(A/N: I thought about announcing WTW's progress, but why keep teasing you guys? Some of you, at least those who stuck around, have been waiting for months and years for the sequel. You might notice a few changes, which I believe I covered in a previous author's note - I've already updated WTW to reflect these changes. So without any further ado, here is the first chapter of the sequel, Life After Dark).



The rumble of an earthquake drags me from my slumber. I scramble for cover as it thunders through my bones, but I get as far as bounding off my hard cot before the chain attached to the manacle, attached to my ankle, snaps tight and yanks me off my feet.

The excruciating crash knocks the breath out of me. For a minute, I hug the damp stone floor and ride out the pain. My heart is beating crazily, like it's already decided to run with panic before waiting for the go from my brain.

Bruises flare with pain. Old, inexplicable bruises. Everywhere. My left wrist aches so badly it should be in a cast, but it feels like there's only a strip of bandage around it.

I flick my eyes across the room, but I can't make much out. There's one source of light at the center: a lone candle sitting on the floor, burned to a waxy fat clump. Nothing else. Just this room, half obscured by shadow, and the cold air seeping through my coat, prickling goose bumps over my skin.

Déjà vu. This all feels too familiar.

I prop myself up on my good arm and stagger to my knees, then scurry to the rough wall by the cot, over to a rust-brown pipe that disappears into the ceiling. Secured to the pipe is my chain, about five feet long and freezing-cold to the touch. I wrap a length of it around my hand, ignoring the stinging cut on my palm, and pull with all of the adrenaline-charged strength of a frightened and injured teenage girl.

The pipe doesn't budge. No surprise there.

I brush limp strands of brown hair from my eyes. I've never been the type to brute-force my way to solutions. You're a thinker, April. So use your head.

Sam's words echo in my head, and for the first time in forever, I welcome the memory of his voice. It's my only connection to him.

There are two giant padlocks securing the chain to the pipe. Padlocks equal keys. I check my jeans pockets, both front and back. Then I tug off my worn boots. Nothing. Ten minutes later I've ransacked the thin mattress and bedcovers on the cot and turned up nothing.

I collapse against the wall, defeated. A sludge of fatigue has replaced my adrenaline. I'm so hungry and tired. I want to fall back onto the cot, but it goes against every survival instinct in my body to do nothing, not after everything I went through to escape the stress facility, after I faced crazed teenagers and a psychopath boy and an army led by a man who wanted us all dead. Not after I watched Sam Parker, my stepfather, murdered by someone I considered an ally and a close friend.

I did get my freedom. We all did. Except nothing says you're not free more than a manacle around one's leg.

I wish Marcus were here.

Marcus.

His name is a sparked match in this darkness. I sit up straighter, my heart racing with hope. When Gardiner took eighty-nine of us teenagers, they put me in a room with another girl. Camille. She died in the stress facility, so it makes sense why she's not with me now.

Marcus was the second person I met there. We got off to a rocky start and I thought he would be my biggest obstacle in that hole, but he turned out to be the opposite. He was someone I grew to care about. The first guy I ever wanted to be with. Granted, our relationship took a nosedive when he betrayed us, but we're working on rebuilding the lost trust.

If they took me again, if I'm locked up somewhere underground like before and this is phase two of their torturous experiment, it means he's here, too. He has to be.

"Marcus?"

The words float out, eaten up by the darkness waiting just out of reach. I swallow and try again. Nothing returns from it. This place feels too different from the last time. It feels more . . . sinister than the stress facility. More lonely.

What if I'm the only one in this nightmare?

I don't allow myself to freak out about that. Yet. The faint flicker of candlelight catches on something square and silver by the wall adjacent to mine. It's a reminder of the silver case with the metamorphosis inhibitor serum that Gardiner—specifically Sam—gave to me at the stress facility.

Seeing it now is a confirmation of my worst fear.

Gardiner has me.

I crawl toward it as far as the chain will allow, but I'm still short a few inches. Lying on my stomach, I stretch until my shoulder burns red-hot—what is up with these injuries?

My fingers scrape the box across the stone floor, dragging it closer until I snag it. This is my silver box. It looks smudged with dirt and banged up. There is no serum inside it, just a piece of paper. I unfold it and tilt it toward the candlelight, my eyes straining to read the messy scrawl.

