The Iolite Waypoint.
Where the Ore Cities funnel supplies from the Peaks to the Badlands to Godolia, a gaping mouth hewn straight through the mountainside. But Windup parts manufactured there are not usually escorted until the supply train makes it past the tree line; it is too complicated to have a mecha escort move through the forest.
That is … unless the cargo was deemed important enough.
“Are they building them?” I whisper, and I am shaking him, because his eyes are drooping, and I need him to say something else. “Are they building the Archangels?”
He seems sleepy, already cold under my touch, smile fixed there by the blatant panic lacing my tone. He’s enjoying his last moments.
“You and your filthy Gearbreakers,” he mumbles, euphoric. “You’re all going to burn.”
He goes limp. I rise, backing away, every nerve cold.
Eris and the crew are waiting outside. Besides Eris, they look unharmed. Happy, even, the fever of the fight still vibrant in their cheeks. When Eris looks at me, she is smiling.
Her expression freezes when I shake my head. The simple movement makes the world blur. I feel light-headed.
I cannot meet her eyes, so I drop them to the earth. The Pilot’s blood speckles my boot, still warm, and such a lovely, deep red. I could start laughing, and just never stop. “There is something you all need to know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ERIS
Usually I’m downright excited whenever the Gearbreaker Council convenes. The captain of each crew holds one of its seats—besides me, but that’ll change once I turn eighteen—plus Voxter at the forefront. Gathered around the curve of a semicircular table in the courtyard, they discuss any important matters regarding the life and welfare of the Gearbreakers as a collective, functional unit.
I’m kidding. They’re all absolute hotheads.
Jenny threatens to throttle no less than five different people at every meeting, and consistently gets her hands on at least one of them. The vein in Voxter’s forehead juts out a little farther each time someone speaks, and he’s hoarse from yelling by the end. Depending on the situation, the other captains will either join in on the screaming match or simply try to survive it.
My crew loves it. We make a day of it, a picnic blanket spread on the grass to look between the legs of the other crews standing around, two bags of popcorn—one made by Nova (burned) and the other made by Theo (edible)—and Xander with his small chalkboard so he can make and display a score when necessary (insults about Voxter, Jenny’s threats, verbal fights, physical fights).
But it’s not as fun this time.
We watch as Sona approaches the semicircular table, foliage-broken light smoothing over her curls, the perfectly held line of her shoulders, and we listen to her tell about the Archangels all over again. We already heard it once back in the Junkyard. Even though she was her typical collected self then, I still felt a bit ill by the end. Now, with all eyes on her, now that her voice is shaking just the slightest amount, I feel downright incurable.
When she’s finished, there’s silence. I don’t remember the last time a Council meeting was silent. It draws out for ten seconds, twenty, and then bursts. People start screaming, not out of fear or panic, but at Sona—the Pilot, the sadistic enemy—as she wipes away the frustrated tears that sprouted during her speech.
She swallows hard, then raises her head. She looks as furious as the rest of them.
“They’re going to have her head, Eris,” Arsen murmurs, standing beside me.
“Good,” Milo mutters.
I spin on him, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Are you really that dense, to think this was her doing? No, really, Milo, I want to know. When exactly did Sona mastermind this? You know, during the copious amount of free time she had between getting me out of the Academy living and breathing and dealing with your shit.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but Theo puts a hand on his arm. “Walk away, Milo.”
He’s smart enough to heed his brother’s warning, throwing me a disbelieving look before turning and disappearing into the crowd, steam practically rolling off his shoulders. I huff and brush the hair out of my eyes, glancing back at Sona. Another mini war has broken out among the captains.
“The Bot thinks…”
“Do we believe it…”
“Take care,” Jenny juts in, grinning wickedly. “You insult the Bot, and you insult my judgment.”
“Because your judgment is never skewed,” groans Voxter, taking a sip from his thermos. I’m positive its contents don’t just consist of coffee.
“Inklings party tonight,” I tell the crew.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Arsen asks skeptically.
