Grace and Fury (Grace and Fury #1)(77)

He dropped her. Serina crumpled, her legs unable to support her.

That was Ricci’s victory speech. He was done playing.

With her last remaining strength, Serina stood up on shaking legs, put her head down, sucked in a breath, and barreled into him as hard as she could.

It was like trying to move a mountain, and yet he did move, a little. A few steps back. He hadn’t expected her to try to shove him. He braced against her and thrust his hands under her arms and threw her across the stage. She hit the concrete hard, her ankle twisting under her.

He stalked toward her, murder flashing in his eyes.

A roar built throughout the amphitheater. Serina had time to note that the women watching weren’t cheering. They were screaming. And then, with a bloodcurdling shriek, Oracle and Ember stormed the stage.

Oracle flung herself at the Commander, latching onto his back with an arm around his throat and her legs locked around his waist, blocking his access to his firearm. He coughed and twisted, trying to throw her off. Someone on the balcony fired off a shot, but the Commander waved an arm. “My fight. My kills,” he roared.

He bent forward sharply and Oracle almost went over his head. But Ember slid beneath and drove a makeshift knife into his belly. He reached for her, but she danced out of range. Oracle kept choking him, and no one moved.

Shock crashed over Serina in waves. Oracle and Ember had come to her rescue. They had revolted. The women surrounding the stage screamed and shouted, their banshee voices drowning out the Commander’s strangled gags. Out of the corner of her eye, Serina saw movement. Slash was leading her Hotel Misery crew around the edge of the stage.

Onstage, Oracle shrieked again. A hunting cry. The Commander’s face went purple as he scrabbled against her arm. Ember yanked out her blade. He sank to his knees in a puddle of his own blood. He scratched Oracle’s arm, leaving deep gouges, but she never let go.

Serina took a shivery, painful breath just as Commander Ricci’s eyes rolled back in his head. His body slumped to the side. Oracle wrenched his neck until it cracked, just to be sure.

She straightened and met Serina’s astonished gaze. A smile flickered at the edge of her lips.

Then a bullet hit her square in the forehead, whipping her head back. Her brown eye went as unseeing as the white one.

Serina screamed.

Chaos erupted.

A wave of women crashed across the stage. Gunfire blasted out over the cacophony. Serina struggled to her feet, her broken rib sending spikes of pain through her body. Guards fell from the balcony to the concrete below. It took her a moment to realize why—Slash’s crew had snuck up the stairs, coming at the men from behind.

But the gunfire didn’t slow, and women continued dropping.

If Oracle and Ember could run onto the stage and attack the Commander, Serina could find the strength to keep fighting. She yanked a knife from the hand of a lifeless member of Slash’s crew and staggered up the stairs. The screams and concussion of gunshots echoed eerily in the stairwell. She dodged a body tumbling down the stairs.

By the time she reached the balcony, the guards had turned and were fighting the surprise attack in earnest. There wasn’t much the women below could do but wait for more guards to fall. If the impact didn’t kill them, the women waiting would.

Before Serina could intervene, a red-faced guard shot Slash. Serina lunged at him, yanking the firearm from his hand as he fell. She fumbled with the weapon for a second, trying to figure out how to use it, but a strong arm hooked around her throat. She thrust an elbow back and the man grunted, but he didn’t loosen his hold.

“This is all your fault,” he growled. He punched her in the kidney without easing his grip on her neck. She had no air to groan.

Serina sagged, black spots dancing before her eyes. She elbowed him again, but it was a feeble effort. Her strength was fading. Her lungs were screaming.

Suddenly, through the haze, she saw the guards nearest the edge of the balcony crumple. No one had touched them. They’d been shot.

The arm around her slackened for an instant. She twisted and became deadweight, slipping away. Then she buried her knife in his belly. Two more guards went down. There were only a few left now, and the women fighting them seemed to be gaining the upper hand.

Serina peeked over the broken railing.

Below, in the center of a circle of uneasy women, Val lowered his firearm.





THIRTY-EIGHT



NOMI


NOMI HAD NEVER seen anyone die before. It wasn’t peaceful, and it wasn’t quiet. The Superior’s hands scrambled ineffectually at his throat as he gagged on his own blood. Malachi rushed into the room and tried to stanch the flood. There was so much, a red river running over his hands, his velvet coat. She couldn’t see the stain spreading; the jacket was the same color as the blood.

Belatedly, Nomi realized she was screaming.

Asa nodded approvingly at Malachi. “The more blood on your hands, the more believable this will be.” He turned back to Nomi. “Now you, my flower. You’re going to need to be quiet.”

And he lunged at her with the dagger.

Nomi’s scream became a strangled cry. The point of the knife rammed into her beaded gown, but the heavy fabric and whalebone of her corset became unlikely armor, deflecting the blade. She stumbled backward.

Malachi knocked Asa to the ground with a thud. From beneath him, Asa twisted and bucked. Malachi was larger, but Asa had a weapon. He slashed Malachi’s arm. Malachi groaned. Nomi watched, horrified, uncertain what to do.