by Kyla Stone
He scanned the crowd, his heart in his throat. Micah was there, covered in dirt and blood but unharmed. Theo and the redheaded girl high-fived each other, faces rapt with awe and triumph. He recognized several other Patriots fighters in various states of health. He didn’t see Silas.
Gabriel’s chest tightened. Cleo was there, surrounded by a cluster of her men. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring up at Sloane, rage and loathing burning like brands in her dark eyes.
He made his way down the steps toward her—warily, but still. If he could talk reason into her, calm her down. It was her grief that had made her say the things she did.
The Patriots had won. Surely that changed things.
“Willow!” Micah’s voice drew his attention. Willow and Finn were striding down the ramp of the nearest airjet. Micah ran across the snow-and-blood-trampled ground and embraced them.
Another man exited behind them. Gabriel recognized the thick silver hair and confident gait of Senator López.
Gabriel didn’t have the energy to marvel at the sudden appearance of a man he’d thought long dead. Today was a day of miracles, as his brother would say.
López strode purposefully across the square and up the marble steps toward Sloane. The soldiers parted before his confident air of authority. “I am Enrique López,” he announced to the crowd. “A former U.S. senator for the fine city of New York. General Daugherty knows me well.”
The general nodded gruffly and gripped López’s hand in a firm handshake. López clapped him on the back and murmured something in his ear. General Daugherty nodded.
López turned back to the crowd. “I have no plans to attempt to take over the leadership of the Sanctuary. In fact, I suggest we set up a new system of governance altogether—one based on community, not power and tyranny.”
He gazed at President Sloane, who stood between four guards, her shoulders slumped, her hair a tangled mess. She’d aged ten years in the last hour. “Amanda Sloane, you are removed from your duties as president of the United States. Please arrest this woman and read her rights.”
General Daugherty twisted Sloane’s hands behind her back and slapped her in handcuffs. “You are under arrest for crimes of war committed against your own people.”
Gabriel was only a few feet from Cleo now. He pushed through the crowd. “Cleo.”
She spun. Her face contorted in grief and rage. “You.”
“Sloane will get justice,” he said. “We’ll make sure of it.”
She stared, her eyes unfocused, almost not seeing him. She was trembling, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “That woman planned the Grand Voyager attack. She released the Hydra Virus, slaughtering billions. My mother is dead because of her. She doesn’t get to live. I won’t let her live.”
Jericho had promised to bring Gabriel to justice once, no matter what. Jericho had believed in the law, not revenge. So had Nadira. So did Micah. They believed in a better way. Gabriel did, too. He had to. “She’ll be tried and convicted for her crimes. She’ll never see the light of day again, I promise.”
“That’s not enough!” Her eyes flashed with fury, her scar contorting the right side of her face, her lips twisting. “I won’t wait that long.”
He reached for her arm. “Cleo!”
But she jerked from his grasp and surged forward. She slammed through the crowd, heading for the marble steps, for Sloane. Gabriel shoved after her, jostling the bodies barring his way. He barely felt them. His only thought was stopping Cleo.
Behind him, he heard Theo shouting, his voice edged with dread. “Cleo! Stop!”
Two of the soldiers flanking Sloane noticed Cleo stumbling toward the steps. One of them shouted. The other lifted his pulse gun.
Cleo didn’t see them. Or if she did, she was so blinded by rage that she didn’t care. She yanked her blade from its sheath at her thigh and lifted her arm, about to fling it at President Sloane’s chest.
A pulse blast shattered the marble at Cleo’s feet, gouging a smoking crater the size of a soccer ball. Cleo faltered. The knife clattered to the floor. A second shot rang out.
The crowd gasped in shock and alarm.
“Cleo!” Theo screamed.
“NO!” Gabriel didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He launched himself at Cleo. He enfolded her in his arms and wrestled her to the ground.
“Let me go!” She fought him, punching with her elbows, flinging her head back, writhing and howling with the caged fury of a mountain lion. Tiny explosions of pain erupted across his battered body as her fists and elbows hit their marks.
