This Shattered World
Page 71
A tile etched with the picture of a chrysanthemum falls to the floor, and a rumbling voice says, “I’ll get it.” An arm descends over the edge of the table, and the girl stares—it’s covered in tattoos, more than she’s ever seen in one place.
The adults chat as the girl’s mother deals, and the low hum of voices nearly lulls the girl to sleep.
“Who will watch the store while I’m gone?” her mother is asking.
“I can do that,” says the man with the tattoos.
“And when you’re gone? Who will watch her then?”
I’M WATCHING FROM AN ALLEYWAY between a barracks and the munitions shed, leaning against the hard wall and forcing myself to breathe. I can’t make out who it is they’re hauling away, and I can’t see Molly’s huge silhouette anywhere, and I can’t do anything but stand here, hands curled into fists, and wait. If my people did this, and they see me, all hell will break loose. More people will die.
When Jubilee stalks past, I’m so fixed on the flames I nearly miss her. I reach out to grab her arm and swing her in toward me, reflecting in the same split second that she’ll probably break my nose for this. I’m sure if she were any less shocked, she would. Instead, I catch a glimpse of something wild in her eyes, of a soot-stained hand lifting to reach for me, and I duck. “Jubilee, it’s me.”
With a wordless sound, her face stricken, she jerks back from me and stumbles to crash into the barracks wall. The jolt makes her look up, her gaze focusing with an effort—and then she sees me, her heart in her eyes. The gun she’s gripping goes clattering into the mud. Her hands grab for my arms, grasping at my sleeves and pulling me closer, as though she has to convince herself I’m real. “Flynn?” she whispers.
The mix of anguish and relief on her face has me moving before I can think to stop myself, and I pull her in against me so I can wrap my arms around her. She holds me just as tightly, and for a moment we stand there together, unmoving, as the chaos beyond the mouth of the alley unspools.
“I thought you—” she rasps, easing a half an inch away, shaken by the intensity of her own reaction.
I’m a little shaky myself, and I have to clear my throat before I can speak. “I was on my way to the supply shed when I heard the shouts. Where’s Molly? He was in there when I left, I should—”
My words die in my throat as the look on her face delivers the news. Our hands fall apart, and I have to brace against the munitions shed to stop my knees from giving out.
“They caught one of the rebels who did it.” She turns toward the mouth of the alley. “The others escaped. I was heading to interrogation, they’re taking him—”
“Get me in there,” I interrupt, urgency making my voice stumble. “Maybe I can convince him to talk. Offer him a deal.”
“He’s a murderer, Flynn,” she snaps, her grief over her friend turning white-hot. She retrieves her gun from the ground, her face grim. “He doesn’t get a deal, he gets justice.”
“And if he’s one of McBride’s men? What if he knows what they’re planning next?” I can’t imagine any of my people starting the fire. It has to have been a mistake. “Please.”
She knows I’m right, but the desire for vengeance runs almost as deep. I watch her struggle, feeling it echo deep within my own heart; whoever killed my people is still out there too. Finally, shoving her Gleidel back into its holster, she murmurs, “Don’t promise him anything.”
When we reach the holding cells, she sends away the guard with a couple of snapped orders. The nervous corporal looks at me but doesn’t stop me from following before he vanishes. Perhaps he hopes I’ll stop her from killing the prisoner.
My heart sinks when I see who’s huddled on the bench in the corner of the room. It’s Turlough Doyle, his mop of blond hair turned gray with ash, his eyes red with smoke and grief. He was only ever in the swamps because his sister sabotaged one of the algae farms, and the trodairí wouldn’t stop coming by to ask him where she was, more forcefully every time. Then he met Mike, and he had reason to stay. But he’s no blood-soaked rebel. He used to be a biology assistant.
His head’s down, exhaustion and fear taking their toll. Jubilee doesn’t hesitate, slamming the cell door behind us. “Who did this?” she snarls, stalking over to meet him eye to eye.
She was too blinded by shock and the Fury in the caves to recognize the man widowed by the massacre. But Turlough remembers her. When he lifts his head, his eyes fix on her face with a single-minded hatred that makes my heart freeze. “You’re going to kill me anyway, trodaire.” He spits the word. “I won’t help you kill anyone else.”
“You tell me,” she spits right back, “or you’re goddamn right I’m going to kill you, and I’ll make it last. Which one of you killed Molly?”
Turlough sucks in a shaky breath, his round face losing all color—from fear or rage, I can’t tell. “Me. I acted alone.”
“You didn’t,” she shouts, voice cracking. “Those burn marks on his skull, only a Gleidel does that. You’re carrying an antique.”
“You carry a Gleidel,” he shoots back. “You killed our people, our children.” His gaze pins her now, eyes boring into hers. “You killed my husband. I hope you rot in hell.”
My brain’s still stuttering, and I’m pinned against the wall by the door, unnoticed by either of them. Molly was shot? I find my own stomach twisting with grief.
Jubilee stares back at him, and I know by her silence that she’s recognized him. Then she squares her shoulders. She doesn’t bother to deny his accusation, and I ache for her, but I know why. What could she possibly say that he’d believe? “I’m giving you one more chance, rebel. Names. Now.”
Turlough just glares, terrified but determined. Only grief could give such a gentle man this kind of strength. Another time, I’d almost be proud of him for showing so much spine. Now, Jubilee’s going to rip it out if I don’t do something. I step away from the door and into the light. Turlough’s gaze slides past Jubilee, and his mouth falls open as he recognizes me. “What are you doing here?” His whisper is like a bullet straight through me. “She killed Mike,” he goes on, voice rising to a ragged shout, “and you’re standing next to her.”
