The Rebels of Gold (Loom Saga #3)(109)
Just as she was readying her weapon again, the Dragon exploded through the smoke. Florence dodged backward but underestimated the Dragon’s long strides. The woman was upon her in a breath, a clawed hand shooting straight for her face. Florence pressed the muzzle of the gun into the Dragon’s emerald palm, and pulled the trigger.
At close range, bone splintered and tissue was practically liquefied, exploding in all directions. With golden gore smattering her face, Florence dashed away.
The Dragon didn’t cry out in pain, didn’t hiss, didn’t curse. She began to laugh, so loud it echoed off every building and rattled Florence’s brain.
“You are everything I hoped!” the woman screeched, lunging forward again.
A chorus of gunshots alerted Florence that her men and women had joined the fray, stalling the Dragon. The woman brought her hands together, smashing two golden bracelets on her forearms to form a shining barrier that made her impervious to the hail of lead. Florence was almost to the factory and ran as though her life depended on it, because it did.
“I need a corona gun!” she shouted ahead.
A woman with wind-swept hair emerged from the doors. She was a sight to behold—a goddess of weaponry. Shannra was clad in tight-fitting pants and a double-breasted military vest, lined in gold piping. Emma’s hat wasn’t the only upgrade the Revolvers had received.
Florence let out a small choking noise, relief catching in her throat. She hadn’t given much thought to where Shannra had actually been, so she hadn’t realized the full power of the subconscious terror in thinking her lover had perished at the hands of the beast.
“Florence, here!” Shannra called. With a grunt, she hoisted the weapon toward Florence.
Florence’s hand almost gave out as she caught the gun. Her tendons were shredded still from the Dragon’s claws. They’d knitted some, but her magic had been pushed in too many directions at once to have any one singular thing be perfectly mended.
It would’ve been easier if she’d become a Perfect Chimera. But as Florence rounded once more to face the charging Dragon, she didn’t regret her decision. She didn’t need Arianna’s designs to find her ground and hold it.
“After my shot, you fire,” she commanded the men and women who were quick to flank her. “Then hold.”
Just as Florence issued the order, the sound of gliders roared through the skies.
“Right flank, to the airships after mark. We take down this one first, and then we take down the ones in the skies.” Florence leveled the weapon.
The Dragon continued her rage-filled charge. It was as though she’d gone crazy, like a fallen Chimera.
Florence poured her magic into the gun. She remembered the Skeleton Forest, her early prototype all those months ago. This was different—smooth and easy. It was how a trigger should feel under a trained hand.
She shot a beam of pure energy.
The Dragon hadn’t been ready for it, or had vastly underestimated the power Loom now wielded as the shot hit her square in the chest. Florence took a breath as the woman fell and then, the second her body hit the ground, shouted, “Fire!”
Gunfire pelted the ground around the prone Dragon, ceasing when Florence raised her hand.
“Right flank, to airships and higher marks,” Florence repeated. “Take down the gliders!” Half the group ran, the other half remained as her cover. Florence charged.
She drew a golden dagger. It was cast in nostalgia—originally crafted as a replica of Arianna’s own infamous knives. But this one was entirely her own. She wielded it as an homage—a testament to the woman she had been, and a tribute to the mentor who had helped her become something entirely new.
Florence mounted the dazed Dragon and cut out what remained of her heart, casting it far aside. Florence stood with a sway, looking to the skies. One of the three gliders had already been taken out and the other was under heavy fire.
Relief flooded her, and combined with exhaustion to make her suddenly dizzy. An arm wrapped around her ribs.
“Take it easy.”
“Shannra.” Florence turned, sloppy and half-delirious, but with all the purpose she’d ever had in the world. Her hand gripped the woman’s face and she pulled it to her.
Shannra smelled not of honeysuckle, but of gun oil and sulfur. The tattoo on her face was raised slightly under Florence’s thumb as she caressed the familiar lines. This was the woman Florence loved. This was her heart’s aspiration now—to have a partner, an equal.
“You didn’t become a Perfect Chimera.” Shannra, still breathless from their kiss, observed Florence’s wounds and their thin coating of black blood.
“I’m already the perfect shot; how much more perfect does one woman need to be?” Florence hoped her grin was playful enough to cut the arrogance of the sentiment. She hoped Shannra understood.
“My thoughts exactly.”
Gunshots echoed above them, drawing both their attention. The final glider was falling from the sky. Something swelled in her at the sight. This was their turning point. This was the moment when Loom’s revolution, at long last, finally took hold.
Cvareh
Lord Xin made no distinction between Rok or Xin or Tam, and so it seemed he had no qualms with Dragon or Fenthri.
Men and women littered the ground in shades of red, blue, and gray. But the hand of the Lord of Death wasn’t the only thing that unified them. Every corpse oozed gold blood, regardless of skin color.