The Raging Ones

by Krista Ritchie

  He’ll die in his eighties.

  My fingers tighten on the lion’s mane, my shoes slick against the pool of blood. I try to staunch the stab wound on my hip, pressing my palm harder.

  “Stop fighting me,” he says. “Stop making me chase you. This whole ordeal could’ve ended years ago if you just let go. You’re causing your own pain, Court. You’re the one dragging out the inevitable.”

  “No,” I sneer.

  His fist flies against my jaw, and before I react, he stabs my shoulder and rips the dagger out, blood seeping through my tux. I crumble onto the boulder beside the lion. I start to bleed out, but I choke for breath and clutch the wounds tight to keep myself alive.

  Bastell stands over me and then squats down, blade to the hollow of my throat. “Is this all you are?”

  I breathe and breathe and say, “I’m more than you’ll ever be.”

  “Is that what you tell yourself? You’re less than me, Court. You’re the protégé, the student. There is nothing that you have that I don’t already have.”

  “I have friendship that’s deep in my soul,” I say. “You have no one.”

  “And where are these soul mates of yours?” He mockingly looks around.

  They’re running. Unseen and swift, I steal his blade out of his hand and spin it onto his throat.

  He laughs. “And what? You’ll cut me?” Bastell shakes his head. “You’ve already forgotten how to hold it.”

  He’s right. I grip the hilt loosely like someone clawing to stay conscious.

  Bastell adjusts my clutch, firmer. “Like this.”

  My nose flares. He’s not frightened because he knows I can’t kill him. My palm is too wet with blood, and the dagger already slips out of my grasp, clattering off the boulder to straw below.

  “Pathetic.”

  I’m not stronger than him. I’m not faster or smoother, but I am smarter. And I say, “I can kill you today.”

  “I won’t die—”

  “I dodged my deathday, Bastell. Anything is possible.” I force myself to believe these words, my confidence like my natural skin and not manufactured clothes.

  I believe.

  I can kill him.

  He can die right now.

  I sit up on my elbows and he bears his knee into my ribs. Biting down, I say, “You’ve tasted my blood. Ripped me open in so many different ways. You’re searching for more years, more time—for immortality—but what’s to say you haven’t already found the trick? What’s to say that you haven’t already changed the course of your own deathday, Bastell?” I lean forward. “What’s to say that you can’t die right now?”

  His face reddens. “You know nothing.”

  “We’re all uncertain,” I say, my vision fading to black, but I dig deeper to be present. “We’re all wading in the unknown. You think cutting out my heart and testing it will solve the riddle, but you made that up on your own.”

  Bastell breathes heavily. “You can’t trick me, Court.”

  My lips lift because I see the fear flicker in his eyes. Uncertainty creeps into his veins like poison. I gain some of the control that he stole from me. Warm peace blankets my dying body. My elbows weaken, and I collapse back onto the boulder, staring up at the painted baby-blue sky.

  FORTY

  Franny

  Yamafort’s Museum of Natural Histories & Figures is always closed to the public on the last day of the week. When I hear noises rebounding off the archways and high ceilings, I know they belong to Court and Bastell.

  I race down deserted, darkened hallways, flying past extinct habitats. Mykal staggers not far behind, clutching his body like blood leaks profusely from his hip and shoulder. We only share the feeling; not the actual wound.

  Court’s pain has tried to overwhelm me too, but I chant, Focus on yourself, focus on yourself. I concentrate on my boots thudding marble and my black hair whipping backward as my legs pump faster and stronger.

  We’ll find you, Court.

  I quickly read a few signs and veer to the savannah exhibits where we’ll find dry grass. Mykal winces and starts lagging. I capture his hand and tug him to my hurried pace.

  “I’m not leaving you behind,” I pant.

  Mykal growls out in determination and keeps up, step for step. One more turn and light shines on golden-wheat grasslands. Life-sized replicas of wild leopards and panthers pounce on a dead gazelle. Crimson drips off a boulder where Court lies next to a roaring lion.

  A few feet away, Bastell paces in ankle-high brush, a silver handgun in wary fingers.