He refused to let go.
“I’ve got her!” he cried desperately to the soldiers. “Don’t shoot!”
General Daugherty lifted one hand, halting the soldiers. They kept their guns leveled at them, but the crack of a bullet didn’t come.
They sank to their knees together. Cleo was strong and ferocious, but he held on, crushing her to his chest. She was filled with an unquenchable rage, willing to destroy anything to sate it.
Hatred destroyed from the inside out. It was a rot. A cancer.
He’d been there, too. But he’d found a way back Through the grace of God and man, through friends like Nadira who’d cared for him when he least deserved it, through Micah and Amelia, who’d managed to forgive him and love him through everything.
“Once, someone did this for me,” he murmured into her braids. “Now I’m doing this for you.”
“No!” She stiffened, every muscle going rigid. “I have to do this!”
“There’s more to you than this!” He gripped her tighter. Cleo was a flame searing the night sky. She was a fierce adversary. She was also his friend.
She deserved life. She deserved a chance to change, to learn, to grow, to become something more. To build something better.
She deserved the chance to find out who she was now.
Theo wheeled up beside them. He was shaking, his pallor ashen. Tears mingled with the snow wetting his face. He reached over and placed his hand on Cleo’s shoulder. “You’ve done enough, sister,” he said, his voice raw. “It’s time to be done. We won. It’s over.”
Finally, she yielded. Her taut limbs went limp. She sagged against Gabriel. Her face went slack, her expression soft and impossibly young. Snowflakes landed on her nose, her cheeks, her eyelids. He glimpsed the child she’d been before the pain and the abuse and the hatred.
“It won’t be easy, but you’re strong enough. I know you are.”
She stared at him, her eyes glassy. He didn’t know how much she understood, or if she ever really would. He hoped she would.
Wetness slicked his hands. Melting snow, he thought for a moment. He pulled his hands from Cleo’s sides. His fingers were stained red. He looked at Cleo, his heart sinking like a stone.
Theo stared at Gabriel’s hands in growing horror. “Cleo! Where are you hurt?”
She touched her stomach. Blood oozed from a tiny hole in her lower right side. The second shot. It had struck her after all. “I’m fine,” she murmured, her teeth gritted. “I’ll be fine.”
The wound was from a bullet, not a pulse blast, or else she’d already be dead. It probably hurt like hell, but it wouldn’t be fatal—as long as she received medical treatment immediately.
A wound like this would have been a death sentence out in the ruins of America, anywhere outside the safety of these walls.
But this was the Sanctuary. There were medications, electricity, med-bots, surgeons. She would be okay. She would live.
“She needs a doctor!” Theo cried.
General Daugherty nodded. “Take her to the hospital,” he ordered his men.
Two soldiers descended the steps to escort her into custody. Gabriel released her. She pulled herself to her feet on her own, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, her chin held high though she was trembling. Theo refused to leave her side.
Before the soldiers led her away, she turned to Gabriel and pressed her closed fist over her h
eart in the New Patriot salute.
Gabriel put his hand over his heart—but an open palm, not a closed fist. Not for war, but something more, something better.
He’d done his best to reach her. He’d tried to bring her back with him, to save her the way Nadira had saved him.
But the hard part was up to her. Because in the end, she had to save herself.
Then Cleo smiled. A real one, without bitterness or malice.
He watched her go, his ribs and head aching. Another set of soldiers led Sloane across the square, presumably toward the Sanctuary prison. Her head was bowed, her shoulders slumped in defeat.
His body throbbed with a bone-deep weariness. Everything hurt. And yet, he felt somehow lighter, buoyant. He gazed across the square, the reality of the moment finally sinking in.
Victory was theirs. They had won. They had really done it. Joy and relief and triumph flushed through him. The Sanctuary was free. The cure was free. They could save all the survivors. They could save everyone. They could—
“Gabriel,” Amelia said from far away.
