by Emily Colin
To my surprise, I reach the roof well before Ari. I pull myself over the edge and look down to see him six feet below me, Daníel and another bellator in hot pursuit. One of them grabs for his legs, and he kicks out, connecting with a thump that knocks the man loose. The bellator he’s kicked—Jakob Riis, I see as moonlight illuminates his face—loses his grip and falls to the cobblestones below, landing with a sickening crack that portends broken limbs, a fractured skull, or worse. He’s no longer a threat, but Daníel is still climbing, gaining steadily on Ari. I consider throwing my knife or one of my chakrams to shake him loose, but with the wind kicking up the way it is, I could miss...and then I’d be out a weapon, not to mention having given the bellators on the ground something to use against me.
I can’t just stand here. If Daníel doesn’t succeed in pulling Ari down, they’ll have soldiers in the building soon, racing up the stairs to the rooftop door. Desperately, I look around, searching for a solution, finding none. And then in a moment of inspiration, I uncoil the rope from Benedikt’s weapons belt, anchor it to one of the smokestacks that rises from the rooftop, and toss the remaining length over the side. “Ari!” I yell.
His head jerks up in time to see the rope sway to the left of him, then the right. His eyes meet mine. And then, in an act of perfect trust, he lets go and grabs for it.
The rope snaps taut as it takes his full weight, making a high-pitched whining sound audible even over the rising cry of the wind. I’m petrified it won’t hold him, that it will pull me over the edge too, both of us hurtling down to die on the stones. Grimly, I dig in my feet, haul back on the rope with everything I have, and pray. By the Architect, don’t let me lose him.
It holds, and I let out a harsh breath. My lungs ache from climbing, from our dash through the alleyway, but I pay them little mind. I will need more from them before this night is done; it will do me no good to dwell on the ways in which I am already compromised. I grit my teeth against the pain in my chest, the needle-sharp jab of the rope fibers into my palms.
Then some of the weight is gone. I look down and see Ari leaning out from the wall, his feet braced hard on the stone, climbing upward for all he’s worth. For a brief instant I feel relief—and then the rope jerks again, and I realize what I’ve done. Below him, Daníel has also gotten hold of it and is making his way upward at an alarming pace. Ari kicks at him, trying to dislodge him the way he did Jakob, but Daníel is a far better climber—as I know from the hours we’ve spent in training, watching him scale cliffs as effortlessly as if he was walking across flat ground. He takes evasive action, swinging to the left and right in an attempt to shake Ari free, then plants his feet and renews his assault.
The weight on the rope has doubled, pulling me closer to the edge. I have to brace my feet against the low wall at the edge of the roof to keep myself from going over, but I can still see the top of Ari’s head, getting closer as he pulls himself stubbornly upward. His hands come into view just as he lifts his boot and stomps down on Daníel’s face, breaking his nose. Blood streams everywhere, but Daníel doesn’t let go.
Bracing myself against the knee wall, I reach out with both hands and pull Ari over the top. The moment he lands, I yank my dagur free. And then I lean over and look down at Daníel. He stares up at me, the flesh beneath his eyes already blackening. Blood masks the lower half of his face.
“You wouldn’t,” he says as I raise the knife.
“The Commonwealth grieves for you, Daníel Eleazar,” I reply. And then I slice the rope and watch him fall.
37
Ari
As we race across the rooftop of the garment factory, I feel the first drops of rain hit my face. Soon it’s pelting down without mercy, drenching both of us. Eva rubs at her eyes to clear them and points at the roof of the cannery. There’s about a ten-foot gap between the buildings. “You think we can make it?” she shouts over the rising wind.
I nod, not wanting to waste my breath on a reply. Squinting through the sheets of rain, I gauge the distance, suck in air, and break into a sprint. Beside me, I see Eva do the same. We are both running full out, Eva pacing me easily despite her shorter stride. By the Architect, I pray, let it be enough.
