Free Dissonance by Erica O’Rourke

group turned to gape at me. Muttering something under her breath, Callie shot them a dirty look, pushed off the couch, and strode across the lobby. In the too-quiet room, the heels of her boots rang out on the floor. She gave me a half smile, warm but worried. “Is it true? Logan said you—”
    â€œDelancey Sullivan?” one of the security guards asked, stepping out from behind the desk. Callie’s smile fell away, and Eliot shifted, putting himself between us. “You’ll need to come with me.”
    I opened and closed my mouth soundlessly, like a fish thrown onto shore.
    â€œWhere?” Eliot asked. “Says who?”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my classmates edging closer, as if they couldn’t catch every word in the echoing lobby.
    â€œTo the sixteenth floor,” the guard said, chest puffed out. “At the request of the Consort.”
    â€œClass starts in five minutes,” I said, my voice rasping.
    He smirked. “Not for you.”
    Eliot turned his back on the guard to look at me, his dark skin shiny with nerves. “I’ll go with you.”
    The guard beckoned, and a woman in an identical uniform—badly cut black pants, white shirt with black trim, Taser and other paraphernalia hanging from a thick leather belt—joined him.
    As a precaution against creating strong pivots in the building, Consort guards didn’t carry lethal weapons. Before today I’d assumed the stun gun and pepper spray were to protect the Walkers from discovery by Originals. Now, as the second guard stared down my best friend, I reconsidered.
    In a nasal, overloud voice, she said, “The summons is for Delancey alone. We will escort you to the chamber. The rest of you will proceed to training as usual.”
    Eliot met my eyes, ready to argue.
    â€œI’ve got this,” I told him, trying to keep the wobble from my voice. “See you in a few.”
    Maybe they would let me off with a warning. If they did, I’d be a model student for the rest of training. I’d help out at home. I’d be nicer to Addie. Anything, as long as they didn’t take Walking from me.
    Our path to the elevators was blocked by my classmates. Behind us, the younger kids were coming inside for their training, some of them accompanied by their parents. As the lobby filled and the murmurs grew, my face went fiery. I’d wanted to be known for my skill, not my screwups.
    I kept my eyes fixed on the elevators, tuned out the whispersand snickers, and moved across the room on autopilot. Shame burned through me, hotter with every step. But it wasn’t until I was inside, steel doors sliding shut, that I nearly lost it. The glimpse of Eliot, stricken and sympathetic, was infinitely worse than the onlookers’ scorn.
    Given a choice, it seems like pity would be easier to bear than mockery, but that’s not true. Mockery hardens defenses; pity slips through, finds the softest places you have, and slices to the bone.
    Pity will break you, every time.
    One guard slid a card through a reader and pressed the button for the sixteenth floor. I thought about asking what would happen, but they looked straight ahead, feet braced wide and hands clasped behind their backs. They didn’t seem like they’d welcome a conversation.
    I wondered if they knew the full story, or if they’d simply done the Consort’s bidding without asking for details. Probably the latter. Nobody questioned the Consort. Their rulings were absolute, their directives inviolate. Even my parents didn’t challenge the orders they received.
    The display counted steadily upward, and I knotted my fingers together as the elevator slowed. The doors opened and my lungs closed.
    My parents stood in the cream-and-ebony foyer, their heads bent together. Monty perched on an upholstered black bench, looking around owlishly. He must have been here plenty of times, but he was acting as if he had never seen