expanse. At the back wall was a set of elevators. It was a short ride—smooth and silent, nothing like the silo elevators on the commune.

The doors opened into a crescent-shaped room, all fresh cream and silver trimming. To Pity’s left was a line of glass doors, through which she spotted the fountain. Enraptured by Casimir’s entrance, she stumbled as she stepped from the elevator and sank into lush carpet. She stared at her boots, simultaneously embarrassed that they were filthy and filled with the urge to pull them off and go barefoot. She had never walked across anything so sumptuous.

Opposite the entrance was a throng of people, crowded before a set of gilded doors.

“Excuse me.” Santino’s huge form parted the press of chattering bodies with ease. Pity kept her nose practically planted in Olivia’s back as they moved forward.

“Hey,” said Max. “From here on, stick close to me, okay?”

She glanced back at him. He looked almost normal, his blue spikes and silver rings dull compared to the garishness that surrounded them. “Why?”

“Because right now you’re a stranger. But you’re less of a stranger so long as you’re with us. Understand?”

“I… Yes.”

They broke free from the pack. Before the gilded doors stood half a dozen men in gray uniforms with rifles and shock sticks, and eyes as hard as diamonds. Two silver stars were pinned to their collars.

“Tin Men,” Max whispered. “Casimir’s security force.”

“I do not accept this!” A shrill man in an absurd grass-hued suit squared off against the guards. “I came all the way to this dusty shit hole, and if I want in, I’m getting in!”

“Sir,” said a bald man the size of a bear, his tone unyielding, “step away.”

“The hell I will!” Green Suit poked the behemoth in the chest. “I want to talk to your boss.”

The Tin Man grabbed the digit that prodded him. Pity winced at the audible crack that followed. “Noted,” he said over the scream of pain. His gaze rose to Santino. “Sir?”

“Toss him,” replied Santino.

Another Tin Man seized the offender by the collar and dragged him, whimpering, back into the now significantly quieter crowd.

“Home sweet home.” Olivia smirked.

The bald Tin Man nodded at Pity. “Sir?”

“With us,” Santino replied.

“Welcome to Casimir, miss.” He opened the doors.

Welcome was not a word Pity would have used to describe how she felt in that moment. With Max at her side, she steeled herself as the cream and silver gave way to red and gold, velvet and burnished wood.

It did little good. Luxury unlike any she had ever seen assailed her. At least three stories high, the room they entered was so deep that the back wall was lost to dusky lighting and a haze of cigar smoke. Numerous as ants in a hill, people stood at tables, dealing cards and tossing dice, moving markers and tapping screens. They lounged in rounded booths or on the myriad of sofas and plush chairs scattered about. A hum of gaming, laughter, and the clinking of glasses enveloped Pity. Music played somewhere, its tune lost among a buzzing cacophony of delight.

Pity followed Max down a carpeted staircase, hardly watching where she put her feet as she struggled to take everything in. At the bottom was another fountain, a miniature twin to the one outside. Light shifted below its waters, and atop its center sat a golden mermaid with long hair and bare breasts. As Pity stared at it, the mermaid turned her head and winked.

Pity froze. She looked around the room again, eyes flitting from person to person, truly seeing this time. Her gaze fell on a woman in a tiny skirt, a feather boa, and nothing else, with her arm locked through that of a suited gentleman. A young man in fluttering azure trousers sauntered past the couple, beckoned by a woman reclining on a velvet chaise.

“Max.” Her voice cracked. “Casimir… is it a brothel?”

“It’s… a lot of things.”

“These people are prostitutes.” Pity took an involuntary step backward. Harlots… low people… From the orations on the commune, she knew there were prostitutes in Cessation. She simply hadn’t expected so many.

Max grabbed her hand. Hard. “It’s a brothel, sure, and a gambling hall and about a hundred other things. It’s also the safest place in the whole city. Casimir runs Cessation. Out there”—he pointed to where they had come from—“you take your chances.”

She glanced down at the fingers encasing hers. The pace of her heart, already faster than normal, quickened. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because all that matters is that as long as you’re with us, you’re safe.” Max let go.

Pity wished he hadn’t. For a moment, his touch had seemed to carry the safety he promised. “Are you certain?”

“More or less.”

That was all the assurance she was going to get, apparently. Pity looked back at the line of guards at the door and then to the brothel floor, where Santino and Olivia were waiting. The heel of Olivia’s hand rested on the butt of one gun. Pity’s jaw tightened. Get your guns. Then worry about everything else. For the thousandth time in the past few days, she wished Finn were beside her. Finn would have laughed at the spectacle—and at Pity’s reaction—before diving right in.

“Everything okay?” Santino called.

“Peachy,” she snapped, striding past Max.

They weren’t fooled.

“Don’t worry,” Olivia said. “No one bites unless you pay them to.”

Her face burned.

“Hey, San.” A lithe male figure pounced on Santino and wrapped his arms around the big man’s neck. He had short flaxen hair and angelic features—an innocence that stopped at his neck. The sparkling corset and tiny shorts he wore made Pity’s eyes plunge to the floor. “It’s been forever. You coming to see me tonight?”

Santino gave a wry smile and pushed him down, though not without affection. “Still on the job, chico.”

The young man pouted. “You know what they say about all work and no play.” He tossed a wink in Max’s direction as he strode to where a young woman with long dark hair and a handsome copper-skinned young man lounged. When he said something to them, they turned toward the new arrivals. The young woman grinned and blew a kiss at Max, who waved back.

“Well, there are our little lost lambs!”

Pity’s attention turned to the woman flouncing over to them. Her butter-yellow ringlets bounced as she approached, as did her bosom, which threatened to spill over the top of her pink dress, cinched so tightly that Pity wondered how she could breathe. With its skirt of white ruffles and lace, she looked like a disturbingly sensuous doll.

“Evening, Flossie.” Santino pecked her on the cheek. “How’s business?”

“Brisk as always, sugar.” Her voice lilted like a bell.

“You seen Halcyon tonight?”

“Oh, yes,” Flossie purred. “He’s upstairs. With Miss Selene.”

“Hmm,” said Santino. “Can you let them know we’re—”

“She already knows,” said Flossie. “She wants y’all there, pronto.”

Santino indicated Pity. “We picked up a stray. Can you have someone take care of her until we’re done?”

“Oh, honey, you know I’d make sure she had the best of care…” Flossie sauntered over to Pity and eyed her. “But Miss Selene said all of you. And when she says all, you know she means all.”

Pity turned to Max, whose face was tinged with apprehension. “Who’s Miss Selene?” she whispered.

“Someone,” he said in an equally low voice, “we shouldn’t keep waiting.”