My feet skid on the asphalt, straining for purchase. Fifteen feet from the edge, I glance sideways at Eva. Her fists are clenched, her braid streaming out behind her. Rain plasters her torn clothes to her body, cuts patterns into the dirt streaking her face, but she has never looked more beautiful. We are meant for each other, Eva and I, and I promise myself if we survive this mess, I will find the courage to tell her so.
Twelve feet. Ten.
“On my signal,” I tell her, forcing the words out between breaths. She nods to show she understands, and bares her teeth in a fierce grin.
Eight feet. Six. Five.
“Now!” I yell, and on command she launches her body into the air, hurling herself into the gap between the buildings as if she was born for the purpose. I follow, and for an awful, exhilarating moment we are weightless, borne by momentum and battered by the wind. Then we are over the cannery, and falling. The roof comes rushing up and smacks me, hard. For a second I can’t breathe. On my hands and knees, I fight for air. “Eva?”
“Here.” The voice comes from above me, and, startled, I lift my head to see her standing there, soaked but otherwise uncompromised. I gape, bewildered.
“How—”
“It doesn’t matter.” She grabs one of my bloodied hands, dragging me to my feet. “They’ll be up here in a second. Run.”
Even as the practical part of me wonders how in the nine hells she managed to make that jump and land on her feet without a scratch, the rest of me is already in motion, sprinting across the roof toward the looming gray form of the education center. My hand tightens on Eva’s, and she squeezes back, her grip so tight, I feel my bones grate. “Where can we go?” she shouts.
“I’m thinking,” I yell back, and yank my hand free as we approach the edge of the cannery’s roof. “Three...two...one...now.”
She leaps on my signal, the perfect apprentice. I have a second to see she’s landed in a crouch, fingertips touching the ground, before I barrel into her, knocking her off-balance. For a moment she is under me, wide dark eyes staring up into mine, eyelashes studded with raindrops like a thousand tiny stars. Then we’re up and running again, weaving across the roof of the education center, through jutting chimneys and the skeletal structures the fifth-formers built this past week to study the impact of wind energy. All around us they whir and buzz and turn, metallic propellers spinning and joints creaking with the force of the storm. We race across the roof and I think about what the Bellatorum will expect—for us to make a stand? For us to flee?
They outnumber us, have better weapons and the Commonwealth’s cameras at their disposal. We can’t make it into the tunnels, that’s for sure. And even if we could, we’d be trapped like rats in a barrel. Which leaves us with only one option.
We will have to attempt an overland escape, through the forest, where the Bastarour patrol. I’ve seen them, of course, but from afar. I’ve never had to fight one, don’t know anyone who has and lived. There’s a reason the Commonwealth sends exiles into the forest—if they don’t opt for death by the sword, they can take their chances and risk being torn apart by monsters.
The exiles die every time. I ought to know; I’ve helped drag their bodies free, or what’s left of them, as a warning to the rest of us. The Bastarour bring their kills back to the edge of the woods—they can’t go any further, confined by their solar-powered shock collars—like a cat rewarding its owner with the present of a mouse. The Executor always seemed to find it endearing. Things, I’d tell myself as we wrapped shredded torsos and ragged-edged bones in white plastic. Not people. Objects. Not real not real not real.
“All right,” I say to Eva, surprised by how calm I sound. “We go down here, on the fire escape. It’s concealed from the street, which should give us a chance. When we make it to the groun
d, we’ll run for the woods. It’s the only way.”
If this surprises Eva, she doesn’t show it. She nods once, and drops my hand. Her nails have broken the skin; the rainwater stings where it hits the cuts. “Let’s go,” she says.
We make our way down the rickety fire escape, keeping to the shadows. Each creak and groan of the old iron ladder sounds loud as a scream, but there’s nothing we can do about it but climb faster and hope the storm will mask our descent. The wet metal is slick under my hands, and I have to wipe my palms on my pants to keep from slipping. There used to be railings here, but they have long since crumbled away. No one uses these fire escapes anymore, and they’ve fallen into horrible disrepair.
