Forged(72)

Frank swears in pain, jerking to grab his foot, but when Emma brings the weapon’s barrel back to his heart, he goes bone still. A bead of sweat drips from his brow and strikes the dust-covered rooftop.

“Promise all my people can walk free,” Emma says. “Everyone in Claysoot and any other test group. The Laicos Project is over.”

“Done.”

She presses the muzzle to his forehead. “Swear you’ll let your citizens elect a new ruler. Anyone the majority favors.”

“You have my word.”

“They will try you however they see fit, and if by some miracle they let you walk, you’ll disappear. Permanently.”

“Seems only just.”

“Good.” She lowers the gun. “Then this new world has no room, or need, for a person like you.” She grabs him by the ankles and lifts.

It happens both immediately and in slow motion. For what feels like hours he hangs on the brink of death—momentum not yet claiming him—and then he’s toppling. His arms flail out. Shock blows over his face. And he’s gone.

I dart to the low wall, peer over.

Dimitri Octavius Frank is dead, a broken heap at the foot of his headquarters. The blood around his head is as dark as his uniform.

Emma sinks to the ground and unravels. She pushes the gun away. Her shoulders shake. She’s crying—not audibly, just tears.

“Don’t touch me,” she says as I move nearer.

“Emma . . . you just—”

“Don’t.”

With her feet tucked beneath her and the determination gone from her face, she looks years younger.

“Thank you,” I say.

Emma wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. I should do something, not just stand here watching her cry, but she told me to keep my distance. I feel completely useless. She stares at the gun sitting an arm’s length from her knees, and because I worry she’ll stop talking altogether if I don’t keep her at it, I make my mouth work.

“How’d you find us?”

“Left Sammy in the hospital wing with some nurses. I found the door open in Frank’s office, then followed the blood trail.”

The blood trail.

“Bree!” My eyes dart to the stairs.

“Gray, wait.” I take one look at Emma’s face and know what she’s going to say, know exactly how bad it’s going to be when I enter the stairwell. I race away. Across the roof. To the door.

I drop to my knees at the sight of her.

She’s slouched just two steps from the top, her good hand tucked inside her leather jacket and beneath her injured arm, like she’s holding a cramp in her side. Sweat coats her forehead. She’s paler than the moon.

“You said a graze.” I pull her nearer. “You said it barely clipped you.” She leans into me. “Bree?”

“I didn’t want you . . . to slow down . . . or not go after him.” She cringes. “I didn’t want you . . . to know.”

“Know?” I hold her face in my hands, let my fingers trail over her skin just to confirm she’s still real.

“Two shots.”

“Two shots where, Bree? Where?”

“One graze . . . the other . . .”

She lifts the arm I bandaged just earlier, draws her opposite hand away from her torso. Beneath her jacket, the blood is abundant.





THIRTY-SIX


“OH, NO. NO, NO, NO.”


I press my hand against hers, guiding it back to the wound. The blood seeps through our fingers, sticky, warm.

“Emma!” I shout toward the roof.

Bree’s breathing is labored. Her eyelids flutter.

“Did you get him?” she asks.

“Yeah. We got him.”

She manages the smallest smile, then leans against the wall and groans.

“Emma!”

She’s at the top of the stairwell now, looking down on us. “I can try,” Emma says. “All I can do is try.”

I pull Bree to her feet. She can’t hold her own weight anymore, so I slip an arm beneath her knees and carry her. Emma squeezes past us to lead.

The hospital is full of workers, most of them tending to injured Order members that have been transported back to Union Central from the square. Emma points to a vacant bed and I lower Bree onto the stiff mattress.

“You’re fine,” I tell her, but I’ve never seen her look worse. There’s so much blood and her skin is too pale and something is off in her eyes. She’s half elsewhere. “Bree?”

Her head rolls to look at me. I kiss her knuckles.

Emma shouts orders to another medic. Bree’s jacket needs to come off. And she needs a sedative.

“Gray, you have to move,” Emma says.

But I don’t want to let go of Bree’s hand. It might never be warm again. Emma pushes against me. Bree’s fingers are sticky in mine.

“Someone get him out of here,” Emma yells. “Get him out!”

I’m heaved away by a burly medic and shoved into the hallway. The door slams in my face. When I try the handle, it’s locked. All I’m left with is a window view of the chaos. Fists against the glass, throat tightening, I watch.

The sleeve of Bree’s leather jacket is sliced open, then freed at the shoulder. Her entire right side, from shoulder to rib cage, is dark with blood. They cut away her shirt and roll her onto her stomach. A medic walks to the window and pulls down a shade.