Chapter 49
Chapter Forty-Nine
Kong
I don’t know how yet, but the certainty of it lives in me like a second skeleton. It is not a passing impulse, but something written into every tendon and sinew.
I. Will. Kill. Him.
I killed the Trade Master.
And she is safe in the tank.
Safe with her brother.
That doesn’t lessen my profound need to protect her. My muscles pulse to claim what is behind me in that tank—her. I fight against the consuming need. With my fingers curled to the point of searing pain, I grip the rifle, surprised the handle doesn’t shatter.
I want to be with her.
Hold her.
Guard her.
But I don’t.
I stride through the streets of Ruins S, ears straining for cries or shouts or whimpers, anything beyond the crack of flames and whining of timber.
The fire has claimed the Ruins. Sparking orange vines crawl up the eaves, wrapping the front of old buildings in flames and spitting ashy debris into the air.
A name rises in my mind—Bled. This is what he envisioned. A synthetic blaze tearing through the ruins.
So, he helped.
Played a part.
Finally rescued her.
Screams of agony suddenly seep through the raining ash, and my chest aches for them; I care.
Of course, I care—but only now that my little queen is safe.
I don’t have room in my soul for concern for others while she is in danger.
I wasn’t lying in the cellar; if we’d hit the main level without Rome, without a rescue operation, I’d have shot anyone who tried to slow us or draw attention.
Women. Children. To protect her, I’d sell my soul and abandon my morals.
My mind reels, remembering the little girl with white hair. I couldn’t save her. My morals once seemed more important than my Meaningful Purpose, more intense than this charred tower. Now, they flake away beside the fire of my love for Tuscany.
I take a path between blackened buildings, listening out for more cries or murmurs. As the world blurs into flaming devastation, I think I hear soft voices claw through the smoky air.
I run toward them, focused. I’ve killed boys as young as nine to defend Rome on Breaker Ledge. I am no hero. Can stomach what needs to be done. For the boy who is now my king, I did what had to be done.
Now, I do what she needs.
I am her Guardian.
I stop behind the mangled wreck of a motorbike, nictitating membrane closed, protecting my eye from the smoke and soot.
I hear boots thundering across rubble-strewn streets and stoop behind a wall, only to catch sight of four Royal Guards checking for Common.
One barks orders about fallen men. I would usually be at the command; it doesn’t matter.
His words dissolve in the fire’s relentless roar.
I don’t belong with them anymore. Don’t belong on the king’s Guard.
I belong to her.
I am hers.
I duck past an Exchange Hub; a Modiste’s. The windows are blown out, mannequins melting into grotesque figures.
Rome has hollowed this city. My king is the lord of carnage and destruction. He was built to reign, to invoke fear, to intimidate. It is in his engineering, at his core. I cannot blame him for what I see, for the ashy air or heat so immense it scorches skin without the lick of the flame.
I weave through collapsed walls. When my mind wavers, I see her honey-blonde hair. Hear her giggle. Would I be here, searching for children, if she hadn’t wanted it? No, I would be in the tank with her, claiming her lips and whispering into her ear that she is mine.
Not Rome’s.
Not The Trade’s.
I will claim her and die—if I must. Rome will not keep us apart. The boy I helped raise will step aside for me, or I’ll face him. Dammit, I’ll fight him for her. I hope it doesn’t come to that.
As soon as this mission is over, I will go to her. The rescue must come first, because she blames herself.
And it’s not her fault.
She came with good intentions and was deceived, betrayed and tormented for those pure ideals. She is a piece of sunshine, real and raw, unable to be controlled or suffocated. Though they tried. They failed.
I’m so proud of her.
My breath becomes laboured, so I stop and listen, having been searching wildly. Have I lost them? Have they burned to death?
Turning a corner, I have to step over a charred corpse, then another—man after man after man litter this alleyway.
An image slices through my mind. For a split second, I imagine The Estate after The Shadows come for the Royal Collective.
The threat has been drilled into me, into us, since we could comprehend death and duty.
Soon this city, these charred bodies, the thinning cries of children, could be in The Estate.
Could be Aster.
Could be Athens.
I won’t let it happen.
The heat intensifies as I push deeper into the ravaged zones, a stew of burning plastic, clay, wood, and scorched flesh coating my tongue.
I climb through a gap in the wall, trip over a flaming roof rafter, and catch myself— Fuck! I collapse onto the ash-covered ground. I used my missing arm, throwing the phantom limb forward to brace myself. Dammit, this is going to take some getting used to.
I climb to my feet when I hear weak, persistent cries.
Children?
I wipe soot and blood from my face with my forearm and stalk the smallest of sounds like I’m hunting Aquilla Cats.
If there are children left out here, they are probably trapped somewhere. Perhaps in a basement, behind a collapsed wall or cornered by advancing fire.
Will they be old enough to understand me? Will I have to carry them? I was ten when I became a man, when Meaningful Purpose and Turin of The Strait came for me.
Then, I hear them to my right before I see them—whimpers and coughs coming from behind a wooden barricade.
Someone left these children here, secured them perhaps to keep them safe from us, from the Royal Guard invasion. But then they abandoned them to flee the fire and save themselves.
Pricks.
Setting my rifle down on the wall, I lift the wooden barricade, plank after plank, then shoulder the door open.
Straightaway, I retrieve my rifle, pointing it inside, cautious of who might be hauled up in there with them.
“Crawl, if you can,” I call in as the smoke plumes, spewing from the room, allowing the vision of fifteen or so children huddled in a corner to clear. Some appear unconscious, others coughing and crying.
The children closest to the exit react first—a girl with a torn scarf covering her lower face and a boy dragging a smaller one by the collar of his smoke-licked shirt.
Three more soon follow, two crawling while one darts for the exit without a second thought, desperate for freedom.
One boy just gapes up at me. He does not move an inch. I understand. I’m terrifying; I have one arm, the other bandaged at my elbow, my nictitating membrane is closed, presumably making me look more monster than man, and I’m armed.
I set my rifle down again.
“Now is not the time to accept fear, little ones.” Ducking under the doorframe, I add, “Move, let’s go.” I wave my arm, hoping to pierce their panic-hazed minds.
A pair of older girls scramble upright and rush to the door. Two boys take longer, so I scoop them into my one arm.
As I carry them outside, my other arm—my half-arm—protests as I use it for balance. My elbow radiates with pain, my missing limb throbbing hard and relentless.
I set the children down on the street, and head back inside. Squinting around, my eyes land on a small girl, still motionless, huddled in a corner, her legs hugged to her chest. Her hair is dusted with soot.
She is panting in the smoky air, displaying a gap in her front teeth. Her eyes lift to me, then narrow with distrust. I almost expect her to bolt in the opposite direction, into the fire.
She doesn’t move.
Fuck this.
I advance and drag her out by her wrist even as she fights me, pulling her to safety against her will, it seems.
Most of the children have made it to the street, but the sounds of retching and sobbing circle me. The ones who can stand lean against each other, waiting for instruction, coughing and weeping, eyes red and raw.
I do a quick headcount outside. Then inside. Four are still in the room—motionless, scattered, and unresponsive. Two are older, probably dead. I’ll grab them anyway. The other two, a small boy with a baby girl in his arms are still breathing, but frozen in fear.
I stride back in.