  Gods. I boil deep. “Move away from him!” I scream, crashing through the velvet ropes. Bastell flinches, a little flustered for a man with a gun.

  “Court!” Mykal barrels straight for him. “COURT!” We rush through the grasslands, my skin scalding every place that Bastell stabbed and cut Court. I expect him to charge us. To stop us. A dagger glints in the tall grass beneath the boulder.

  I grab the weapon while Mykal climbs the low boulder and draws Court gently onto his lap. His gray eyes roll into the back of his head. Court.

  No, Franny.

  I can’t think of him right now. Only one of us can concentrate on Court at a time. My sight is so fuzzy that Bastell and the leopards blend together. I blink and blink and focus on my boots, my hands, my arms. I bite my own tongue, and my vision returns, not in full, but enough that I distinguish Bastell’s unruly hair and plum trench coat.

  He mutters to himself.

  “Court, look at me,” Mykal growls, tapping Court’s cheeks. “You better be looking at me.” Mykal frantically pulls off his shirt and presses the fabric to the wounds. “Franny—” I’m already peeling off my blouse before he asks. I chuck the garment at him, my shoulders tensed.

  I tighten my grip on the dagger’s hilt, not understanding why Bastell lets us near Court. Without another pause, I shuffle forward and guard the low boulder. He’ll need to cross my path to reach them.

  Much more perplexed and anxious than I imagined, Bastell fiddles with his gun, unsure of himself. How can this be the same man that dragged Court ruthlessly up to the museum?

  Bastell shifts uneasily and finally notices me watching. “He said that I could die at any minute.” And then Bastell pushes the silver barrel to his temple. Chin raised and chest caving in a fearful breath.

  My mouth drops. What is he…?

  “We’ll see if he’s right.” Bastell hesitates for a second.

  Mayday.

  I take a sweltering step forward. “I hope it works. I hope you die right here.” Right now. I’ve never loathed someone this terribly, this coldheartedly—and it’s all my own. It scares me because I feel like I could do anything to him without remorse. Without guilt.

  I could snap the little bones of his neck. I could break his ankles and poke out his eyes. I want to do it all. I want him to die.

  Bastell shifts. “If I live, then I’ll do worse than kill Court for tricking me … and I’ll let his soul mates watch.”

  I scream and brandish my dagger in threat—just as he squeezes the trigger. I flinch but no boom arrives.

  The gun jams once.

  He presses again.

  Jams.

  And again.

  Jams.

  Again and again, in quick succession, the gun locks on Bastell. Fyke. Confidence and certainty returned, he points the barrel at me.

  I yell and run at Bastell with impulse, my lungs splitting open and fear abandoning my senses.

  If I die, I will die hard.

  And fast and full.

  I’m within arm’s length, the cold gun pushes against my chest, but I don’t slow. I use my speed and strike his forehead with the heel of my palm. His brain rocks in his skull, staggering back, and the gunshot rings—the bullet grazing my shoulder. I wince but waste no time, smacking the gun aside. Clearly, it won’t harm him.

  Still disoriented, he holds his rattling head. I jab two fingers behind his collarbone. He screams out, but the pressure point
forces him to his knees. I’m not finished. I move as fast as possible, leaving him no room to retaliate.

  I throw my hardest knuckle into his sternum. He moans and gasps for breath. Punctured lungs, Court said would happen. Then I chop at his neck with my hand. Gurgling, he clutches his throat and falls to his back.

  I hover over him with the dagger and crush his windpipe with my boot. I single knuckle-punch the soft spot by his ear. Bone cracks and his jaw dislocates. Not able to speak, he wheezes.

  I hate you. I spit on him, my eyes glassy with fiery tears.

  “I know I can’t kill you,” I say, “but you’ll never hurt him or us ever again.” No reluctance inside of me, I stab Bastell repeatedly, crimson spraying my chest. I see my own hatred staring back. Not a body. Not a man.

  When his eyes flutter shut and his limbs sag unconscious, I stop driving the blade in his chest. He’ll eventually wake and live, but for now, he’s harmless.

