They were the enemy.
A scream built in her chest, the same wild pressure that she’d released every time they committed a body to Mount Ruin’s volcano. Every time she had to bear witness to another senseless death, another life wasted. Another Oracle and Petrel and Jacana. Another Ember. All around her the scream built and amplified, echoing off the gilded walls of the palazzo. The men before her hesitated. As the scream grew, they seemed to shrink. Until they were small, unimportant. Powerless.
At the height of this miraculous alchemy, Serina, Anika, and the army of Mount Ruin attacked.
The men got a few shots off before the women reached them. The girl to Serina’s left went down. But Serina didn’t falter. She stabbed and slashed. She shoved. She gouged eyes and kicked groins. She carved a path through the men, pushed at them, tore firearms from hands. Her brain shut off, all analysis reduced to stab, slash, shove, gouge.
The soldiers stumbled back, trying to force enough space so they could use their firearms. Or maybe they were scared.
The wave of women crashed over them, washing them out of the hallway and onto a patio. Voices screamed. Chairs crashed to the tiled ground. For a moment, Serina was disoriented by a small gathering of men in colorful suits and waistcoats, smoking pipes.
They scattered, or tried to.
Lights were strung above the assembly, revealing the battle with excruciating detail.
Soldiers and female fighters tumbled over each other, into the men with their pipes and their finery. Serina shoved a portly man in purple velvet out of her way.
“Move!” she roared.
In the chaos, Cliff raised two stolen carving knives to fight a soldier, but someone behind her rammed into her, throwing her off her target. Instead, her knives impaled a man in a blue jacket huddled beside a table. His mouth dropped open as his body collapsed. Cliff stepped back, her face a mask of horror. She raised her hands, still holding the knives wet with his blood, as if to beg forgiveness.
The soldier she’d missed raised his firearm. Serina screamed, trying to warn her. But the battle was too loud, too chaotic. Her voice disappeared into the din. He shot Cliff at point-blank range. She crumpled to the ground beside the twitching body of the courtier.
Serina’s head pounded sickeningly as she turned away. A soldier stood before her, so close she could pick out the silver in his pale blue eyes. He raised his short fighting sword. Without thinking, she drove her head into his stomach, shoving him into several other soldiers. Anika bounded after them, striking them down before they could regain their feet.
A massive soldier with a thick blond beard and heavy fists appeared in front of Serina. Before she could react, he punched her, sending her to the ground. Her ears rang. It was obvious this one didn’t need weapons. He was the weapon.
Her head spun. The screams and shouts of battle wobbled in and out. The giant kicked her in the side, angering her broken rib. She curled into a ball, hands protectively covering her head, and gasped for breath. She couldn’t withstand another kick like that. Her ribs would snap, she would break in half.
She looked up in time to see three women launch themselves at the mountainous soldier, their voices raised in a banshee cry. They had no weapons but their ragged fingernails and their desperate strength. She didn’t recognize them—their faces and hair were streaked with blood.
Serina scrambled to her feet, ignoring the fire in her cheekbone and the flames in her side. When she was sure the women had the large soldier in hand, she helped Mirror fight off another man, this one more reasonably sized but still deadly, with a firearm in one hand and a short sword in the other.
Mirror slammed him in the head with a heavy iron platter she’d found somewhere, and Serina finished the job with a knife to the throat.
“What are you doing, Mirror?” Serina hissed. “You should be hanging back with the other injured women.”
Mirror showed her teeth. Grimace or feral smile, Serina couldn’t tell.
“I will not cower,” the girl said. Then she yanked the firearm from the fallen soldier’s hand and fired it at a man running at them. He sank to his knees, blood blooming across his chest.
More bodies fell: both men and women. Gunshots cracked through the night. The lights swung wildly above them. It was difficult to make sense of the jumble of movement and blood.
Serina used her knife and her fist and her knees. At some point, Val pushed through to her side. He discharged the firearm he held and tore another one from his waistband, firing again.