He looked up at her, a half-smile still on his face.
She stood at the edge of the marble stairs above him. She swayed slightly. Her face was white. Too white. Her eyes met his, wild and terrified.
Alarm pierced him like an arrow.
It was only then that he noticed the fresh blood at her temple. It stained the crown of her head and leaked down the left side of her face. “Gabriel, my head. I think I’m—I don’t feel good—”
Her body began to tremble, to shake. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head.
“Amelia!” he cried.
Amelia collapsed.
33
Micah
Micah clawed his way up the steps. He fell to his knees beside Amelia’s seizing body. Her limbs jerked and flopped, spasms shaking her from head to toe. Spittle welled in the corners of her mouth.
He turned her carefully on her side, making sure she didn’t choke on her tongue. He prayed frantically, helplessly. Don’t let her die, God, not now. After all this. Not now, when we’re finally safe.
Gabriel knelt on her other side, his expression frozen in horror. His shoulder was stained red. Blood dripped from a gash in his forehead. His bottom lip was split, the left side of his face swollen, purplish bruises in the shape of fingers ringing his throat.
“Are you okay?” Micah asked.
“I’m fine,” Gabriel grunted. “Help her.”
After an endless minute, Amelia’s body stiffened, then went still.
He checked her pulse. Erratic but present. Her heart was beating. She was alive. But how badly had the seizure damaged her brain?
He shrugged off his jacket and used the sleeve to stop the blood flowing from a jagged cut across her left temple. Blood streaked her hair, her forehead, her neck. Her red silk dress was tattered and torn, stained with splotches of blood and smears of soot, ash, and dirt.
“She got hit in the head,” Gabriel said.
“Amelia!” Willow raced up the steps. She dropped to her knees beside Micah.
Finn lumbered up behind her, his face drawn as he cradled his right arm in a sling. “What can we do to help?”
Micah shook his head, momentarily unable to speak.
“She needs a doctor,” Fiona said, coming up behind them, her face so pale her freckles stood out like drops of blood. “She could have bleeding in the brain. I’ll find someone.”
“Thank you,” Micah managed as Fiona darted away.
Several long, terrible minutes passed. Amelia didn’t wake up. The cold snaked inside him, chilling him to the core. Wet flakes melted in his hair and dripped down the lenses of his glasses. He didn’t wipe it away. The snow sucked the sound out of the world; everything seemed muted, distant.
The four of them knelt around her, standing vigil, oblivious to the rest of the Sanctuary, to the war newly won. No one felt victorious. No one felt anything but dread and fear and desperation.
Micah made every deal he could think of with God in those minutes. If only she would live, if only she would be okay, he would trade his life for hers in a heartbeat.
He could only watch her, fighting the feeling that he was teetering on the edge of a vast pit, about to fall. He loved her. He loved her with his whole heart. If something happened to her, if she didn’t wake up, if she wasn’t okay…
“Where’s Silas?” Gabriel asked gruffly. “He should be here when she wakes up.”
Micah stiffened.
Willow caught the despair in Micah’s eyes. The blood drained from her face. “Micah! What happened?”
Micah took off his wet glasses. He held them limply in his hands. He stared down at Amelia with glassy, unfocused eyes. The words crumbled like ash in his mouth. “The only way to deactivate the last cannon was to do it manually. Silas, he—he volunteered. There were over twenty soldiers. But he made it inside the tower. He did it. If he hadn’t, that cannon would’ve destroyed the airjets. Sloane’s soldiers would have executed us. We wouldn’t be here right now.”
“That’s not an answer!” Willow cried. She seized his upper arm, squeezing so hard her nails dug through his shirt into his skin. “Where is he?”
Micah winced. Sorrow swelled deep inside him. “Two soldiers with pulse guns went up the tower right behind him. I was covering him. I shot the first one. But the second—he got to Silas before I could stop him.”
“You’re wrong,” Willow said. “You made a mistake. Things happen so fast in a battle. He’s just hurt. He’s not—”
Micah shook his head with quiet finality. “He’s dead.”
