Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
NICOLE
When the cheers turn to screams, the Prif breathes, “At last.”
“No.” He didn’t do it. Did he?
A vid screen veers upward as if fleeing from carnage. On its huge screen is Arture, and I can’t breathe.
He’s holding the All-Mother, her limp body cradled in his arms. My chest tightens further, cinched like a girth pulled way too tight. No. No, no, no. He did it. He killed her.
For me.
Cameras zoom in, catching every angle of his crime. He looks up into the lenses as if baring his soul to the world, his face carved with anguish.
Prif’s sleek vehicle descends and lands on the roof. As soon as Samara and her blaster leave, I try to get to Arture, but a Samarastock grips me tightly.
“Stay here, stay back—”
"Let me go!" I scream in his face, and he instinctively loosens his hold.
I slip out, and the one holding my Equeleus lunges for me, grabbing me with hands like steel bands.
Blood Feather rears free, flying in their faces and striking with his tiny hooves.
I stagger two steps away from the transport before they catch up to me.
The Prif storms onto the scene, her Samarastocks shifting into Parthiastocks and flanking her like a living shield as she rushes to the All-Mother’s side. Her face contorts in what seems like worry, but she doesn’t care about anyone, not even her own sister.
Her first command is, “Kill the clone who murdered her.”
Arture doesn’t move, still standing in front of the podium with the All-Mother in his arms. He and Samara are equidistant from me, Samara closer to the edge of the roof, to the screams and fear of the clones below.
With slow movements, Arture lays the All-Mother’s limp body down on the rooftop, his hands trembling as Selthiastocks rush in behind him to attend to her.
He gets to his feet, bloodied and bruised, and starts walking toward Samara.
His arms raise in surrender, but his left eye is closest to me, and he glances toward me.
My heart shatters in my chest.
Then one of the Selthiastocks at the All-Mother’s side shouts, “She’s alive! She’s breathing!”
“She’s merely sedated,” another says, relief in his voice.
“What?” the Prif snaps, her head whipping around to the Selthiastocks. Her glare could cut through stone.
My knees nearly buckle with relief, and Arture’s lips curl into a grim smile aimed straight at Samara.
The Prif stands slowly, facing him. Arture’s smile widens, but it’s empty, void of joy. “I haven’t been the perfect Samarastock in a long time. You broke me, yes, but not in the way you wanted. I wasn’t shattered. I was reforged.”
Samara grasps her weapon, teeth bared. Arture knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s baiting her, leading her right where he wants her.
And what he wants is for her to shoot him, to remove her greatest, most perfect weapon.
My chest constricts. No.
The Prif’s hand trembles as she raises her blaster, her face contorted, aiming straight at him.
The two of them are so similar, plotting, twisting, fighting against restrictions. Stubborn, annoying, and arrogant.
But neither of them planned for me.
I tear free from the Samarastock holding me, the suddenness of it catching him off guard. I sprint toward Arture.
He sees me and his smile fixes.
Blood Feather charges Samara, flying in her face. She swipes, knocking him to the ground. I cry out and she glares at me. Her face twists in disgust, and she fires.
Arture’s moving toward me but he’s far too slow. In fact, everything seems too slow.
I leap. There’s a brief flash of pain in my chest as the Prif’s shot finds its mark, and—