There were more women than soldiers, but more men kept appearing, called to the battle by the sound of gunshots. In the haze and confusion, Serina looked for a way to get out, to get to Asa, but never saw an opening.
A large, wide-shouldered man with an air of authority appeared and started shouting orders to the soldiers. They made an attempt to regroup, but Serina and her forces didn’t give them a chance. These women were the survivors, the ones who’d won battles in the ring—they knew how to divide, debilitate, distract.
Serina spared a thought for Renzo; she hoped he was staying out of the way as she’d told him to. She couldn’t let herself search the melee for him. Her own survival was constantly in question with every soldier who raised his weapon or his fist to strike her.
She and Anika went for the big man, the one trying to take charge.
He reminded her of Commander Ricci; his eyes were full of the same hatred, the same disbelief. Even now, even as she shoved her blade into his stomach, he didn’t see how these women could possibly be a threat.
She and Anika showed him exactly how.
The last thing he saw as he fell was Anika’s grimace, her face streaked with blood, as she slashed his throat.
THIRTY-SIX
NOMI
NOMI SKIDDED DOWN the hallway to a long, twisting stair. Down two stories, to the ground floor. She could hear Maris panting behind her. They emerged into a long corridor dimly lit with sconces. Nomi listened for another shout or the sounds of conflict. Where was Serina?
“Nomi,” Maris said. “Look.”
A thick streak of blood arced along the wall like a garish arrow, pointing the way. Nomi ran. Around the corner, a body sprawled across the hallway, a pool of blood congealing beneath him. The soldier stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Nomi swallowed down bile. She carefully stepped over him, Maris sticking close behind her.
There were more bodies. They became a macabre trail, leading Nomi and Maris on. Soon, the sounds of fighting filtered back to them. Nomi prayed she wouldn’t come across Serina’s body.
Maris found a firearm in the arms of a dead soldier. Nomi snatched a dagger next to a dead woman in prison blue.
No living soul appeared. The rooms they passed—luxurious sitting rooms, an airy art gallery, a library—were all empty. Abandoned.
The next hall was filled with bodies, several deep in some places. Nomi skidded to a halt, realizing for the first time that she was still barefoot. The carpet was damp, soaked with blood. Beyond the carnage, the terrace opened to a wide patio. She could see figures moving, hear gunshots.
Here was the battle.
To her surprise, Maris charged forward without hesitation, picking her way to clear ground. Nomi followed, wishing she’d put on her boots so she wouldn’t have to feel the slick, rubbery give of bodies beneath her feet.
They stopped at the outskirts of the fighting. Nomi craned for a view of Serina, but there was too much movement, too much chaos. It was difficult to see who was winning, if anyone.
She wanted to climb up on a table and scream that Asa was dead, that they could stop fighting, but she knew it wouldn’t matter. She was as likely to get shot as have anyone listen. Still, she had to do something.
Suddenly, Maris darted forward. Nomi watched, eyes wide, as the former Grace planted her feet, raised her weapon, and fired into the crowd. A soldier collapsed, revealing Helena. The girl was staggering, bent forward from the waist, one hand grasping the other—
bloody—shoulder.
“Helena!” Maris screamed. She grabbed her and pulled her away from the fighting.
Helena wrapped her good arm around Maris’s neck and buried her head in her shoulder.
Near the edge of the patio, where sand kicked up over the tiles, two round wrought-iron tables lay on their sides like shields. Nomi grabbed Maris’s arm. “Look,” she said. “Let’s get her over there.”
Together, Nomi and Maris helped Helena stagger to the tables.
On the other side, several other injured women sprawled in the sand. A man crouched over them. He stood quickly at the sound of newcomers. Nomi faltered, shock waves reverberating through her.
“Renzo!”
Her brother was disheveled and dirty, with a scrape down his neck and his bloody shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. He helped them sit Helena down. As soon as she was settled Nomi stood up and heaved her fist at Renzo’s arm.
“Why aren’t you on your way to Azura?” she asked wildly. “You were supposed to be safe!”