  I drop the dagger and teeter backward before turning around altogether. By the time I reach the boulder, Mykal finishes tying his shirt and mine around Court’s wounds, already soaked a deep ruby red.

  Fighting to stay awake, Court’s heavy-lidded eyes droop open and closed.

  “We have to go,” I say hurriedly, worried that someone will find all of us and Bastell together. Then they’ll start asking questions. “Can you carry him alone—?”

  “No,” he immediately cuts me off. “I keep fighting consciousness by being this close.”

  “All right.”

  Court may be too tall and muscular for me to carry by myself, but I’ll try. While I stand off the boulder, Mykal places Court’s limp arm around my shoulder, and I support his whole body against my side.

  “Let me … I’ll try … walking,” Court sputters, his feet weak beneath even flimsier legs.

  “No thank you,” I snap and flex every muscle in my body, walking forward with this added weight. I bear hard on my teeth. I can do this. Even if he outsizes me.

  Mykal just now notices my shoulder, skin seared off in a scorched, bloodied line. “What the three hells…?” He swings his head back to Bastell, unmoving on crimson-stained straw. Mykal’s eyes grow and grow. He’s seen more gruesome sights, but not by my hands.

  We exchange one short look, knowing that I’ve hardened. For better or for worse, I don’t know yet, but I’m not the same as I once was.

  * * *

  On our elevator descent to StarDust’s common room, we concoct a plan that Court has always said, “Is full of impossibilities.” So we never tried before, but as long as Bastell lives—and he’ll live a long, long while—he’ll hunt Court.

  And with the gory museum exhibit and Court’s wounds, we don’t have a good explanation to tell the StarDust directors. Tauris isn’t a chump; being exposed by them or Bastell is almost a certainty. There are no more choices left but this impossible one.

  We’re stealing the Saga starcraft.

  And if we succeed, it’ll be the largest thievery of Court’s life.

  Elevator doors spring open and, with Court supported between us, we run through the common room. Empty. Everyone must still be celebrating in the dining room.

  Mykal blinks hard to stay coherent, his head lolling more than once. I can only sprint this fast with his help. We keep sharing tough glances. Mine saying, I need you.

  His replying, I know it. And he moves forward like he is pushing through hellish winds that slap and shove. Not stopping. Not pausing.

  Court often talks about Mykal’s impervious nature and fortitude, but I never saw him in the Free Lands. I mostly saw him flounder and slowly pick himself up at StarDust. All of today, right now, I completely and wholeheartedly understand what Court meant.

  I see and feel the magnitude of Mykal’s iron will. Trekking through three hells, he could be shackled with weight, punctured with a hundred arrows, and I believe he’d still find a way to move. His strength breathes fire inside my lungs.

  I kick the door open to the hallway and spot a violet code box beside a window. While I quickly type in the most recent code, Mykal stares out the windows.

  “Launchpad looks about empty,” he says.

  Court, unable to support his own head, sinks in our arms. Mykal growls out a Grenpalish curse and then adjusts Court’s weight on his side.

  I finish entering the code and the door to the launchpad slides open. We struggle with bracing him and walking, and by the time we reach the rows and rows of metal chairs from the ceremony, Court faints.

  Wooziness brings us to our knees and we crash into chairs, spreading blood everywhere.

  My side cramps from the collision and I roll onto my back. Wincing, I look to Mykal. He’s hovered over Court, tapping his cheek. Trying to wake him.

  I force myself to my feet. So light-headed that I sway and clutch Mykal’s broad shoulder.

  I say, “If one of us splits apart from Court, maybe our minds will clear.”

  Mykal nods. “Go.” He motions with his head to the starcraft. “Run. We’ll be catching up.”

  My exhausted jog morphs into a quick sprint. Up the boarding ramp, I reach the locked entrance. Mayday. “I need a keycard,” I mutter. I’ve only ever seen Amelda and Tauris use them.

  From up here, I have a good view of the entire launchpad and hallway windows. I scan the technician areas, but what’s the chance someone left a keycard lying around?

  I freeze in panic.

