Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(92)

“Ah, of course, you’re Em,” he says. “So strange. I haven’t seen your face in a thousand years. You look so young. But then again, I guess I look young, too.”

It’s him, and it’s not. There’s just enough moonlight for me to make out his red hair, his tan skin, the gear symbol on his forehead. This is the shell of a boy I knew, yet his familiar eyes burn with a hate far beyond the years of his body.



“Go away,” I say. “Leave us. Get in that ship and return to the Xolotl. No one else has to die.”

He shakes his head. “I’m supposed to take you to her. But you know what? If her shell dies, then the old hag has no future. No one will listen to someone who is just going to wither and crumble.” He grins. “If I kill you, that creates a power vacuum. And nature abhors a vacuum.”

His bracelet’s white stone glows brighter.

A thunderous bang from right behind me.

Beckett blinks, confused.

Blood spurts from a neat hole in his throat. Red and rich, not grayish and sickly, it sprays onto the jungle floor. He tries to say something, but no sound comes out. He takes a single, weak step forward, then falls flat on his face.

He doesn’t move.

Barkah’s musket is across his lap, smoke still curling from the barrel. He’s trying to reload it, his every movement clearly an exercise in agony.

I pull the bracelet off Beckett’s limp arm, slide my own hand through the opening. When the ring is almost to my elbow, something contracts, squeezes. The bracelet clings firmly on my arm. Its lethal point is just behind my wrist.

If only I knew how to make the damn thing fire.

I kneel by Barkah’s side. “Can you move?”

His middle eye is a mangled, horrible sight. The other two green eyes blink, look at me, show recognition.

He tries to put the rod into the barrel, winces. I set my shovel down, take the musket and do it for him. He hands me a bullet. I pack that down as well, slide the rod into its holding slot, then hand the musket back.

I hold my left hand in front of him, palm up. I point to him, then place my right pointer and middle finger on the upturned palm. I bounce them, doing my best impression of a Springer’s hop.



“Move,” I say. “Can you move?”

“Move,” he answers. He understands. “Hem, move.”

Shovel in one hand, I reach under Barkah with the other and struggle to lift his weight. The alien makes sharp grunts of pain. The blast threw him hard into that tree, maybe broke things inside him.

I have to get the prince to safety—but I also have to find O’Malley.

From behind us, another flash of white lights up the fog. How many Grownups are out here? The enemy seems to be everywhere; the jungle is made of them.

We stay in the underbrush, move parallel to the path. Dragging the heavy Springer along with me, I am not the wind anymore. I am noise…I am a target…

Then in front of us, a dead Springer, stomach sliced open, splashes of blue blood and yellowish innards strewn about the wet vines and dead leaves. I recognize the curve of the mouth: Rekis.

Barkah lets out a mournful groan. The sound is heartbreaking.

He points just past the body, at Rekis’s musket. The hammer in the middle, it’s cocked back. It’s loaded.

Noise from behind us: human shouts and calls, bodies moving through the mist. I recognize one of the voices—Coyotl.

Barkah gently pushes me away. He stands on his own two legs, points to me, points to Rekis’s musket.

I have the bracelet, but I don’t know how to use it. I drop the shovel and pick up the gun.

Barkah takes one experimental hop forward. His body shudders in pain, but he pushes past it, takes a second hop.

“Hem, move.”



He wants to run. He wants to hide. That’s the smart thing to do. Just as I need him to end this war before it starts, he needs me to make it out of here alive. The two of us fleeing into the jungle is the smart thing.

But I will not leave O’Malley.

I wave a hand in the direction of the trail.

“Go,” I say. “Move. Escape.”

His two remaining eyes show despair. He doesn’t want to leave me, but he is in no shape to fight.

A rustling to our right. Our muskets rise up instantly, aim at a shaking bush—Lahfah hops out from behind the dark leaves.

I point at him, then at Barkah.

“Get him out of here,” I say quietly to Lahfah. “Move.”

Maybe he understands me, or maybe he just wants to get his prince clear. Lahfah pulls at Barkah, urging him down the trail.

I turn and run into the mist, toward the danger, toward O’Malley. My body feels electric, on edge.

I hear voices. I slide to my right, into the underbrush, crouch between two wide, curving leaves that cover me completely. A small gap between them lets me see down the trail. Moonlit mist surrounds me. This is the perfect spot. The shadows are my friends.

“She killed Beckett!” A Grownup man’s voice. I hear him, but can’t quite see him. “And Visca! She cut off Visca’s damn head! I’m going to kill that little bitch!”

Something about that voice is familiar, but I can’t place it. Another voice answers, one I know by heart, one that makes every inch of me crawl with fear.

“Farrar, don’t you dare.”