Sona must feel me staring at her, because her eye flicks to me. I’m suddenly aware of the dull pain in my shoulder, nestled beneath two layers of stitches, salve, and bandages. Xander pried the bullet out of me after the Junkyard fight—the kid has a knack for that kind of stuff—and now, all I can think of is the memory of the snarl twisted into Sona’s features as she slid her blade across the guard’s neck.
She’s saved me twice now. I’m falling behind.
“And champagne,” I add. “We’re having champagne, too.”
I didn’t realize Xander had brought his chalkboard today. Now he scribbles for a second and holds it up for us to read: 10/10.
“Not for you,” I snap, and he starts to write something foul before June gently removes the chalk from his skinny fingers.
Theo rubs the back of his neck. “Junha’s crew has the liquor cellar key.”
“So go steal it. We’ve done it before.” I blink, an unexpected thought forming, then shake my head. “Go on, the lot of you,” I hiss, gesturing vaguely, then push my way through the crowd.
I hesitate at its edge. We’re not supposed to enter the semicircle unless the Council gives us permission. “Jenny—”
She doesn’t glance at me. She’s out of her seat, shouting accompanied by a variety of hand movements, equally expressive and offensive. “Hey, shit-for-brains, stop talking to me like that or I’ll—”
“Miss Shindanai—”
“Shove your judgments up your ass, Vox.”
“Jen, hey!” I try again, louder.
She ignores me; they all ignore me, except Sona, head still tilted in my direction, so I skip past that idiotic invisible line we’re not supposed to cross and stand beside her.
A glaze of tears clings to her right cheek, the bandage below her left brow darkening at its corner. My hand rises, and without thinking I brush the trail away with my thumb, one quick swipe up and across. The courtyard goes quiet once more; the Council is finally paying attention.
I dry my hands on my shirtfront, then say loudly, with much more confidence than I actually possess, “We should just destroy the pieces.”
Low murmurs bubble across the courtyard.
Voxter clears his throat. “Absolutely not.”
“We’ve sabotaged them before,” I press. “Each one of our gears proves that. This is no different. We destroy the pieces, and—”
“And what, Shindanai? How long will it be until they build more?”
My cheeks burn. “What else are we supposed to do, Vox? Sit back and do nothing? This … this buys us time to come up with a plan, at least!”
“Yes,” Sona says. “Before they release a new model of Windups, they are required to show a prototype to the Zeniths. They unveil it at the end of the year, on Heavensday. It is protocol. Tradition. It is holy to them to do so. That Argus was traveling to the Waypoint to escort the prototype pieces. They could leave as soon as tonight and be in the city by dawn.”
One of the captains leans forward. “No Gearbreaker was with the Bot when this Pilot allegedly spoke of this threat, correct? This could all just be an elaborate trap to lead us right into a slaughter.”
Gritting my teeth, I reach down and snatch Sona’s wrist, yanking it up. Her palm is still bloody; s
he hasn’t even had time to wash it.
“That’s Pilot blood right there, from a Pilot she killed, from a takedown she assisted in,” I growl. “Sona is a Gearbreaker, and her loyalties are to the Badlands. If Godolia intended to use her to find and slaughter us, they would’ve done it by now.”
“Not quite what they want to hear, Frostbringer,” Sona whispers low.
I toss her a jagged smirk. “I’m sure it’s not what Milo wanted to hear, either.”
She pulls her hand away, looking sheepish. “Ah. You heard our conversation today?”
“Yeah. I just can’t put it as eloquently as you did.”
Jenny smiles down at me. On all sides, people have erupted into argument again. “Vox says no, dear sister.”
I frown. “Tell him to shove—”
“What’s the alternative, Vox?” Jen says instead, sharp voice cutting through the chatter. “They build the Archangel. The Zeniths approve it. They make millions of them, and then Windups—too heavy to be transported on boats and planes now—can spill past the borders of the continent and over oceans. If Godolia hasn’t overtaken the whole world by now, the Archangels seal that future.”