I climb as fast as I dare, descending into the darkness of the narrow, twisted alley. Above me, metal rattles as Eva follows. The wind batters the fire escape, and beneath my hands the last ladder shudders, the metal shrieking as it struggles to support our combined weight. I reach the bottom, five feet above the ground, grasp the bar below the last rung, and jump.
Behind me, Eva lands in a puddle, spraying water and mud over both of us, then grabs my arm and pulls. My back smacks into the rough stone of the library hard enough to drive the air out of my body, but I don’t fight her. Beside me, she has gone still, an animal hunted in the woods.
I squint, peering through the rain, but see nothing except the confines of the alley, its cobblestones cracked and its walls rain-slick, trash cans lined up at its mouth like squat, weary sentinels. And then I hear what must’ve warned Eva: Soldiers thundering by in search of us, splashing through the mud and then thumping on the concrete. The air-raid siren starts up in long, loud whoops, the one they always use for evacuation drills—except this time it is no drill. This time they’re hunting us, and we’ll be lucky to escape.
The siren gives five long, ululating cries. Then there are ten seconds of silence, as there always are, and in them Efraím’s voice rings out across the square. “Bellator Marteinn, Exile Westergaard, show yourselves. It will be easier for all of us if you do.”
Exile Westergaard, I think, and wince. Of course that’s what they’re calling me; I wouldn’t expect anything else. Still, it hurts to hear. I thought I was beyond caring what Efraím thought of me, but the ingrained need for his approval is not so easily dismissed.
I am not weak, I tell myself. I am not his.
Standing in the murky dark, flattened against the building, I let go of my fear. Tapping Eva’s arm, I tilt my head toward the warren of buildings that indicate the nursery, the playground, and gardens. They’ll expect us to go this way, but it’s the best cover we have. If we can make it into the hills between where we stand and the woods where the Bastarour roam, we can lose them. And if we make it into the forest, then we may lose ourselves—but I am reasonably certain they won’t follow...or if they do, they’ll be facing the same dangers we are. They won’t kill the Bastarour—that would be foolish, compromising their own security. Which means they’ll have to evade them, just like us.
Cautiously I edge toward the mouth of the alley. The siren has stopped shrieking; it was a warning, no more. In the comparative silence I listen, hard, but hear nothing other than the renewed fury of the storm. On the Library’s outdoor screen, our faces play in a continuous loop, below them the words Wanted for treason. Extremely dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend. Alert nearest bellator immediately. Clearly they view us as the greatest of threats. It would be flattering if they didn’t want to kill us.
We keep to the shadows, ducking between buildings, using the alleyways to our advantage. But the people tracking us are the same ones who have trained us, and there is only so much we can do. I know the moment the bellators catch sight of us, past the alley that skirts the machine shop, at the edge of Clockverk Square. There are shouts, and then a knife comes flying toward me. I duck and it pierces the vid screen that covers the southwest wall of the machine shop, slicing straight through the ‘a’ in treason, its handle shuddering with the force of the throw.
I glance around for the source of the weapon and see no one. In fact, I am alone. Eva has faded into the darkness, giving herself the advantages of camouflage and surprise.
There is a noise on the other side of Clockverk Square, the scraping of shoes against stone. I pivot, slower than usual in my sodden clothes, and see Efraím standing under the streetlight, making no effort to conceal himself. Our eyes meet, and in his I see nothing but a vast, indifferent emptiness. His hands move to his belt, going for his shuriken. No matter what his orders might be, he has no intention of taking us alive.
It is a war of wills, as it has always been between us. Determination, tempered by cunning and skill. And I’ll be damned if I’ll let him win.
The other Bellatorum flank their leader, fanning out behind him. He is the tip of the arrowhead, the sharp point that will cut us to bits if we let him.
Let justice be done, even should the world perish, I think. And pull my chakram free.
Efraím’s hand rises, the shuriken gripped tight in his fist. I hold my breath, steadying myself, and let my vision narrow to its target. Deep inside, I feel a pang of regret. It’s different to kill a man in a fight than to take his life in cold blood, much less a man who mentored me and molded me into a warrior. But I cannot let that interfere with what I have to do.