If you're reading this, congratulations! It means you're not dead and there's still hope for you. How about a riddle? What's black and blue and guards secrets close to the heart?

I'm too sick to make sense of this. I want to puke, even though my stomach's grumbling like it hasn't had a meal in days.

I rest my throbbing head against the wall and close my eyes. Black and blue. Obviously that would be me. And keeping secrets close to my heart is all I've ever been good for. Sam taught me not to get close to people. He taught me to be strong while doing everything he could to break me.

This is for your own good.

I hear him so well he might as well be standing before me right now. His scent, cigarettes and an overpowering musky cologne, feels like it's all around me. But when I open my eyes, he's not here. He'll never be here again, and I don't know what to make of that.

I swallow an unexpected sob. I'm still not used to the idea of grieving Sam. The words on the paper stick in my brain. Something about guards secrets close to the heart. It feels specific, intentionally worded to give it a double meaning.

Duh.

I feel around the collar of my top until my hand brushes over the string around my neck. I pull it out of my shirt until I'm holding a key in my hand. Of course. This is what I'm guarding close to my heart. The secrets to my freedom. Maybe.

The key unlocks one of the padlocks and releases a longer section of the chain. But it doesn't work on the second lock. Having a bit more freedom allows me to venture closer to the pitch-black doorway. My toes smash into an object in my way, and I hiss in pain.

Goddammit. My anger grows like black mold on rotting food: quiet but relentless, determined to ruin everything if I let it have its way. I breathe evenly until I have my outrage under control. Not wanting to risk more injury on top of everything, I return to the candle and take it with me on my next trip.

The object is a chair. I lift the candle higher and see a door just beyond it. The door is locked when I try the knob. On top of the chair is another scribbled message.

Reach for the star, April Parker, but don't forget to keep your feet steady.

This is ridiculous. I'm tempted to say to hell with it and return to the cot, because what does it say about me if I play along with their stupid game? That I'm weak, gullible.

Desperate.

I want to be the opposite of that. I want to be strong and assured, but it's hard to be proud when I'm battling demons I thought I said goodbye to. My old fear of the dark is rearing its head, crashing through years of dogmatic discipline like it's made of glass. I'm that eight-year-old child again, whimpering for a mother who will never come. Afraid of a man who holds me tight in his fist and can crush me at will.

I don't notice the tears until I feel them on my cheeks. I shake my head furiously, refusing to relinquish my hard-earned control. I hadn't cried in years, not until the moment I woke up in the hospital after the stress facility—a day ago? A week?—and let the reality of Sam's death hit me. I'm not about to make a habit of giving in to hysteria.

I follow the shadowy doorframe with my eyes until I come upon a crudely-drawn white star on the wall above the door. And taped to the center of the star is another key.

It's a clear indication of progress, and it builds my determination like nothing else. I want to get out of this place, if only because it's cold and dark and I'm too hungry to stick around and hope things work themselves out. But if I'm being serious with myself, this is a challenge I can't help but rise to. It's who I am. The thinker. The problem-solver. And whoever put me in here knows it too, which is what these riddles are about.

I stumble up on the chair, pausing a moment when the dark shadows grow fuzzy around my vision. It becomes apparent pretty quickly that I'm not going to be able to reach the key. It's four inches just beyond my reach, two when I twist my shoulder and nearly dislocate it.

My body burns feverishly. My wrist aches. The pain in my muscles and bones and even my freaking cartilage doubles, quadruples. There's no way. This is impossible.

That's when it hits me. They knew I wouldn't be able to reach it. They never intended for me to. This is just a cruel way of reaffirming that they have me exactly where they want me and I don't get any say over that. It's like the bracelet all over again.

Except . . .

I step down from the chair, my mind working furiously. I know there's a nugget of truth hidden beneath the mocking riddles and deception. I just have to find it.

I get reaching for the star, but what about the other part? The one about keeping my feet steady. Is it a warning not to lose my balance? Doubt it. Whoever put me in here wouldn't care about another injury on top of the myriad of bruises covering my body.

