The Alloy of Law (Mistborn #4)(95)

“Oh Survivor of Mists!” Steris breathed, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, lips parted as she held to him. She didn’t look terrified. If anything, she seemed aroused.

You are a bizarre woman, Steris, Wax thought.

“Do you realize that you have missed your calling, Waxillium?” a voice yelled from within the blackened tunnel. It was Miles. “You are an army unto yourself. You are wasted in the life you’ve taken upon yourself.”

“Take this,” Wax said softly to Steris, handing her the shotgun. He cocked it. One shell left. “Hold it tightly. I want you to run for the precinct station. It’s at Fifteenth and Ruman. If one of the Vanishers comes for you, fire the shotgun.”

“But—”

“I don’t expect you to hit him,” Wax said. “I’ll listen for the sound of the shot.”

She tried to comment further, but Wax ducked down to get his center of mass beneath her, then carefully Pushed the shotgun up into her middle. He used it to launch her up and out of the pit. She landed awkwardly, but safely, and hesitated only a moment before running off into the mists.

Wax scrambled to the side, making sure he wasn’t backlit by the fire. He pulled a Sterrion from its holster and fished out some rounds. He reloaded as he crouched down.

“Waxillium?” Miles called from deep inside the tunnel. “If you’re done playing, perhaps you’d like to come settle things.”

Wax crept up to the tunnel mouth, then stepped inside. The mists had filled it, making it difficult to see—which would work equally against Miles. He made his way forward cautiously until he saw the light from the big workshop at the end, where fires still burned.

By that light, he could faintly make out the silhouette of a figure standing in the tunnel, holding a gun to the head of a slender woman. Marasi.

Waxillium froze, pulse accelerating. But no, this was part of the plan. It was perfect. Except …

“I know you’re in there,” Miles’s voice said. Another figure moved, tossing a few improvised torches into the darkness.

With a freezing sense of horror, Waxillium realized that Miles wasn’t the one holding Marasi. He stood too far back. The man holding Marasi was the one named Tarson, the koloss-blooded Pewterarm.

Her face illuminated by wavering torchlight, Marasi looked terrified. Waxillium’s fingers felt slick on the revolver’s grip. The Pewterarm was careful to keep Marasi between himself and Waxillium’s side of the tunnel, gun to the back of her head. He was squat and tough, but not very tall. He was only in his twenties—like all koloss-blooded, he’d continue growing taller throughout his life.

Either way, at the moment, Waxillium couldn’t get a bead on him. Oh, Harmony, he thought. It’s happening again.

Something rustled in the darkness nearby. He jumped and nearly shot it until he caught the outline of Wayne’s face.



“Sorry about this,” Wayne whispered. “When she got grabbed, I thought it was Miles. And so I—”

“It’s all right,” Waxillium said softly.

“What do we do?” Wayne asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You always know.”

Waxillium was silent.

“I can hear you whispering!” Miles called. He walked forward and tossed another torch.

Just a few steps more, Waxillium thought.

Miles stopped where he was, eyeing the creeping mists with what seemed like distrust. Marasi whimpered. Then she tried jerking, the way she had back at the wedding dinner.

“None of that,” Tarson said, holding her carefully. He fired a shot right in front of her face, then brought the gun back to her head. She froze.

Waxillium raised his revolver.

I can’t do this. I can’t watch another one die. Not by my hand.

“All right,” Miles called. “Fine. You want to test me, Wax? I’m counting to three. If I reach three, Tarson shoots, no other warnings. One.”

He’ll do it, Waxillium realized, feeling helpless, guilty, overwhelmed. He really will. Miles didn’t need a hostage. If threatening her wouldn’t bring Waxillium out, then he wouldn’t bother with her.

“Two.”

Blood on the bricks. A smiling face.

“Wax?” Wayne whispered, sounding urgent.

Oh, Harmony, if I’ve ever needed you …

Mist curled around his legs.

“Th—”

“Wayne!” Waxillium yelled, standing.

The speed bubble went up. Tarson would fire in mere moments. Miles behind him, pointing angrily. Torchfire frozen. It was like watching an explosion in slow motion again. Waxillium raised his Sterrion, and found his arm incredibly still.

It had been still on the day he’d shot Lessie, too.

He’d shot her with this very gun.

Sweating, trying to banish the images from his head, he tried to find a clear shot at Tarson. There wasn’t one. Oh, he could hit Tarson, but not anywhere that would drop him immediately. And if Waxillium didn’t hit just right, the man would shoot Marasi by reflex.

The head was the best way to drop a Pewterarm. Only, Waxillium couldn’t see the head. Could he shoot the gun? Marasi’s face was in the way. The knees? He might be able to hit a knee. No. A Pewterarm would ignore most hits—if the damage wasn’t immediately lethal, he’d stay up, and he’d shoot.