Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(114)

“Well, it means he won’t be makin’ it to his tap-dancing lessons this—”

“Wayne?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Marasi closed her eyes, and Wayne leaned back against the wall, looking out at that crowd. Angry, waiting for the governor to give them his speech. The speech that was supposed to stop all this.

“Bleeder was planning to outrage them,” MeLaan said. “I heard some of his speech. Maybe we can make them disperse?”

“No,” Marasi said, standing. “We can do better than that.” She turned to MeLaan, then nudged the governor’s skull with her foot. “How long will it take you to imitate him?”

“I didn’t digest his corpse—and don’t wince like that, it’s not my fault you people happen to be edible. If it helps, you taste terrible, even if you’re properly aged. Anyway, it will be tough. TenSoon’s pretty good at re-creating a face from a skull, but I’m way less practiced.”

Wayne didn’t say anything. He could shut it. Damn right he could shut it, when he needed to. Even if there was jokes that practically begged to be said.

“You have us to help you get it right,” Marasi said to MeLaan. “Plus, it will be dark. You won’t need to fool Innate’s mother, just a crowd of angry citizens, most of whom haven’t seen him up close.”

MeLaan folded her arms, inspecting the remains. “Fine. If you think you can come up with something for me to say that will placate that crowd, I’ll do it.”

Wayne stood still, jaw clenched. No jokes about … well, the obvious things. Besides, he’d just learned something far worse. Something that was no cause for laughter.

Marasi looked at him, then frowned. “Wayne, what’s wrong?”

He sat down, shaking his head.

“Wayne?” Marasi said, rising, sounding genuinely concerned. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that—”

“I don’t mind what you said,” Wayne said.

“Then what?”

“Well,” he said, looking at MeLaan, “I’d just always assumed … you know … that humans tasted wonderful.”

“Nope,” MeLaan said.

“You’re really woundin’ my self-esteem,” Wayne said. “Maybe I’m different. Wanna gnaw on my arm a bit? It’ll grow right back, least once we find out what that monster did with my metalminds.…”

Marasi sighed loudly. “MeLaan, work on those bones. I need to rewrite your speech.…”





24



Bleeder had obviously practiced with steel. She knew how to Push on passing latches or lampposts to adjust her course. She knew how to drop low before shoving on a parked motorcar to give herself lateral speed, rather than just Pushing herself higher. She was capable.

Wax was more than capable. He followed as a shadow, never more than a half leap behind her. He sensed an increasingly frantic quality to her motions, flared steel trying to Push herself out of his reach.

He let her, at first, trying to run her out of steel. They bounced through the city, two currents in the mist, leaping over roadways clogged with angry rioters, past middle-class neighborhoods full of closed shutters and extinguished lights, over the grounds of the rich—whose security forces stood tensely by gates, waiting for this hellish night to end.

Wax confirmed to himself as they flew that Bleeder had not been the Marksman. She’d worn one of his masks earlier—and seemed to be doing so again, from the quick glance he got as she passed a burning building in the night—but she did so to consternate and confuse him. Marks had sought the insides of rooms as he ran, trying to set up an ambush. She kept to the open spaces, as if frightened of the indoors. No running toward skyscrapers, no seeking the cramped confines of the slums. Instead, she headed directly east from the governor’s mansion, toward the freedom of the outer city.

There wouldn’t be nearly so much metal out there, making it difficult for her to flee—but also removing some of his advantage. He couldn’t let that happen.

As they chased past a late train, Wax redoubled his efforts. He anticipated her turn as she cut away from the train toward an industrial quarter, and he cut sideways, earning a few seconds. As she leaped over a squat, burning building—passing protesters who threw rocks at her from below—Wax skimmed between it and the building beside it, coming around the other side in a precise turn. He passed through boiling smoke and emerged, gun out, as she came down from a more graceful arc.

That earned a curse from her as she saw him. She flung herself down a street, using each passing light as another source to Push off, increasing her speed. It was done with deftness, but Wax had an advantage. He decreased his weight, filling his metalmind. As always, though the change was sometimes subtle, this increased his velocity. If he decreased his weight while in motion, he got a little burst of speed. He didn’t know why.

In a chase such as this, shoving off each light that passed, little advantages like that added up. Each cut corner, each careful judge of an arc, each use of the speed boost in flight after landing for a moment, sent him closer to her. To the point that as they neared the edge of the city, she glanced backward and found him about to grab her heels.

She cried out, a feminine exclamation of surprise. She shoved herself to the side, passing out over the river, and managed to land on the roadway portion of the Eastbridge, holding on to one of the support wires.