Obviously, I can't fly to the key. I have to keep my feet steady on the chair if I don't want to fall. The only issue is the chain, which is keeping me from reaching out all the way. I close my eyes and think the process through, ignoring the throbbing in my head.

Reach for the star.

Keep my feet steady.

Door. Star. Chair.

Chair.

I drop to my knees and fumble around below the seat bottom. My heart lurches when I feel the distinct shape of another key taped to its surface. Jerking it loose, I use the key to free myself of my manacle and once again reach for the star.

Yes!

Five seconds later, the door unlatches and swings open, and I step out into a narrow stretch of corridor, barely lit by moonlight streaming in through the wall of windows. The view overlooks train tracks—which explains the earlier rumbling—gravel roads, and a bunch of darkened buildings.

My surroundings are decrepit, rundown. Nothing like the sterile cleanness of the stress facility. Strange. I'm finding it harder with every passing second to explain this situation away. Gardiner's fingerprints should be all over this—cameras, a bracelet, labeled doorways, streams of confused teenagers—but so far, I'm getting nothing.

There is no sign of Marcus. No sign of Willow or Adam or even Pablo. Hell, I'd take Janie at this point, if it means that I won't feel like the last living person on earth.

The situation takes an even stranger turn when I head downstairs to the front door and swing it open, stepping out into the surprisingly frigid night air. My top suddenly feels inadequate. Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself and study the industrial neighborhood around me.

Where am I? This is starting to feel like the makings of a horror movie and no one bothered to give me the script.

I follow the nearest gravel road, increasing my pace as the biting cold sets in. My neck feels naked, and it takes a few pats to confirm that my hair is several inches shorter, barely grazing my shoulders. It makes no sense that someone decided to give me a haircut, but then again, what part of this strange night has been normal? I shouldn't be surprised anymore.

The sight of a strip mall ten minutes later makes me come alive with hope. I pick up my pace, which is hard to do on a throbbing knee, and make it to a cozy diner called Patsy's. The patrons stare at me as I hobble over to the graying man behind the counter and nearly collapse across the countertop.

"I need your help," I blurt.

His eyes travel over my body, taking me in. Behind him are rows of mirrors that complement the diner's décor. I'm shocked when I catch my reflection. Who is this girl staring back at me? Jeans and a red top streaked with dirt. Shorter, messy hair. A purple-black bruise on my jaw and another around one eye. A busted lip. The only familiar thing about me is my blue eyes, startlingly pale and big with fright.

The man's fuzzy white eyebrows furrow. "What happened to you?"

Good question. "I—I think I've been kidnapped." I close my eyes. "I was kidnapped. It was all over the news—they took me and I got away, but I think they took me again—"

I'm not making sense, judging by his confused face.

"Please." I glance over my shoulder worriedly. "Just call the police."

He stares me for a long moment before he shakes his head. "I don't know what kind of trouble you're in, kid, but that's for the police to deal with. Wait here."

He disappears into a backroom. I sag into a stool and lean my elbows on the countertop, holding my head between my hands. The aroma of food suffuses the air. My mouth waters at the thought of food, but I stifle the urge to ask for something to eat. I need to get out of here and go someplace safe, then I can worry about recuperating. And maybe then, I'll also have the luxury of worrying about what happened to Marcus and Willow. And Carson, who I left behind at the mercy of people who wanted to kill him.

After that . . . maybe then I can figure out how to feel about Alec.

The gunshot that ended Sam's life reverberates through my head. My shoulders jerk with it, almost as if it's playing out in front of me again. One second, I'm talking to him. Figuring out where we stand with each other. The next second, he's falling. Falling.

The sound of a door swinging open pulls me free of my thoughts. I look up at the old man—and find myself staring at the barrel of a handgun.

My shock sends me tumbling backward out of the stool, one millisecond before the startling noise of the gun explodes through the diner, so much louder than the echo of the bullet that took Sam's life.

"Shit!" I shout as I scramble to my hands and knees and crawl for safety.

He's coming around the counter while the customers and I take off for the exit. He shoots again. Someone next to me falls. The screams and shoving remind me of the bracelets and the countdown timer back at the facility, the urgency as we fought one another for survival. It was every man for himself then, and it's the same now.