  Clutching goblets of wine, a group of candidates exits the dining room. They meander through the marbled hallway. Don’t look out the window. Don’t look out the window.

  Only one person turns their head.

  Padgett Soarcastle instantly spots me on the ramp. Gaze narrowing, mind clicking, then she snaps her attention off me. Padgett speaks to the other candidates, but no sound filters into the launchpad. At first I think she’ll snitch on me, but the candidates nod and disappear into the common room.

  She lingers behind and then runs back into the dining room.

  I try to return my mind to the keycard, but out of the corner of my eye, Padgett appears in the hallway again. This time with her little sister.

  Gem.

  The Soarcastle sisters type in the code and enter the launchpad.

  Mykal curses at them, but he can’t leave Court. Padgett barely glances their way, and she never slows, headed straight for me. Gem skip-walks to keep pace with her sister’s authoritative stride.

  I may know them, but I can’t trust them. Balling my fists, I stand tall and ready.

  The ramp shakes as they step on. “Whatever you’re thinking about doing with that starcraft,” Padgett says confidently, “we want in.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not leaving this planet without my sister,” Padgett says. “Do you understand?”

  Just as I nod, shock thieving my voice, Gem slips beside me. “Oh Wilafran…” She blushes and then pales at my blood-splattered bra. I’d forgotten that I gave my blouse away.

  “It’s fine,” I say firmly.

  Gem focuses. “Let’s see.” She drums her lips and then pries off the casing of the keycard device, revealing tangled blue wires.

  Mykal lifts Court to a chair, awake but barely, and he combs back Court’s sweaty hair, trying to inspect his head wound.

  Gem risks a glance at them and loses more color in her face. “Shouldn’t have looked.” She blows out a controlled breath. “Blood has always made me squeamish.”

  “Hurry,” Padgett tells her sister.

  In haste, Gem plucks the wrong wire. An ear-splitting alarm blares and yellow lights flash in the hallways and launchpad.

  “Gem,” I say.

  “I have it.” Gem tugs another wire and twists the ends together, sparking—and then the starcraft door grinds open.

  While I hesitate to wait for Court and Mykal, Gem and Padgett push inside, passing me. People start filling multiple hallways.

  “Mykal!” I yell.

  “We’re coming.” He supp
orts Court, whose feet find better footing. “Go! Go!”

  I see Court holding more of his own weight, his eyes opened, so I run into the starcraft. Not about to let the Soarcastle sisters fly away without us.

  Bolting through metallic corridors, I remember every lesson and exam about this vessel. Quickly, I reach the bridge. Pass the captain’s chair, the communications and MEU station, and race down the few steps toward the cockpit.

  Before Gem settles in the second pilot chair, I push her out of the way and claim the seat as mine.

  Padgett shoots me a look from Pilot A but doesn’t start a stew. Harness buckled, joystick between my legs, I have control of the direction. Padgett controls the speed.

  Gem clips herself into the MEU chair and types on the pad, screens lighting up.

  Padgett flicks buttons, and the starcraft rumbles, air expelling from the base valves. Prepping for takeoff protocol.

  Where are they? I concentrate—their boots aren’t even on the ramp yet.

  “Collapsing ground wheels,” Padgett announces. “Preparing for hover module.” That includes retracting the boarding ramp.

  “Wait,” I say, panicked. “We have to wait!” Court staggers. Mykal hoists him up again. Through the windshield, the yellow lights keep flaring, and more bodies swarm the hallways, some leaking onto the launchpad.

  I lose breath at the thought of leaving them behind on Saltare-3 while I fly off to space.

  Padgett grips her joystick. “If we don’t launch now, they’ll lock the sky port. Then we’ll never be able to fly out.”

  “Wait!” I shout. “I’ll fly us in the sun if you don’t wait!” My threat does nothing but darken her glare.

  “Padgett,” Gem calls out, tenderness in her gaze. They can leave now. They’re together. They have everything they want, but I think of all the months I’ve lived with Gem. Of the dances and laughs we’ve shared, and I wonder if that means anything at all.

  Padgett shakes her head.