Holt pushed past them without another look, feeling the anger, letting it fuel him. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Masyn and Castor move for the Dais and the items there.
“One minute,” the voice announced.
Let it come, he thought. Let it come.
* * *
AVRIL FOUND HERSELF ON her feet with the rest of the crowd as the black-haired pirate tumbled down through the Turret, bouncing off the supports, twisting and turning until she crashed into the metal ground cover on the arena floor.
The impact was jarring, even from this far away.
It took Avril a moment to remember to breathe. The crowd went near silent. Even Tiberius seemed torn, staring down at Ravan’s unmoving figure. They had been close. Maybe he had even seen her as a surrogate for Avril, which wasn’t surprising. Ravan was much more like Tiberius than she was.
Or was she?
Avril had more reason to cheer Ravan’s death than most. The pirate had been the one who ripped her from her home, taken away everything she held dear, but in the course of their time together, Ravan had proven difficult to unconditionally hate, had shown herself to be much more than Avril originally assumed.
Ravan’s loss and sacrifice, combined with the performance of Castor and Masyn in the Eel, had done more to shake the foundations of the choices Avril was faced with than anything else. The more of this match she watched, the more she wished she was anywhere other than in this box.
In the distance, Avril could see Holt, Masyn, and Castor conferring around the Dais, watched as they took their items, and, specifically, she watched Holt take two. The action wasn’t lost on the others, there was only one reason Holt would burden himself with two items.
“They’re going to try to win,” Markel observed, a note of amazement in his voice. And something else too, something that sounded like respect. Even Petra was silent.
The single hand of the huge timer had almost completed its circle. The blaring, staticky voice counted down.
“Ten … nine … eight…”
The crowd didn’t chant along this time, they just watched the three figures moving toward the Turret, spreading out. For the first time since the event had begun, Avril felt nervous, watching the people below.
Gideon, she thought to herself. Watch over them.
“Three … two … one…”
The blaring tone of sound filled the arena. The Turret began to turn powerfully. And the crowd, silent until now, roared back to life, but this time they weren’t taunting the spectators or rooting for them to fail. They were cheering them. Or, at least, cheering for one. The huge swath of pirates that filled the arena chanted one word, over and over.
“Haw-kins! Haw-kins! Haw-kins!”
Next to her, Tiberius, the only figure still seated in the entire arena, slowly stood. His glare was pure heat, staring downward at the figure of Holt below, moving toward the Turret. Avril couldn’t be sure, but it seemed, even from this height … that Holt stared right back.
* * *
HOLT MOVED FOR THE Turret, gripping the strange shield and the tire iron tightly. He could hear the crowd chanting his name, the sounds echoing from one side of the Nonagon to the other. Part of him registered just how unheard of that was, but it was a dim realization.
He simply didn’t care. It wasn’t like before, though. He hadn’t closed down again—in fact, it was the opposite. There was pain for Ravan, and he felt it passionately, but somehow, her loss had galvanized him, had fully brought him back. It was sad that it took losing so much to get him to feel, to get him to fight.
Inspire them, Ravan had told him. He would do much more than that.
Holt stared up at Tiberius’s elegant box, glaring at the figures there. He saw one of them slowly rise, knew it was him, and Holt held his stare as he moved, the rest of the world bleeding away until there was nothing but the two of them. He had no idea how this would all resolve, but somehow, Tiberius would pay for the brilliant light he had snuffed out here today. Holt would see to it.
Then those thoughts were ripped away as Harrier’s first blade appeared.
It whizzed through the air, propelled down right toward him, and Holt leaped out of the way and it crashed into the ground with a thunderous impact.
The other blades were falling too, striking downward all over the arena. Masyn and Castor rolled nimbly, dodging the sharpened arms. They reminded Holt of the giant bars of some twisted typewriter, trying to cleave everything below them in two.
One of the arms, near Masyn, had a flashing yellow light near the center, marking the keyhole. Castor’s light hadn’t appeared yet, but it would soon enough.
Another arm flew toward Holt, and he avoided it as it split the metal frame of an old Volkswagen in two, spraying metal everywhere.
Holt looked and found where he was going. A red light flashed over the remains of a rusted tractor. Unlike before, he had two keyholes to unlock this time. The second was marked by a green light, the color of his shield, and it flashed from the windows of an old Winnebago, much farther away. Getting there in time, through the air blades, was going to be nearly impossible.
The screen whirred and showed 8. Holt started running for the tractor.
Arms fell and he dodged every one, kept moving. He reached the tractor and scanned it, the red light flashing on its top, but he didn’t see—
He heard the whir of the blade before he saw it. He barely had time to get the tire iron up, holding it with both hands while the blade slammed down.
The impact slammed him into the dirt. The crowd gasped, watching. He managed to block the thing with the iron, deflecting it up and off, and another one fell toward him. He rolled out of the way, right underneath the tractor.
There, nestled amid its rusted pieces and parts, was the receptacle for the iron.
Holt yanked it open, shoved it in, and shut the door.
The staticky, distorted tone filled the arena. It was quickly followed by a second blast.
