“Nomi?” Malachi asked. She couldn’t respond.
Her parents were dead.
He tied the horse’s reins to the iron railing overlooking the water. Nomi didn’t pay attention. She stood at the river’s edge, hands tight around the cold metal rail, and tried to orient herself. Where was the bridge? Where had they stood that night, with the moon shining down and the ghost stories walking in their mouths?
Would her parents haunt her?
The sun’s touch couldn’t brighten the murky green of the river. Nomi stared down into the swirling water as her grief battered at her. She needed to move. She had to find the bridge. But it was difficult to fight the sense that it was hopeless, and that made every movement feel like a waste, a useless denial of the truth.
Her parents were dead; how could Renzo not be too?
“Nomi, is this the place?” Malachi asked. “Do you think your brother came here?”
“No,” Nomi replied dully. She looked around again—shops lined the riverwalk, mostly cafés and bakeries. To her right, beyond a butcher and a clock repair shop, a stone bridge rose over the river. “There. Over there.”
She turned and walked toward the bridge, ignoring the man with white hair in front of the butcher’s window who gave her a strange look. Maybe her face was too pale, or her expression too stricken. Maybe he didn’t like that she was walking ahead of Malachi or that she didn’t bow her head when she passed him. Maybe he recognized her. She was long past caring.
Malachi seemed to realize this, because he never tried to step in front of her or call her back. They reached the bridge a few minutes later. A steep moss-slicked stone staircase led to the muddy riverbank. Shadows and the angle of the bridge hid what, if anything, lurked below.
“Wait,” Malachi said, taking her arm. “Let me go first. It looks slippery. You could fall.”
Nomi stopped. She knew something was wrong; her body didn’t feel like hers anymore, and a haze had fallen over her mind, making each thought difficult to call up. She could barely speak, barely move. Maybe this was what being poisoned felt like.
She thought about the evil cardinal whom Queen Vaccaro had killed. Had he felt like this? Like each limb was separating from his body, one by one, until nothing would be left?
Nomi followed Malachi down the stairs. Yes, she remembered this. The night she’d snuck down here with Renzo and Luca came back to her so clearly—the moon on the water, the slippery riverbank, the sound of Renzo’s voice telling ghost stories.
But this time, the shadows were empty. No one was here.
Malachi put his big, warm hand on her back. “There are more places to look.”
“Like Asa’s dungeon?” She stepped away from his hand, up to the edge of the water, where the ground was muddy and slick.
“You said you wrote to your brother using his friend’s address. What about there?” Malachi suggested. “Could his friend be sheltering him?”
Nomi stared at the ripples of water meeting the shore. “And what if Luca and his family have been slaughtered too?”
“Then we mourn. But there is still hope, Nomi.”
She turned to face him. “My parents are dead. How can you speak of hope?”
She had no tears left. But she did find something in the emptiness, in the haze. Something deep inside, a candle flame that grew, burning hotter and hotter.
Every moment that passed, her fury rose.
Asa had done a lot of terrible things. And now he had killed her parents, and probably her brother too. Nomi’s grief became sharp as a knife’s edge, and just as dangerous.
“Nomi?”
Nomi looked up. At the base of the slick concrete steps, backlit by the wavering morning sun, stood a figure as familiar to her as her own.
Her too-big boots slipped in the mud as she scrambled to reach him.
Renzo.
“Renzo! Is it you? Are you okay?” she practically screamed. Her hands swept across his cheeks, his crooked nose, his worn wool jacket that smelled of old books and fresh bread.
Renzo’s questions tripped over hers. “How are you here? How did you find me? Are you okay? Oh, Nomi, I’ve been so worried—”
She pulled back slightly so she could study him in the low light. “Did you go home?”
His face fell. “Yes. I—I got there too late. You went home too?”
Nomi nodded, her throat closing.
“But how did you find me?” Renzo asked. “I was so careful.… I tried not to leave a trail. I thought it would be safe.…”
“I saw your note in the book of legends,” Nomi scratched out. “I remembered coming here with you.”
Renzo’s eyes widened. “That was a message for Luca. Did you see him? I was afraid Asa would go after him too. I went by his house as soon as I got back to Lanos, but he had traveled to the coast with his parents.”
“I haven’t seen him,” Nomi said. She squeezed Renzo’s shoulders, over and over, to reassure herself he was real. Not a ghost.
“You’re here. You’re alive.” Her heart was still broken, but one small portion was slowly knitting itself back together. “I’m so sorry, Renzo. I never meant to get you involved in all of this. I never meant…” She couldn’t continue.
Behind her, Malachi cleared his throat.
“Your—your Eminence.” Renzo bowed, eyes wide. “You’re alive!”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Malachi said softly.
“And I, yours,” Renzo returned. “Your brother… he has destroyed many families, I think.”
“He must be stopped,” Malachi said with a grave frown.
Renzo tightened his grip on Nomi. “I’m so glad you’re okay. I didn’t know what happened to you, Nomi. I thought… I thought he might kill you.”
