Burn (Pure #3)(60)

“We thought we stole it.”

“But it was easier to steal than you thought,” Partridge says, “because Foresteed wanted you to steal it, wanted you to get it to me. He wanted me to kill my father.” Partridge gets up and looks at his father’s bedroom. He feels breathless and sick. “Foresteed wanted me to kill my father. He wanted my father to die, and I did it for him.” He hears Beckley’s voice in the living room and then Foresteed’s voice too. He’s here for their meeting. A streak of heat burns across Partridge’s chest. “He had a shot at being put in charge. And then, at the last minute, my father switched the power to me.”

“He wants to take you out too,” Glassings says, reaching and grabbing Partridge’s arm, gripping it tightly for a moment before his hand sags.

“How do you know?”

“He told me himself. He didn’t think I’d make it out alive. He thinks,” Glassings says, trying to steady his breath, “you’ll be easier to take down than your father.”

Glassings is right. Willux was a powerhouse, insulated on all sides. Partridge feels completely vulnerable. He clenches his fists and then rubs his temples. God. What the hell is he going to do?

“I failed you,” Glassings says.

“No, you didn’t.” Glassings has been a father figure for Partridge for a long time. He remembers him in a bow tie, a chaperone at the dance, and when they met under the stage in the academy’s auditorium. Partridge never had the father he wanted. “What would you do if you were me?” Partridge says. “Tell me.”

Glassings shakes his head. “My advice isn’t any good.”

“Just tell me something—anything.”

“Don’t let him know you know. Take him down when he least expects it. Play dumb.”

Partridge nods. “Considering the grades I got in World History, that shouldn’t be too hard.”

Glassings tries to smile, but his face is too constricted by swelling.

“Get some rest.” Partridge walks to the door.

“You can do this,” Glassings says.

Partridge leans his forehead against the edge of the open door for a second, trying to calm his nerves. He hears Foresteed’s booming laugh. Did the doctor say something funny? Is Foresteed laughing at his own joke? Glassings believes in Partridge. He has to remember this, hold on to it. He doesn’t have much else.

Partridge is about to walk out the door, but first he has a question. “The pill—it was designed to be time released, the poison untraceable,” Partridge says. “Someone stole it for you?”

“Yes,” Glassings says. “Someone on our side.”

“Who?”

“Arvin Weed.”

“No, you’re wrong.”

Glassings closes his eyes and shakes his head.

Was Weed helping because he’s really on the side of Cygnus or was he a mole for Foresteed? After all, someone had to have been feeding Foresteed information, and how convenient that Weed was the one to steal the pill for them. In either case, Partridge punched Weed in the face. He remembers his stupid smirk before Partridge stormed off. Was Weed leading Partridge to Glassings—to save him?—while trying to give the impression of remaining loyal to Foresteed? “Weed?” Partridge says. “Are you sure?”

“Weed,” Glassings says.





PRESSIA





MIGRATORY BIRDS




The smoke has thinned, but the air is, as always, sooty. Pressia hears a sharp zing and a pop near her boots—Special Forces? Sniper rifles?

She runs and crouches behind an oil drum.

A groan echoes down a nearby alleyway.

She moves to the far side of the oil drum, sees a figure limping along the alley, dragging a hand along the stone wall. It lets out another groan. She presses her back to the oil drum, aware that an oil drum is how all this started. She saw a stranger being attacked by a Groupie and distracted them by throwing her clog at an oil drum. That stranger ended up being Partridge, her half brother, which wasn’t a coincidence. They were being set up, herded toward each other, used. She can’t regret that meeting—even after all they’ve been through, even after the losses. It all feels inevitable, looking back.

As the figure comes closer to the end of the darkened alley, it pauses—afraid of the light? It moves like a wretch—an uneven gait caused by carrying some foreign weight lodged in the body, which is sometimes another body. Is it a survivor?

She looks behind her, searching the rubble around a fallen building for signs of Special Forces, who must have shot at her.

Maybe the sniper has heard the groans and now lies in wait for the Groupie or Beast to emerge. Which will attack her—the figure in the alley or Special Forces, hidden somewhere out there? A little of both?

Whatever is in the alley lifts its head as if catching her scent. It jerks toward her and leans forward into the light. She hides again behind the oil drum, wishing she had her knife.

Then she hears a strange noise—chirrups, sad and mournful. She looks again carefully, and the figure has walked into the light—fully. It’s not a Beast or a Groupie or a survivor at all.

It’s a soldier, but not a Pure—no. It’s small and, yes, young, reminding her of her conversation with the man who said these soldiers were like the little brothers of the others who’d come before. He isn’t sleek or agile. His musculature has been pumped up, but the muscles are bulky and hardened—almost calcified—making him stiff, and the strangest part is that the soldier has burns on his face. She remembers that once, not long ago, she saw a snowman in the city—it was warped and covered in the detritus of the street. It looked like a wretch. This is a Special Forces soldier, but he’s also a wretch. How is it possible? And moreover, why would they make a soldier who wasn’t Pure? Why make a soldier burdened by the deformities of the enemy?