Holt peeked out at the huge screen. Two of the corners were marked now, one green, one yellow. Masyn had gotten hers too. It helped, gave them some time back, but the screen still showed a 5.
Loud thunking sounds came from the near distance as new arms detached from the Turret. They were sharpened like the first set, but these whizzed through the air horizontally. The vertical arms were adjusted with clockwork precision to fall in between the spinning horizontal ones. Morbid as it was, it was an amazing mechanical design.
Masyn rode on top of one of the vertical arms, while Castor ran for a horizontal one, this one marked with a flashing blue light. It was the Helix’s keyhole, and he would no doubt get it.
About a hundred yards away sat Holt’s last goal: the Winnebago. The air between him and it was full of giant, whizzing razors. Conventionally there was no way he could reach it in time. But watching the horizontal arms spinning past, an idea occurred to him. An insane one, but the thought of it stirred no fear in him. He felt only resolution.
Inspire them …
Holt rolled out from under the tractor, while the screen above shuffled to 4.
He got to his feet … and just as quickly ducked as a blade soared right over his head. He could feel the wind, it was so close, and he stared after the thing as it whizzed away.
That was the one he needed, and he probably had ten seconds before it made its way back.
He scrambled out of the way of another arm, then blocked a second with the shield, felt the thing try and drive him into the ground like a tent stake, but he pushed it off and scrambled on top of the tractor and lay flat as another blade buzzed by.
Holt saw the arm he needed, coming for him at one hell of a velocity. He gripped the shield and shoved it in front of him, braced himself.
This was going to hurt.
It slammed into the shield at full force and sent Holt flying through the air like a cannonball. He heard the crowd roar its approval, felt the stands shake as they stomped in excitement.
&nb
sp; Holt hit the ground hard, rolled violently through the dirt, and the shield came loose, skittered away.
The screen above showed 2.
Painfully, he reached for the shield … then flattened himself as a low blade arced past. He had to hurry, he was almost spent.
Holt dove toward the shield, grabbed it and limped for the Winnebago. He risked a glance behind him and saw Castor, riding his own arm, spinning around the Turret, crawling toward the blue light.
It was about to be up to Holt.
He burst through the door of the RV and crashed against what was left of the old kitchen as one of the giant blades crashed down outside, barely missing him.
A blaring tone of sound announced Castor’s victory. Holt had about a minute, he guessed.
He scanned the interior of the old RV, and found it, sitting on top of the dashboard, a giant box big enough to hold the green shield. He pushed forward. He was going to make it, he was going—
A blade sliced right through the ceiling of the RV, splitting the whole thing in half in a shower of fiberglass and aluminum, and Holt barely jumped out of the way in time.
Splinters of wood cut into him, the ceiling buried him to the floor, pain laced through his body.
The hot sun filtered down now. The blade yanked back up, unblocked his path.
Holt crawled forward, holding the shield, moving for the dashboard and the receptacle there. Outside he heard the whizzing of blades, knew that same one was about to come back down and end him.
His vision blurred, his muscles screamed. With what strength he had left, Holt shoved the shield into the box and slammed the door shut …
… then collapsed, waiting for the arm to end it, to slice him in half like the RV.
But it didn’t. The tone echoed outside, signaling it was done.
The grinding of gears from the Turret silenced. The sound of whizzing blades went away. All he could hear was the crowd now, roaring with the power of a tidal wave.
Holt just wanted to lie there forever, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t finished. Not yet.
He crawled out of the Winnebago, shaky on his feet, barely able to walk. He was bleeding, he saw, in numerous places. His depth perception was gone, and it took a moment for him to realize it was because his left eye was swollen shut.
He kept moving all the same.
He saw Masyn and Castor nearby, saw them hug, saw them stare at each other awkwardly, then kiss, pulling each other close.
The crowd cheered louder than any Nonagon crowd Holt had ever heard, chanting one thing, over and over.
“Haw-kins! Haw-kins! Haw-kins!”
But he just kept moving. Kept moving until he had reached her again, where she’d fallen, where she’d left him. She was still there, eyes closed. She looked beautiful, peaceful, like she deserved.
Holt bent down and picked up Ravan’s body, held her close, started walking, carrying her to the other side of the arena, to where victors were always received. Everything was silent for him, all he heard was the sound of his own breathing. All he saw was the dark-haired girl in his arms.
Holt set Ravan gently down at the other end of the Nonagon, exactly where he promised her they would be. He smoothed the hair from her face. He waited for whatever was to come.
* * *
AVRIL WATCHED HOLT DELICATELY lay Ravan’s body almost directly below her, where the dirt of the Nonagon floor’s outer edge met the stands and the huge gate that allowed workers (and victors) to exit. Some of those workers approached him, and he glared up at them defiantly, daring them to even try and take Ravan away.
That gesture, combined with all the others, cemented her feelings for the Outlander, the one who had killed Archer. No one who was anything but decent could have done what Holt Hawkins had just done.
Next to her, Tiberius tore his hateful glare from Holt, and reached down for something. It was a radio, Avril saw, and her father was raising it up to speak. There was little doubt that he was about to order the snipers to fire. It meant everyone below would die, after all they’d been through, after all they’d achieved, and Avril felt her anger begin to build.