He rolled his eyes. “You snuck out in the middle of the night to avenge our parents.” He gestured past the tables. “And Serina’s leading an army. What did you expect me to do?”
“Where’s Malachi?” Nomi asked. “Did he come with you?”
If he was here, now that Asa was dead…
But Renzo shook his head. “He left Lanos when I did. He went back to Porto Rosa for Dante.”
“I hope he found him.”
A shout caught Nomi’s attention. She peeked over the edge of a table. It looked as if the fight might be slackening. There were far more women standing than men. The soldiers were faltering. Some ran down the beach and into the water, swimming their retreat.
Nomi thought of Asa, broken on a tiled patio on the other side of the palazzo. These men had no leader, no one shouting orders or sending for reinforcements.
With a glance at Maris, who was oblivious to anything but Helena, Nomi ventured onto the patio. Renzo went with her. “I’ve been grabbing the injured women and trying to get them out of the way,” he said. “I’m not a fighter. I don’t know—I don’t know how to do what Serina’s done.”
As they crept forward, they stepped carefully, walking the maze of clear tile between bodies. The moonlight turned the splashes of blood silver.
They found Serina in the center of the remnants of battle, knife raised, watching as the last soldier darted toward the waves. She was panting, sagging on her feet, her hand streaked to the wrist with blood, but she was still standing. She was alive.
Tears streamed down Nomi’s face.
The night settled back around them, the echoes of gunshots fading.
Serina looked up and froze, mouth open, when she saw Nomi.
Nomi threw her arms around her big sister.
They held on to each other, so tightly, as if somehow this embrace could erase the last few hours, the blood, the death, and maybe the months before that too, all the time they’d spent apart, fighting to save each other.
Beside them, Anika fell to her knees, a hand to her stomach. Serina tore her arms from Nomi and crouched beside the girl. Nomi hurried to help.
“Are you all right?” Serina asked.
It was hard to tell in the dark, but Nomi thought Anika’s skin seemed ashen, almost gray. The whites of her eyes glowed. She stood back up with Serina’s help and then waved them both off. She picked through the bodies, her shoulders slumping, and collapsed into a delicate patio chair that had somehow avoided the carnage. She didn’t answer the question. Serina followed her, panic showing on her swollen face. “Anika!”
Nomi trailed after them, trying to think of something she could do. She saw Val off to the side, exhaustion making him haggard.
Anika hissed in a breath. “I’m… I’m okay. I just… need to sit down.”
“You need a doctor,” Serina replied. She looked around, as if somehow one might materialize out of the night.
Nomi looked around too. But all she saw were the surviving fighters, the white splashes of the retreating soldiers, the moonlight. A few feet from where she stood, Marcos lay crumpled, his throat cut. She couldn’t bring herself to feel guilty about the relief that flowed through her.
“Did we get him?” Anika asked weakly. “Did we bring down the Superior?”
“Not yet.” Serina looked at Nomi, her expression shifting at whatever she saw in Nomi’s face.
“Asa is dead,” Nomi said. She’d been trying to ignore the pain in her throat, but her voice came out strange and hoarse, like she’d swallowed broken glass. She tried to keep from cracking… the look in his eyes as he strangled her, the sound of his body hitting the ground…
“Oh, Nomi,” Serina said, and in those two words, Nomi heard that she was sorry, that she understood why Nomi’s hands still shook, that she knew the nightmares that would carry them both.
They hugged again, and for a moment, the darkness seemed less absolute.
THIRTY-SEVEN
SERINA
SERINA NEVER WANTED to let Nomi go. She couldn’t believe she was here, that she was safe. She couldn’t believe that her sister had killed the Superior.
Asa is dead.
The battle was over.
Serina was still standing.
She buried her face in Nomi’s neck and breathed.
“We have a problem.” Val’s voice cut holes into Serina’s growing peace. She drew back with a sigh.
Val put a hand on her lower back. “There are troops massing in the piazza across the canal. More than we can handle.”
