Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(83)

Not anymore.

I am the wind…I am death.

—

Someone is coming.

My back is pressed against a ziggurat’s base layer. I’m wedged in behind the thick vines that cover the cold, wet stone. The breeze drives the drizzle sideways, makes the leaves surrounding me quiver.

Damn this overcast sky. I wish there was some moonlight, anything that would let me see who is out there.

I hold a jagged piece of masonry. In a city that is steadily deteriorating, this is one weapon that’s not hard to find.

Who is coming? I hope it’s Bishop. But if it isn’t? If it’s someone sent to kill me? Then I will kill them first.

A hissed whisper cuts through the darkness.

“Em?”

Is that Bishop? I can’t tell. It’s a boy, but the stiff breeze and rattling leaves make the voice impossible to recognize.

The clouds must break for a moment, allow a thin bit of moonlight to shine down. A boy, a tall boy, draped in shadow. Holding…is that a shovel?

Farrar. Did Bishop send him, or did Aramovsky?

The moonlight vanishes. The night is pitch-black.

I hear footsteps coming closer.

My fingers tighten on the rock. The rock is hard and jagged and final. It’s not as elegant as my spear, but it will take life just the same.

He’s coming my way. Not directly, he’s searching, like he knows I should be in his area but doesn’t know exactly where.

Closer. A few more steps, and I will crush his skull.



My hand shakes. My arm trembles. The wind and the leaves keep me hidden and silent.

Two steps away. Slowly, so slowly, I raise the rock.

“Em, are you there?”

This close, I instantly recognize the voice.

“O’Malley?”

He jumps away, surprised. His feet catch and he falls face-first.

I step out from the vines. O’Malley rolls to his butt, sees me, starts scrambling backward.

“No! Don’t kill me!”

I stop, confused. He doesn’t recognize me? No—of course he doesn’t.

“It’s me,” I say. “It’s Em.”

His scrambling stops.

He slowly gets to his feet. He shakes his head, smiles in proud astonishment.

“You scared me,” he says. “You certainly look different.”

I do. Vines tied around my chest and waist and legs break up my outline. The skin of my face and hands is covered in plant juice and dirt. Twigs and leaves are woven into my hair.

“I saw Bishop talking to you when you left,” he says. “I knew he was planning a way to get you help.”

Of course O’Malley saw it—the master of whispers wouldn’t miss such a thing.

“Why didn’t Bishop come himself?”

“He couldn’t. Aramovsky was watching him closely, rushing him out to the spider nest. I waited until Aramovsky wasn’t looking, asked Bishop what I could do. He told me to get you any weapon I could find.”

O’Malley picks up the shovel, offers it to me. I drop the rock and take it. The shovel is heavy and unbalanced.



“Be careful with it,” he says. “Gaston helped me. He used a machine in the shuttle to sharpen it.”

I drag my thumb across the edge, the way Coyotl showed me. It’s very sharp. Probably sharper than the knife O’Malley wears on his belt, the one I used to kill Yong.

“What about you?” I ask. “Won’t Aramovsky notice his right-hand man is gone? That’s what you do, isn’t it? You help the leader?”

“He’ll notice eventually, but not right now. Opkick is his advisor—seems I’m not needed anymore.”

Oddly, I feel bad for O’Malley. If Aramovsky had picked him, would he have still come after me? I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t matter: I needed help, and O’Malley came.

He steps closer. He reaches out, slowly. His fingertips trace my hairline, as if he needs to touch me but doesn’t want to mess up my camouflage. The drizzle wets his face, makes his cheeks gleam slightly from what little light penetrates the clouds.

“I didn’t come just because Bishop couldn’t,” he says. “I came because…because I love you.”

He has no idea that I almost killed him just now.

I’ve got one boy who won’t tell me how he feels, and another who won’t stop telling me how he feels.

“You should head back to the shuttle,” I say.

He leans away, almost like I slapped him.

“But…but I’m going with you.”

This wasn’t just a delivery run. He’s ready to head into the jungle with me. He knows how dangerous this will be. But he has no experience fighting, no survival training as far as I know. He’s a politician—away from the safety of the group, he’s useless.

Still, O’Malley is smart. He’s strong. And just because he doesn’t know how to fight doesn’t mean he will back down from one. If I don’t find the Springers, it’s war; I’ll take what help I can get.



“Keep up with me,” I say. “And be quiet.”

—

The jungle is alive with noise. Low hoots, squawks, yelps, growls and an occasional dying squeal. The stiff wind has carried away some of the cloud cover, giving us enough moonlight to walk by. I’m grateful for that, because the flashlight would make us easy targets for a musket shot. Barkah and Lahfah aren’t the only Springers out here.