“He tried,” she said, and the fury paced her, a constant, blazing flame in her chest. “He sent me to Mount Ruin. Renzo, the island was nothing like I thought. The women were forced to fight, and Serina…”
Renzo’s eyes widened, and in the sea of grief still threatening to drown Nomi, she found joy in the good news she could impart. “Renzo, Serina staged a rebellion,” she said. “When we arrived on the island, it was entirely run by the women prisoners, and Serina was in charge. You should have seen her, hair wild and face dirty, ordering people around and giving speeches. I’ve never seen anything so incredible in all my life.”
Renzo shook his head. “Serina? Our Serina? But she’s so sweet, so… obedient. I can’t believe—”
“It’s true. She is a warrior now.” Nomi’s voice rang with pride.
The image, as unbelievable as it was, seemed to please him, drawing a smile. He looked behind Nomi. “Where is she? Is she here?”
Nomi shook her head. “She and the other women are taking refuge in Azura.”
“Why didn’t you go with her?” Renzo asked. “You shouldn’t be here, Nomi. It’s too dangerous.”
“Malachi and I were going to find a regiment loyal to him and stop Asa. I didn’t think I’d be able to find you, and Malachi said he would protect you once he was Superior. But the troops weren’t there. And so we went to see Papa and Mama, we thought maybe they might have heard from you—” Her voice broke.
So much sadness in his eyes. She knew her expression mirrored his.
Nomi stared hard at her brother, studied every feature. She’d missed him so much. She could see their mother in his soft cheeks, their father in the quirk of his lips, and herself in his warm golden eyes. His hair was longer, shaggier than usual. She used to cut his hair.
She stared and stared, memorizing.
“What about Asa?” Renzo asked.
Nomi glanced at Malachi, who said, “I will take care of Asa,” with a hint of the chill she remembered from the Superior. “You two should go back to Porto Rosa with me. Take the small boat or buy passage on a merchant ship and go to Azura. Go to Serina. It’s the only safe place for you right now.”
That wasn’t what Nomi wanted to do. A shiver of something
ran through her, but it wasn’t fear. It was resolve.
Instead of answering Malachi, she turned to Renzo. “Are you living here?” she asked, glancing around the muddy riverbank. There were no signs of habitation, no belongings.
“I have a small room above the shop across the street. It’s got a back entrance and a window where I watch the bridge. And the soldiers.” Renzo straightened his jacket, plucking at the cuffs.
He was nervous.
“There’ve been soldiers? Are they still looking for you?” Nomi stared at her brother’s rounded cheeks, his clear amber eyes, his tall, sturdy frame. He is safe. He is alive. You found him.
“After they—” He swallowed. “After they went to our home, they kept an eye on the place for a couple of days. I snuck in by way of the roof soon after I returned, but I was too late. They don’t watch it anymore. I don’t know if they’ve given up, or if they’re paying the neighbors to rat me out if they see me.”
Nomi’s stomach dropped. Who had seen her there this morning?
“Come on,” Renzo said. “It’s damp down here. We’ll be safer—warmer—across the street.”
Nomi and Malachi followed Renzo up the crumbling stairs, across the street, and along the narrow alleyway that led to a small door half-hidden by overflowing barrels of trash. Nomi breathed through her mouth until they’d ascended the building’s narrow stairs and slipped into Renzo’s apartment.
But calling it an apartment was a bit of a stretch. It was nothing more than one small room with a pile of blankets on the floor under the window, a heap of clothes in one corner, and a tiny washroom separated from the main space by a stained curtain. One exposed light hung from the ceiling.
“Signor Stefano owns it,” Renzo said.
Nomi’s eyes widened. She knew that name. “Papa’s friend owns this building?”
“He knows about what happened to them,” Renzo replied, nodding. He rubbed his arms, as if warding off a chill. “He plans to wait a few more days and then pay a call. He’ll ‘discover’ them and have the authorities, um, put them to rest. Father had just visited him.… He has to make it seem natural, waiting between visits, so no one will think he was tipped off.”
Malachi moved to the window and stared down at the bridge.
“We should leave before he discovers them,” Malachi said. “The farther away we are, the safer we’ll be.”
None of us is safe.
No one would be safe until Asa was dead.
But, Nomi realized, a weight settling on her chest, Asa’s death had become more than a grim necessity to her. It had become a desire. She wanted him dead. She wanted him to suffer.
She wanted to be the one to make him suffer.
TWENTY-ONE
SERINA
SERINA’S BATTLE CRY echoed across the pier and was taken up by the women charging forth behind her, until the banshee shrieks vibrated in her ears and the blood pounded in her temples. She and the others swept down the path toward the soldiers.
The men scrambled to change their focus, but most of them didn’t have time to reload and re-aim their weapons before the wave of women crashed over them.
Serina tried to shut off her brain, tried to focus on the muscle memory of Ember’s training and the fury of revenge. She tried not to be afraid.
To her right, Ember slashed with her two long knives, her face hardened to marble. A spatter of blood stood out against her pale cheek. Mystifyingly, the man before Serina swung his firearm at her head instead of shooting it. She blocked the blow with her arm and thrust her knife into his belly. He tipped forward, groaning. She yanked the blade free and clambered over him.