I draw back my arm to let the chakram fly—and see a flash of silver slice through the air, heading straight for Efraím. It hits his weapon hand straight on and sends the shuriken hurtling into the night, where it embeds harmlessly in a tree.
Efraím’s hand is bleeding. He cradles it to his chest, looking around for his assailant. “Hold!” he says sharply to the bellators behind him. “To me, the lot of you.”
I look down at my hand, wondering if I have thrown the chakram without intending to. But no, I am still clutching it, my knuckles white and streaming water. Efraím and I stare at each other across the expanse of the square, and in my heart I feel a small spark of triumph.
Then Eva emerges from the shadows behind me. Her hair is down, torn from its braid, and the wind takes it, blowing it around her head. She comes to a stop beside me, just outside the glow of the streetlamp. Her eyes are fierce, her lips set.
“Let justice be done, even should the sky fall,” she whispers to me, though I don’t think I have spoken aloud.
She grabs my hand and yanks me after her, into the shadows. The bellators give chase as we tear through the garden plots behind the nursery and into the woods, following the sound of the stream. Pounding up the bank without a word, we run for the rapids. Eva frees one raft from the trees, then another, slicing at moorings with her knife. Without the rafts, the bellators will have a much harder time following us. They’ll have to leap down the falls, and who knows how many of them will survive the descent?
Eva cuts the rafts free and I pitch one after the other over the edge, watching them careen down the drop through the whitewater, until we run out of time. I can hear Efraím and the others crashing through the bracken behind us, heedless of stealth or disguise. We vault onto the last remaining raft together, and I feel the familiar sickening vertigo as we hurtle down the falls.
The journey to the bottom’s even more bone-rattling than usual, what with the wind and the full force of the Bellatorum in pursuit. But we make it, with a full minute’s head start. The moment we’re close enough to shore to touch bottom, I abandon the raft and run for the treeline, Eva at my side. Always before we had begun the arduous climb up the cliffs, or the long hike around to the path. Now we head straight for the pines that stand sentry at the edge of the forest, demarcating the edge of the Commonwealth’s territory. Inside the forest there are no lights, no paths, nothing but trees and dirt and dark. And the Bastarour, of course, prowling silent and hungry.
I wouldn’t willingly confront one of them, had I the choice. But it’s either do so, or die.
Eva and I spare a glance at each other, and then her hand finds mine, pressing hard. “Lu
ck,” she whispers, and I remember it’s what I said to her back in the tunnels, before we shoved aside the grill that led to the Outside.
My heart squeezes, hard and tight. Like doomed children in that ancient legend about the wanderers, the breadcrumbs, and the witch, we disappear into the murk.
38
Eva
As we race through the windswept forest toward the electric fence, the first of the Bastarour’s howls sound in the distance. Unless we can figure out how to neutralize the fence or open the gate, it will be a toss-up whether we die in the beasts’ jaws or at the hands of the Bellatorum, our backs to the electric fence, inches from freedom.
We flee through the woods, the trees catching at our clothes and tearing at our skin. Maybe it’s nerves—or what the Executor told me about my true nature—but I feel as if I could outrun Ari easily, as if I am holding myself back to wait for him to catch up. My skin tingles with the sense of danger, and the eerie howls rise from all sides, hemming us in.
“Let me,” I say, pushing past Ari. “I see better in the dark than you do.”
He allows this without comment, and I take the lead, hacking through the dense, waterlogged brush and then sighting open space and breaking into a dead run. I have never been in this part of the forest before; I have no idea how far it stretches or how long it may be until we reach the fence.
I burst through the treeline into the open clearing and scan desperately for something—anything—that will help us. Then I see a gleam of silver no more than five feet ahead and come to a halt so abrupt that Ari slams into my back. “What?” he says.
“Look right there—the fence—” My breath sobs in my throat, and Ari peers over my shoulder in the direction I’m pointing.