“Maybe it’s Malachi!” Nomi said, some light coming back to her eyes. “Maybe he found Dante.”
“Or it could be the Superior’s reinforcements,” Val said. “No one knows Asa is dead yet. Those retreating soldiers could have sounded the alarm to Bellaqua’s garrison.”
“So how can we tell?” Nomi asked, looking crestfallen.
Serina squeezed her arm. “Hopefully it is Malachi.” She looked down at Anika, still clutching her stomach, her face taut with pain. Everyone looked exhausted. Defeated. This moment should have been a victory.
“We need time and a place we can defend while we catch our breath.” Serina wiped her clean hand across her forehead. “I don’t know the palazzo very well. Maybe—”
Nomi put a hand on her arm. “I know where we can go.”
There were as many women lying on the ground as there were men. A trail of bodies led into the hallway. Serina saw Gia, Tremor, and Cliff among the dead. The women who’d survived stood in clumps, their clothes streaked, their hair mussed. Blaze stood at the edge of the patio, looking out at the water and the path of moonlight.
Serina’s bruised face ached, and her head pounded. She hadn’t eaten anything in a couple of days, and her stomach suddenly felt this was the moment to twist and complain. But there was no time to worry about any of that.
“Most of the injured are over there,” Renzo said, pointing to several tables upended at the edge of the patio. Serina went to see. Helena and Maris huddled together, and Mirror was there. She looked rough, but somehow she managed to spare Serina a smile.
“Renzo, you and Val help the wounded,” Serina ordered. “Maris, you and Nomi collect as many firearms and as much ammunition as you can carry. Get the others to help you. Quickly, as fast as you can.”
As soon as Nomi’s hands were full, Serina helped Anika out of her chair. Her head lolled a little before she steadied herself. Serina tried to look at her wound.
“No,” Anika snapped, brushing away Serina’s hand. “Later.”
Nomi led the way inside. Serina took a rough count of the women who followed—about seventy women had survived. They’d lost more than a third of their number in the battle.
Serina swallowed painfully. Many women had died tonight for a freedom the rest of them might never see.
Please let the troops be Malachi’s.
What she didn’t share with Nomi were her doubts. What would Malachi do
about her little army? Could he really let them back into Viridia, free, after all this bloodshed?
“We all fought,” Anika said, her voice hoarse.
“What?” Serina asked. They brought up the rear of the procession with the rest of the injured.
“I see you looking around, taking stock.” Anika winced. Cleared her throat. “And I’m saying at least we fought. Thanks to your brother, we didn’t have to wait for Asa to parade us out and kill us one by one. Even if we all die tonight, at least we fought for our lives.”
Fight back. Always.
Petrel walked with Serina, even now.
“You’re right,” she said as they entered the hall.
They were the last to reach the Graces’ chambers. Serina entered the circular room, hung with cream damask and velvet, and was immediately, uncomfortably aware of her dirty clothes, her bloody face and hands. This was a place of beauty, and she’d brought ugliness and grief inside. Women spread from the central room out through the arches and into sitting rooms and dining areas. They slumped onto soft settees and across the thick carpets warming the marble floor. They frightened the Graces, who emerged from their bedrooms in silken white nightdresses, their eyes wide.
Several white-clad men hurried past Serina and out the door. At least the Graces’ attendants weren’t putting up a fight.
A small reprieve. They needed to take advantage of it.
Serina helped Anika down onto a velvet chaise, checked to make sure she was still conscious and alert, and then made her way through the tightly packed rooms looking for Nomi.
She found her on a balcony. Nomi was staring out at the canal, where bobbing lanterns illuminated wide-bottomed boats shuttling soldiers to the palazzo. There wasn’t a clear view the way the building was situated, and the Graces’ chambers mostly faced the ocean. But here, on this balcony, part of the city and the canal were visible. Yet even this restricted view illuminated more soldiers than Serina cared to count.
Queen of Ruin (Grace and Fury) Page 23