But they have nothing to worry about. I make it halfway over the threshold when the old man grabs a handful of my hair and yanks me back into the diner.

He's after me. I fight him, scratching his hand and arm to get free before kicking out with my legs, but nothing I do seems to budge him. For a man easily in his late sixties, he has the strength of an athlete. That's when I get a clear look at his face. His eyes have changed. They're milky-white now, missing the dark lenses that held concern just a few minutes ago.

He's a Blank. But how—?

He knocks me to the floor with a right hook and aims the gun at me. A gunshot rings in my ears, and I flinch, expecting fresh pain. Instead, the old man slumps to the tiled floor.

"April!"

Four people stand at the doorway. I melt into a puddle of relief at the sight of Marcus, Willow, and Adam—and yes, even Janie. To my surprise, it's Janie who rushes to my side and helps me to my feet, scolding me for wandering off on my own. I'm thrown by her friendliness, but it's Marcus who draws my gaze. Marcus who makes me feel like I'm safe, like I'm home.

I stagger over to him and fold my arms around him, pressing in tightly to his solid heat. I'm so overwhelmed by gratitude that it takes me a long moment to realize he's not embracing me back. His body is tense against mine, like my touch is unwelcomed.

The look in his black eyes when I pull back bowls me over. The heat in them isn't born out of tenderness or caring. It's the kind of heat that sears my skin and leaves burn marks wherever it touches. The heat of resentment. Extreme dislike.

"I . . ." I stumble back as words fail me.

Willow rubs her brow, and I notice she's not falling over herself to make sure I'm okay, either. Adam's quick smile is a small consolation.

"Let's head back," Willow says softly. "You must have a lot of questions, I'd imagine."

"That's putting it mildly," I retort, still reeling from the cold reception.

Marcus is already moving for the door. "Next time this shit happens, you guys are on your own. I'm not risking my life again for her."

What. The. Hell?

Janie slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me after him. "Come on. This will all make sense soon."

"Are you sure about that?" I ask, feeling like my heart just walked straight out of my chest and into traffic.

"Well, some of it at least."

Willow waits until we're zigzagging through the abandoned industrial neighborhood again before asking, "How much do you remember?"

"About what?" I ask. "The facility? I remember everything."

In the dark, I catch her nodding slowly. "Okay . . . but do you remember after that?"

"When I woke up at the hospital?"

"After that."

I stumble to a stop. My skin is ice-cold. "There is no after the hospital."

Willow, Janie, and Adam all stop before me, facing me like a wall of wariness and uncertainty. Beyond them, Marcus continues away from us with determined strides, like he can't wait to get as far away from me as possible.

"Yes, there is," Janie says in a weirdly gentle tone. "You just don't remember."

I stand there stock-still, letting the words sink until the pieces start to fall together. The bruises. The shorter hair. I've had experiences I don't remember.

"Why?" I look at Willow accusingly. "Did you do this to me?"

"I had no choice."

"What? Of course—"

Adam steps forward, cutting me short. "It's not Willow's fault. You asked her to do it."

"Why the hell would I want my memories gone?" I fling my arms out. "Why would I ever want this to happen to me?"

"Oh, April," Janie says in a patronizing voice that seems more like her than anything else this evening. "You've lost eight months' worth of memories—"

"Eight?"

"—so of course you don't know much right now."

"Give it time," Adam says sagely. "It'll get better."

"Will it?" I swing an arm out in the direction of the diner and struggle not to scream. "That's your idea of better? That—that human Blank?"

Willow shrugs. "We didn't know the kind of threat we were dealing with. We didn't know they could get in anyone's head and turn them against us."

"They?"

"We call them the Shroud," Janie explains. "Because of the white stuff that covers people's eyes when they take over them. I came up with the name." She smirks quickly. "Let's just say they've completely changed the game."

Willow sighs with a level of weariness that runs too deep for someone who's only experienced seventeen years of life. "We thought it would get better once we left the facility. But it didn't. It's so much worse."

Her gaze when she looks at me is haunting. It chills me more than anything else has.

"Leaving the facility was the biggest mistake we ever made."