TRISTAN

I stood with my arms crossed tight to keep from wringing Priestess Naima’s neck while she hummed at her brass bowl like it was about to tell her everyone’s secrets. Zion’s hair clippings sizzled inside it, curling up like dying spiders. Lovely.

Adrian leaned against the far wall, trying so hard to keep a straight face. Meanwhile, Cassian was on his fourth lap behind Naima, asking the same three questions in increasingly dramatic tones:

“Who is ...