She looked at Quade. Quade looked back. “I’m ready to play that card now.”
Quade smiled. Then he drew his knife from his belt and tossed it to her.
She caught it, gripped the handle, spun … and plunged it into Tiberius’s heart.
The knife sunk deep, punching through the bone, finding its mark.
Tiberius gasped, staggered back. The radio fell from his hand. The inner circle stared in shock. Stunned cries echoed everywhere in the stands.
Guns, hundreds of them, all drew from their holsters … but a booming voice stopped them, echoing over the Nonagon’s loudspeakers.
“Stop!” Tiberius shouted as he fell to his knees, holding the microphone. Slowly, the guns lowered, silence filled the arena. “Avril … is my heir. And she is your heir. This … is the taking of power.”
Tiberius slowly collapsed to the floor. Weakly, he looked up at Avril. She stared back, in shock and horror. The action had been so quick, so instinctual, she hadn’t even had time to think, but now the results were in front of her, and she wasn’t sure she liked them.
“Wondered … what it would take…” Tiberius managed to say, his voice fading. He reached into a pocket, pulled out a small black cloth bag, and handed it to his adopted daughter. “I’m … proud of you, Avril.”
Then Tiberius Marseilles, like Ravan below, faded and was gone.
Avril stared down at him. The man had been a father to her in some ways, and a nightmare in others, but just as much as Gideon, he had made her the person she was. Avril looked around the stands, at the pirates, at the people of Faust, and they all stared back. There was a kinship in their gazes now, which pointed to the truth. One she had long denied.
She was one of them. She wondered if this had been Tiberius’s plan all along.
Avril opened the black bag, let the contents fall into her hands. Three rings, each made of glowing crystal, red, green, and blue, and they shone brightly, even in the sunlight.
Avril slipped them on, felt their slight, familiar vibrations. It felt normal, it felt like home.
She looked up at the inner circle and at Quade. They all stared back warily, some with hostility, but it was to be expected in this place, in this city, her second home. She would just have to get used to it.
“There will be changes,” Avril told them, looking each in the eye, letting them see her strength. “Any who feel they can do better should challenge me for power. It is our way. But in the meantime, I will profit all of you, and drag the Menagerie to glory whether you like it or not.”
And with that she ran forward and leapt straight off the side of the stands. The crowd gasped, watching her plummet. It felt fantastic, the free-fall, soaring through the air again. She touched her middle and ring fingers together, and sighed as the air crackled around her and her vision colored with bright cyan. Her descent slowed, she landed on the arena floor in a crouch, and her eyes found Masyn’s and Castor’s.
The three stared at one another, and then Avril nodded to them, with respect. They nodded back.
She moved toward Holt, who hovered defiantly over Ravan’s body, putting himself between her and the Menagerie guards that circled him. When he saw her, some of the fierceness died. They stared at each other a long moment, unspoken words passing between the two.
Then Avril held out her hand.
Holt slowly took it. She held his gaze … then held his hand up into the air, letting the crowd see them together.
The stands erupted in cheers and stomping that must have filled the air for miles. They all chanted the same two words, over and over.
“Avril!”
“Hawkins!”
“Avril!”
“Hawkins!”
“Avril!”
“Hawkins!”
Avril felt the lustful sensation of power flow through her. The rings on her fingers sparkl
ed. The reality she was faced with was one she never considered. She didn’t need to choose between one world or the other. She could have them both.
35. DRAGONS
ZOEY WAS BACK IN THE LIVING ROOM, the one with the fireplace and the soft furry rug. Aunt Rose sat on the chair, with her golden hair and the book in her hands, but this time it felt different. The imagery was smoother, more vibrant, and when Rose spoke, Zoey could now hear her.
“How could we forget those ancient myths that are at the beginning of all peoples?” the woman read, while Zoey stared up at her. “The myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses? Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses, who are only waiting to see us, just once, as beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest being, something helpless … that wants help from us.”
These were the words that had been blocked before, and Zoey knew why she could hear them now. The dream swirled, Zoey’s head ached, and everything went white as she was pulled up and out.
* * *
ZOEY WOKE IN THE strange bed with the red canopy, staring once more at the black, geographic room, with its wavy walls and strange mix of furniture, but it held little fear for her anymore. She knew who she was now. There was no longer a reason to be afraid, there was nothing they could do to her.
Her fears were for others now. People she loved would soon be fighting for their lives in a desperate attempt to reach her. She could stop them, keep them safe, but she wouldn’t. Zoey needed them here, needed their help and their sacrifice. She hated having to do it, but there was no other option. By choosing to spare the Nexus and not destroy the Assembly, she had started a new path. She just hoped they understood, hoped they didn’t hate her for it.
There was movement nearby, a quick intake of breath. The woman who had been Rose lay on the black couch. She had curled up into a ball, and Zoey could feel the emotions pouring off her. Revulsion, distress, fear, and … softer ones too. Longing, fondness, a melancholy sense of loss.
Two sets of emotions, from two very different personalities, both of which were trying to overpower the other. It was not going well.
Valley of Fires: A Conquered Earth Novel (The Conquered Earth Series) Page 33
