War Storm
Page 127

Overhead, all around, the lights quiver in their metal holdings, and hinges shudder on doors.
I can’t move, can barely breathe.
I made it ten whole yards.
“Don’t lift a finger,” my mother crows, stepping into my very limited line of vision. Above me, the wolf trembles, yellow eyes boring into mine.
My father shudders at her side, a storm cloud of rage. He keeps one hand to his head, stemming the flow of blood. His eyes are worse than the wolf’s.
“You stupid girl,” he breathes. “After all we’ve done for you. All we made you.”
“But for one flaw,” my mother replies. She tsks, clucking her tongue over me. Like I’m one of her prize animals, bred for her personal use. I suppose that’s not incorrect. “One deep, unnatural flaw.”
I try to gasp against the wolf’s grip, if only to choke back a sob. My stomach coils and churns. Let me go, I want to beg.
But he never will. He doesn’t know how.
And perhaps that’s the fault of his own father, and his father before.
I don’t know why, but I think of Mare Barrow. Of her parents, holding her close, saying good-bye as we left Montfort. They are nothing, insignificant people, of no great beauty, intellect, or power. I envy them so deeply it makes me sick.
“Please,” I manage to force out.
The wolf holds firm.
Father takes a step closer, his fingers painted in liquid silver. With a flick of his hand, he sprays me with his blood. With what I did.
“I’ll drag you back to the Rift myself.”
I don’t doubt it.
I stare up at him, struggling to breathe, fingers scrabbling over the floor. Even my own armor betrays me, melting off my body under his command. Leaving me bare and without weapons. Vulnerable. A prisoner still and always.
Then my father flies away from me, crashing backward, his face pulled into unfamiliar surprise. He’s being dragged by the chromium painted up and down his body. He slams into the nearest wall, head cracking backward. My mother screams as he slumps forward, eyes rolling in his skull.
The wolf above me meets a different fate.
A blade cuts through its neck, and the severed head flies, landing with a sick squelch a few feet away. A hot spray of fresh, scarlet blood coats my face.
I don’t flinch. A familiar, cool hand closes around my wrist, giving me a tug.
“You trained us too well,” Ptolemus says, helping me to my feet.
We run together, and this time, I look back.
Mother bends over Father, her hands running over him. He tries to rise, but the blow makes him stagger. He’s still alive.
“Good-bye, Evangeline,” another man says.
Julian Jacos steps out from an adjoining corridor, and Anabel is with him, her fingers drumming together. She doesn’t spare a glance for me as she approaches, hands raised. Such lethal power in so small a woman.
“Run away, Larentia.” I fight the urge to cover my ears, even though Julian’s melodic voice is not directed at me. Still, the singer’s power shudders on the air, palpable as a sugary taste. “Forget your children.”
Her footsteps are quick and scurrying, like one of her spying rats.
“Larentia!” my father gurgles, barely able to speak in his dazed state.
But he can certainly scream.
I leave him to Anabel and Julian. To whatever fate they have in store for the king of the Rift.
Outside, the fog has truly fallen, coating the Square in a gray haze too thick to be born of nature. Wren stands silhouetted, waiting for us, her trim form a sharp outline against the other shadows slouching into formation. Cal’s forces, maybe even an entire legion, judging by the many shapes.
At the sight of us, Wren waves a hand. “This way,” she calls, before turning to the fog and the soldiers.
Something weighs at the edge of my perception, heavy enough to register even from a great distance. The Lakelander ships. They have to be. Overhead, unseen, jets scream back and forth. Somewhere, missiles whine and bloom, spouting bursts of flame where the armada must be. I feel trapped by the fog, blinded. All I can do is focus on Wren and Ptolemus, staying close enough to their silhouettes as we barrel through the legions marching into place. A few soldiers stare as we pass, but none try to stop us. And soon War Command fades into the distance, swallowed by the fog.
We angle across the Square, making for the Treasury. A strange, familiar feeling comes over me as I remember Maven’s wedding. The Square was a battleground then as well, and he fled for his train, his precious escape. I never liked the contraption, but I push aside any discomfort. It’s the fastest way out. The safest. We’ll be far beyond the city before the battle is even finished.
And then . . .
I don’t have the time or energy to follow that thought.
Rain follows the fog, slamming down with a sudden hiss. I’m soaked in seconds, and the deluge turns the Square slick, forcing us to slow our pace or risk broken ankles. Down in the river, a boom like a drum sounds, rhythmic and shuddering. It shakes the ground beneath my feet.
The ships are firing on the city, their heavy rounds peppering both East and West Archeon.
I reach for Ptolemus, my fingers sliding over his wet armor as I try to find some grip on him. The rest of me braces for the inevitable impact as the Lakelander fire reaches this part of the city.
My instincts aren’t wrong.
The first missile howls over the Square gates, barely visible as it arcs in and out of the fog cover. I don’t see where it lands, but judging by the concussive blast behind us, I’d guess Whitefire just suffered a direct hit. The force knocks a few soldiers off their feet and sends us scrambling. Ptolemus and I ground ourselves in our armor, and Tolly catches Wren before she falls, holding her tightly.
“Keep moving!” I shout over the shriek of another round, this one exploding somewhere near War Command.
Someone else is shouting too, barking barely audible orders over the din. A streak of flame accompanies his voice, whirling through the fog near the head of the gathered legion. Whatever stirring speech Cal cooked up will be of little use now. It’s too loud, too wet, and his soldiers are too distracted by the armada currently choking the river. Still, they begin to march, lurching forward to follow whatever his orders might be. Probably to line the cliffs. Concentrate their attack on the river below.
We’re suddenly caught in their motion.
The legion surges like a tide, carrying us with them. I try to shove against the uniformed bodies, searching the Silver faces for Ptolemus and Wren. Still close, but the distance between us is steadily growing. I feel for the copper in my brother’s belt, holding on to the sensation of the metal.
“Move,” I snarl, trying to tear my way through the crowd. Using my armor to propel me, using Ptolemus’s as a beacon. “Move!”
The next blow is closer, dead on target, dropping out of the sky like a hammer. A shell, not a missile. Smaller, unguided, but still deadly. In unison, separated though we are, Ptolemus and I raise our hands, throwing out our ability with a mighty burst of energy.
I grab on to the steel casing, gritting my teeth against the strain of stopping a fast-moving projectile. But we manage and, with equal grunts, fling the shell back into the fog, spiraling off to hopefully explode somewhere in the Lakelander fleet. A few telkies among Cal’s legion do the same, banding together to throw back shells and missiles. But there are too many rounds rocketing out of the fog, almost on top of us before we even know it.