Vox rubs his temples with weathered, calloused hands. “Shindanai, you negotiated for this Bot’s life, less than human as it is, and asked for its residence in our sanctuary. I have granted you this and will grant nothing more. I will not invest a single Gearbreaker life in a potential suicide mission off its word alone. This is the ruling. The Council is adjourned.”
“You haven’t voted,” I snap. “What kind of government are you running here?”
He meets my glare evenly as he rises from his seat. He wavers a little once he’s straight, and the thermos sloshes in his hand, held tight. “One I created, little girl.”
Anger rises hot and fast in my throat, and beside me, Sona straightens. This time when she speaks, her voice is anything but wavering. “Your lack of self-preservation is remarkable.”
Voxter bristles as I swallow my laugh. “Is that a threat, Bot?”
“I am being kind enough to provide you one, on Eris’s behalf.” Glitch looks at me out the side of her eye. “Otherwise, you would never see her coming.”
Voxter’s mouth falls open, and he snaps his head toward Jenny, who is barely restraining her laughter. Around us, the Hollows has dissolved into a murmured array of cackling amusement, even some hints of approval. If there’s anything we can agree on, it’s that getting under Vox’s skin makes for good entertainment.
“… sounds like a Gearbreaker, at least.”
“Well, if Jenny vouches for her…”
“I heard she pulled her eye right out of her head this morning…”
“… sole survivor of the Silvertwin Massacre, if that’s even possible…”
“I’m rescinding the agreement, Shindanai,” Vox spits to Jenny, then picks his head up, sweeping that storm-cloud-colored gaze across the crowd. “Grab the Bot. I want her at the bottom of the lake by nightfall.”
Jenny’s smile instantly widens, and in a voice equal parts thorns and rose petals, says, “Ah, yes, sure, go and toss her into the lake, all dismembered and whatnot. Then stop by my lab, where you’ll be taking her place, and I’ll pick you apart until I find something half as interesting as her.”
I nudge Sona, jutting my chin toward a space in the crowd. We weave through the courtyard—luckily, no one tries to take a stab at her, besides with a few dirty looks—and into the dorm. She pauses after the first flight of stairs.
“What?” I ask, turning back.
She stares up at me from the landing, shifting her feet. “You believe me, right, Eris?”
Why wouldn’t I? is the first thing that comes to mind, but the question has a million different answers. Plausible, logical answers that I wrestle with every time I look at her. I bite my lip at the thought. “About the Archangel?”
She laughs drily. “Sure. About the Archangel.”
“Yeah, I believe you.” Now I shift my feet. I’m two steps up above her, almost reaching her height. “I’m sorry they don’t. You couldn’t rescue all of them from the Academy, I guess.”
“Yes. That would have made it easy.”
“For them to trust you?”
“For them to see me.” Her fingers flutter up, brushing against the edge of her eye bandage. “Past this. Past everything.”
I lean up against the metal railing. “Why do you care if they see you?”
“Because no one ever sees me!” Glitch says, and her voice cracks. Shock spreads across her face—I don’t think she expected it. Her cheeks flush pink, and she shakes her head. “I am sorry, never m—”
One step, two, landing. I’ve lost the higher ground. I look up at her. “No, not ‘never mind.’ Don’t swallow your words. Out with it, Glitch.”
“I did this to myself, Eris,” Sona murmurs. “It’s my fault that they see me like they do, so it is my fault if they do nothing about the Archangel. I thought that, if I became a Pilot, I could do what you do, could take them apart from the inside.” She laughs again, mirthless, shaking her head. “I was my only possession, and I gave that up.”
I frown, eyeing her up and down. “You look like you’re all here to me. Right where you’re supposed to be.”
Sona doesn’t answer, or crack a smile like I’d intended. In her silence, the air feels suddenly still. A window facing the courtyard trickles lazy, late-afternoon light into the stairwell, tree leaves shivering against the glass. Fidgeting, I pick a fraying seam in the front pocket of my overalls.
“Doesn’t it feel like it, Sona?” I ask quietly, tugging at the loose string.