Willow’s eyes went wide and glittering with shock. “We won. We did it. It’s not supposed to be this way. It’s not supposed to end like this.” Her face crumpled. “He’s not supposed to die…”
Finn wrapped his good arm around Willow. “I’m so sorry.”
For a moment, she froze. She sucked in deep, shuddering breaths, shaking her head. Then she wilted into him, letting him crush her to his broad chest.
“I know,” Finn said into her hair, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I know.”
“You did your best.” Gabriel reached out and touched Micah’s shoulder. “After Amelia is stabilized, I’ll go find him. We have to—he needs to be buried.”
Micah wiped fiercely at his eyes. He shoved his glasses into place with quivering fingers. This was the price of war. Of violence and greed and selfishness. Good people died. Even in victory, the cost was always devastating. It was always too high. Always. “I’ll go with you.”
“And us,” Finn said for him and Willow both.
They huddled around Amelia’s prone body, their shoulders hunched against the white snow falling like a shroud upon the battle-scarred ground. They watched, waited, prayed. God, don’t let her die, Micah prayed again and again, his lips moving, silent and feverish.
They had fought and endured and sacrificed. They’d lost too much already. They couldn’t bear anything more.
Amelia’s eyelids fluttered. A minute later, her eyes truly opened. She was groggy, unfocused, barely conscious. Her gaze flitted, wild and frantic, as she searched for someone she knew, searched for an anchor to bring her back to herself—
It took her a long time to settle on each face surrounding her, her gaze clearing as she recognized her friends—Micah, Gabriel, Willow, and Finn.
“Benjie,” she croaked.
“He’s safe on one of the airjets,” Finn said softly, because Willow was beyond speaking. “Celeste is at the compound. Your mother is safe inside the governor’s quarters.”
Amelia’s pale eyes darkened. “My father,” she rasped.
“Dead,” Gabriel said. “Cerberus and Sloane have been arrested.”
Amelia blinked. Her gaze flitted past them, still searching.
Micah’s stomach lurched. It was too much. He wasn’t sure if he could bear it.
A line appeared between her white-blond brows. “My brother.”
“You need your rest now—” Gabriel started, but Micah cut him off with a sharp look. She needed to know. It wasn’t right to keep it from her, not even now.
“I’m so very sorry, Amelia,” he said gently, his throat raw. He would rather have taken a bullet than speak the words. But he said them anyway. “Silas didn’t make it.”
She made a sound like a wounded animal.
“Fiona’s coming with two medics and a stretcher,” Finn said.
Micah barely heard him. He didn’t take his eyes off Amelia’s stricken face. He longed to pull her into his arms, to sweep her tangled, bloodied hair back from her face and offer whatever comfort he could give her. But he didn’t know if she wanted it.
Her desperate gaze darted around the circle, then settled on Micah, her eyes huge and raw and full of pain. She reached for him. With a soft moan, she slipped her arms around his neck and buried her head against his chest.
Startled, for a frozen moment, Micah didn’t move, his hands limp and uncertain at his sides. He couldn’t ease her pain, couldn’t change the past or bring Silas back. All he could do was hold her. He enveloped her in his arms, cradling her like a small child, and pulled her to him.
“Tell me something…beautiful.” Amelia whimpered, her eyelids fluttering. She was slipping back into unconsciousness. “Please…”
Micah looked down at her, his heart filling with too many things to name them all—grief and sorrow and regret, but also hope and relief, and something else, something deep inside his soul, for this girl that he couldn’t imagine living without.
She couldn’t hear him anymore. But it didn’t matter. He said the words anyway. “I love you.”
34
Amelia
Amelia spent the next three days under observation in the Sanctuary hospital. She’d suffered a cerebral contusion and bleeding between her brain and skull. It took nine stitches to bind the cut at her temple. Despite her medication, she’d suffered a post-traumatic seizure caused by the injury to her head in the battle with Bale.