The adults chat as the girl’s mother deals, and the low hum of voices nearly lulls the girl to sleep.
“Who will watch the store while I’m gone?” her mother is asking.
“I can do that,” says the man with the tattoos.
“And when you’re gone? Who will watch her then?”
I’M WATCHING FROM AN ALLEYWAY between a barracks and the munitions shed, leaning against the hard wall and forcing myself to breathe. I can’t make out who it is they’re hauling away, and I can’t see Molly’s huge silhouette anywhere, and I can’t do anything but stand here, hands curled into fists, and wait. If my people did this, and they see me, all hell will break loose. More people will die.
When Jubilee stalks past, I’m so fixed on the flames I nearly miss her. I reach out to grab her arm and swing her in toward me, reflecting in the same split second that she’ll probably break my nose for this. I’m sure if she were any less shocked, she would. Instead, I catch a glimpse of something wild in her eyes, of a soot-stained hand lifting to reach for me, and I duck. “Jubilee, it’s me.”
With a wordless sound, her face stricken, she jerks back from me and stumbles to crash into the barracks wall. The jolt makes her look up, her gaze focusing with an effort—and then she sees me, her heart in her eyes. The gun she’s gripping goes clattering into the mud. Her hands grab for my arms, grasping at my sleeves and pulling me closer, as though she has to convince herself I’m real. “Flynn?” she whispers.
The mix of anguish and relief on her face has me moving before I can think to stop myself, and I pull her in against me so I can wrap my arms around her. She holds me just as tightly, and for a moment we stand there together, unmoving, as the chaos beyond the mouth of the alley unspools.
“I thought you—” she rasps, easing a half an inch away, shaken by the intensity of her own reaction.
I’m a little shaky myself, and I have to clear my throat before I can speak. “I was on my way to the supply shed when I heard the shouts. Where’s Molly? He was in there when I left, I should—”
My words die in my throat as the look on her face delivers the news. Our hands fall apart, and I have to brace against the munitions shed to stop my knees from giving out.
“They caught one of the rebels who did it.” She turns toward the mouth of the alley. “The others escaped. I was heading to interrogation, they’re taking him—”
“Get me in there,” I interrupt, urgency making my voice stumble. “Maybe I can convince him to talk. Offer him a deal.”
“He’s a murderer, Flynn,” she snaps, her grief over her friend turning white-hot. She retrieves her gun from the ground, her face grim. “He doesn’t get a deal, he gets justice.”
“And if he’s one of McBride’s men? What if he knows what they’re planning next?” I can’t imagine any of my people starting the fire. It has to have been a mistake. “Please.”
She knows I’m right, but the desire for vengeance runs almost as deep. I watch her struggle, feeling it echo deep within my own heart; whoever killed my people is still out there too. Finally, shoving her Gleidel back into its holster, she murmurs, “Don’t promise him anything.”
When we reach the holding cells, she sends away the guard with a couple of snapped orders. The nervous corporal looks at me but doesn’t stop me from following before he vanishes. Perhaps he hopes I’ll stop her from killing the prisoner.
My heart sinks when I see who’s huddled on the bench in the corner of the room. It’s Turlough Doyle, his mop of blond hair turned gray with ash, his eyes red with smoke and grief. He was only ever in the swamps because his sister sabotaged one of the algae farms, and the trodairí wouldn’t stop coming by to ask him where she was, more forcefully every time. Then he met Mike, and he had reason to stay. But he’s no blood-soaked rebel. He used to be a biology assistant.
His head’s down, exhaustion and fear taking their toll. Jubilee doesn’t hesitate, slamming the cell door behind us. “Who did this?” she snarls, stalking over to meet him eye to eye.
She was too blinded by shock and the Fury in the caves to recognize the man widowed by the massacre. But Turlough remembers her. When he lifts his head, his eyes fix on her face with a single-minded hatred that makes my heart freeze. “You’re going to kill me anyway, trodaire.” He spits the word. “I won’t help you kill anyone else.”
“You tell me,” she spits right back, “or you’re goddamn right I’m going to kill you, and I’ll make it last. Which one of you killed Molly?”
Turlough sucks in a shaky breath, his round face losing all color—from fear or rage, I can’t tell. “Me. I acted alone.”
“You didn’t,” she shouts, voice cracking. “Those burn marks on his skull, only a Gleidel does that. You’re carrying an antique.”
“You carry a Gleidel,” he shoots back. “You killed our people, our children.” His gaze pins her now, eyes boring into hers. “You killed my husband. I hope you rot in hell.”
My brain’s still stuttering, and I’m pinned against the wall by the door, unnoticed by either of them. Molly was shot? I find my own stomach twisting with grief.
Jubilee stares back at him, and I know by her silence that she’s recognized him. Then she squares her shoulders. She doesn’t bother to deny his accusation, and I ache for her, but I know why. What could she possibly say that he’d believe? “I’m giving you one more chance, rebel. Names. Now.”
Turlough just glares, terrified but determined. Only grief could give such a gentle man this kind of strength. Another time, I’d almost be proud of him for showing so much spine. Now, Jubilee’s going to rip it out if I don’t do something. I step away from the door and into the light. Turlough’s gaze slides past Jubilee, and his mouth falls open as he recognizes me. “What are you doing here?” His whisper is like a bullet straight through me. “She killed Mike,” he goes on, voice rising to a ragged shout, “and you’re standing next to her.”