“I do not know,” she says. Her eye, previously set to the concrete of the wall, drifts over to meet me, light crossing over her cheekbone to spark gold across the hazel ring. My fingers still, and go a little cold; maybe it’s because all the heat goes to my face. “I feel better, though.”
“Good—yeah, okay, good,” I say stiffly, seemingly lacking any better words. I force myself to smooth my palm against my thigh; I’ve already had to beg Arsen too many times to stitch my pockets back together.
“What are we going to do about the Archangel, Eris?” Sona murmurs as we trace up the stairs again.
“Not nothing, that’s for sure. I’d bet Jenny’s coming up with something.”
At that moment, a rumble of feet sounds from above. Nova’s familiar shriek of glee pierces the air. A second later she whizzes by, a blond blur sliding down the steel railing, Theo and Arsen right behind her. Trailing them are a couple of boys from Junha’s crew.
“Give it back!” one of them screeches before the front door slams shut.
Juniper and Xander are waiting at the entrance to our rooms. Xander holds up the liquor cellar key and hands it to me with a small smile.
“Honeypot?” Sona guesses.
“She’s catching on fast,” Juniper observes, and holds the door open.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
SONA
“It’s supposed to be a party, Glitch,” Nova points out.
“I am aware.”
“So have a little fun, maybe?”
She perches on the armrest of the love seat, legs folded to her chest, peering down as I work on cleaning my new blade. My feet are bare against the hardwood floor of the common room, warmed by the heat of the roaring fireplace beside me. The blood that caked my hands has been scrubbed off, leaving my palms untainted and soft.
I am at ease, I tell myself.
Like I do not hear that Pilot’s voice underneath every comment, every laugh.
I focus on the sword in my hands, the reality of its weight, the security ingrained in its metal. Tiny laurel leaves detail the knuckle and loop guards. I rub the oil rag down the length of the blade, watching Nova’s reflection emerge from beneath the grime. “What makes you think I am not having fun?”
The sword will need only a little sharpening, but otherwise, the condition is pristine. Another impossibility,
the kind that seems to run rampant lately. It is a weapon equal parts indulgent and ridiculous in its degree of beauty.
Speaking of.
Eris lies flat on the common room’s table, legs dangling over the edge, head listed to the side, reading a worn paperback. Juniper hovers above, green hair cloaking her face as she works under the music trickling out through the wall speaker, the single needle dipping and retracting with an ease that only comes from repetition.
“I get four,” Eris reminds Juniper, using her thumb to flip a page. Her sight touches on me for a moment, and I drop my focus back onto the sword. “One Phoenix, one Argus, and two fucking Valkyries.”
“Don’t let it get to your head or anything,” Theo says, finger skimming over his new tattoo.
“Shut up. I deserve it.”
Theo’s sleeves are tucked back, gears pulled into full view, coiling in spirals down both wrists. He went first. Xander went second, adding to the neat row that spills down his spine. Then Nova, whose tattoos blot around her shoulder blades with the barest resemblance to wings. After her, Arsen, who added his new gear to the collection on the back of his right hand, and then Juniper, who added hers to her left. Then Milo, then Eris. I sat on the love seat, cleaning my blade.
Her gaze lands on me. The rest of theirs follow.
I fold the rag neatly in my lap. “Yes?”
Eris shoos Juniper away from her and sits upright, revealing the four new tattoos along her collarbone, black as night within the red marks. She dog-ears a page of the book and slaps it down on the table.
“Your turn, Glitch.”
“Hells no,” Milo says instantly.
“It was her takedown as much as the rest of us,” Arsen says.
Nova frees the toffee pop from her lips and waves at him. “It’s an Inklings party, Milo. People. Get. Inked.”
“Gearbreakers get inked,” he snaps, rising from his seat. Eris stays in her cross-legged position, watching with what would be perceived as disinterest if not for the fists in her lap.
“I may be blind,” she muses, “but I could have sworn that Sona was the last one out of the Argus after it collapsed. Remind me, are we not counting a collapsed Windup and a killed Pilot as a takedown?”
Gearbreakers Page 20
