Burn (Pure #3)(84)

“I got one. I got one,” he says in a low whisper. “I got one.” It’s as if he’s so proud of himself in this moment he wants to enjoy it. Killing her would end it all too quickly. He glances around and says more loudly, “I got one!” He’s looking for a witness. What’s the point of killing her if no one sees it?

She coughs and finally sputters, “I’m Partridge Willux’s sister.”

His face contorts. He doesn’t understand.

“Don’t kill me. Take me in. Take me to Partridge. I’m his sister.”

He shakes his head. “No sister,” he says. “No daughter.”

And he’s right, of course. No one in the Dome knows that Willux’s wife had a child out of wedlock, much less a girl named Pressia.

“I’m his half sister,” she says, trying again. “Please. Take me in as a prisoner.”

“Take no prisoners,” he says. “Take no prisoners!” He shoves the muzzle of the gun under her chin.

“This is a mistake,” she says, swallowing hard. “Don’t do this.”

He softens for just a minute, taking in her face. But then his eyes glance over the doll head and he knows she’s a wretch like all the rest—and isn’t he part wretch too? He smiles again. He’s going to enjoy killing her. She clenches her eyes, waits for the bang.

But then the boy is gone, his body slammed into the ground by someone much bigger and broader.

She sees the bent metal prosthetic first, and then Hastings’ face comes into view.

He came after her! She didn’t want him to, but damn—she’s glad he did.

He pounds the soldier into the ground with his prosthetic—so hard this time she’s sure the leg will snap. But it doesn’t. He grabs her hand and says, “Let me take you in.”

“They know you’ve crossed over, though, don’t they? You’ll be seen as a traitor.”

“I’m taking you in,” he says, and he grabs her arm and sweeps her up to his chest. He holds her so tightly she can barely breathe.

He runs jaggedly but fast. The ground keeps exploding. The air is choked with dirt and death.

And finally she sees the white of the Dome before them. How does it stay so white in all of this dark soot? She tells him to stop. “Let me down. I’ll go the rest of the way!”

He doesn’t listen.

She wriggles loose her doll-head fist and punches as hard as she can. He doesn’t flinch. She tries a few more times. Nothing.

Finally, she finds the meat of his bicep and then the finer skin of the inner arm and she bites it as hard as she can. She tastes blood.

He arches and lets her go.

“Thank you,” she says breathlessly.

He rubs his inner bicep. His hand comes away bloody.

She turns toward the Dome.

“Stay straight,” he says, “and you’ll meet the first in a series of doors.”

She nods and looks back at him. “Tell El Capitan and Helmud, tell Bradwell…” She chokes up on Bradwell’s name.

“What?”

“Tell them that I made it this far.” She turns and starts running. The ground hisses with wind. Sometimes whirls of dirt rise then scatter and disappear.

She can see the door straight ahead, just as Hastings told her. She speeds up, but then her foot catches on the ground and she falls. She turns back to see what tripped her. Matted hair—a head crowning from the ground. A hand reaches out and snatches her ankle. She kicks it with the heel of her boot while fumbling for her knife. She reaches forward, jabs the knife into the wrist. Its fingers flex. She pulls her knee to her chest. The head raises itself up and there’s a face. Two bright eyes. A row of teeth.

She gets to her feet and runs to the door as the soldier tugs his bloody wrist loose. She raises both fists and bangs on the door. She wants in. “Help!” she cries. “Help me! Let me in!” Her knuckles ache, but she keeps knocking—sharp and quick.

The soldier is on his feet, and he’s lumbering toward her. She’s breathless. She tries to flatten herself against the door.

And then she hears a clicking noise—a pop like a seal has broken. The door gives. The air inside is cool and clean.

A uniform. A guard.

She says over the wind, “I’m Partridge Willux’s half sister.”

A man’s voice says, “We know who you are.” He grips her wrist, pulls her in against the current of the wind.

She glimpses the soldier one last time, his hand bloody and limp.

The guard closes the door. He’s armed and has one hand on the handle of his gun—not yet drawn, but ready.

She’s in a chamber, quiet and still, locked between two doors—one to the outside and the other leading into the Dome.

For the first time in Pressia’s life, she’s on the inside.





PARTRIDGE





IMPERSONATION




Partridge is in one of the greenrooms of what they call the cathedral-gym-atorium. It’s the site for the wedding, and moments after it will be quickly transformed into a banquet hall. It’s been used for every major event in the Dome that Partridge can remember—politics, religion, entertainment. He listened to his dad’s speeches here—Foresteed’s too. He’s seen the Nativity performed here as well as entertainers dressed in strange costumes lip-syncing the words to pop songs on the sanctioned list. The crowd screamed like they were real and not impersonating anyone at all.