The next paused for a split second before raising his weapon, and it was all Serina needed to strike him down. Beside her, Mirror screamed in a soldier’s face. His eyes widened, but he didn’t immediately attack. What was he waiting for? As with Serina, the hesitation gave Mirror time to mount her own offense, spearing him through the throat.
It was like that with many of the men; it was as if they’d been caught flat-footed, not really expecting a fight. Maybe they hadn’t been prepared for their enemy to be female. Whatever it was, their doubt—their hesitation—was costing them their lives.
Serina dodged a half-hearted punch and drove her own fist into a man’s groin. He collapsed, clutching himself, and she slashed his throat.
From above, the markswomen urged them on. They had no ammunition left, but a couple threw rocks down at the soldiers on the outskirts of the skirmish. Serina noticed at least one man fall after a chunk of stone struck his head.
Someone grabbed her by the shoulder, his fingers digging into her old, half-healed wound. Her knees threatened to buckle. He drew back his other hand as if to punch her, but then he paused too, confusion washing across his features. “Why are you like this?” he said, sounding oddly distressed. “Women don’t fight.”
Serina thrust her knife into his stomach and swept his legs.
“We do,” she muttered, moving on.
A flash blinded her. She whirled, just as Mirror sank to her knees clutching her arm. A soldier’s firearm smoked. Helena leapt forward, driving her heavy staff down on his head. He staggered back, and she followed, pummeling him over and over, the heavy wood connecting hollowly with his skull. When she was done, Serina couldn’t see the man’s face anymore for the blood.
Serina grabbed Mirror under the arms and hauled her to her feet. The girl’s face was deathly pale under her freckles.
“Ember!” Serina screamed. She threw her arm up, blocking a punch by a gruff-faced soldier. The older woman appeared, her knives dripping blood. Serina kicked the soldier into Ember’s murderous embrace.
Mirror sagged in Serina’s grip.
“Come on,” Serina pleaded. “You need to walk.”
With a groan, Mirror found her feet. Serina aimed for a gap in the fighting near the cliffs. Ember paced them, her blades flashing anytime a man got too close. Serina tired quickly, but she braced herself and kept staggering forward under Mirror’s weight. Blood sluiced from the wound on the girl’s arm, soaking through Serina’s shirt in seconds. It was too much blood, too fast. Panic poured through Serina’s chest. Finally, they reached the base of the cliff, a short distance from the fighting. Serina helped Mirror lower herself to the pockmarked concrete. Ember stood between them and the battle, her weapons raised and ready.
Serina yanked at the hem of her pant leg. Her hands were shaking so badly it took her two tries to tear the fabric. Mirror leaned her head back against the rough cliff base, her face ashen. She cradled her injured arm in her lap. The blood still flowed, staining her blue prison uniform black and red. Serina inspected the wound. The bullet had torn through Mirror’s upper arm, leaving a gash down to the bone. But the bullet hadn’t lodged in the wound. A small mercy.
Serina had nothing with which to clean the wound, but it wouldn’t matter anyway if she couldn’t stop the bleeding. She twisted the scrap of her pants above the wound as tightly as she could. Mirror cried out, her eyes rolling back until the whites showed, but she managed to stay conscious.
“It’s just a scratch, Mirror, just a scratch,” Serina said, over and over as she prayed for the blood to slow, for some color to come back to Mirror’s face.
The girl gave a shaky laugh. “Scratch?”
Serina brushed Mirror’s hair out of her eyes. Her forehead was clammy, much cooler than the warm Mount Ruin weather warranted. Just a scratch. Just a scratch.
She tried to convince herself.
Behind her, the sounds of fighting echoed off the towering wall of stone. Ember kept guard, but there were few soldiers left to bother them.
Serina shifted so she could follow the battle.
“Go,” Mirror whispered. “We need that boat.”
Serina shook her head. “I need to keep pressure on your wound. No being a selfless hero on my watch.” Her eyes widened as she surveyed the pier. “Besides, they don’t need me.”
The wave of
women washed across the pier, and soon the last remaining soldiers were caught, pulled deep into its fierce undertow. Blades, spears, fists… with their training and their anger, with their homemade weapons and their bare hands, the women brought the soldiers down.
To Serina, it looked like a miracle. And maybe it was. But it was also because these men hadn’t been prepared for the fury or the organization of the women of Mount Ruin. It was obvious they hadn’t been expecting a battle.
But Serina and her army had given them one.
Val and the markswomen climbed down from the cliffs.
Mirror wasn’t the only one with a serious injury, and four of the female warriors had lost their lives. The soldiers lay in a bloodstained heap, their eyes unseeing. The few survivors, all with significant injuries, were killed. No one wanted another Nero or Diego to ruin them, not this close to freedom.
The ship bobbed next to the pier, its engine still belching steam.
Serina knelt beside Mirror and fought back tears of relief to see her still breathing, still conscious. Blood had leaked through the makeshift bandage on her arm, but it appeared to be slowing. Mirror gave Serina a wobbly smile. “I think I might survive.”
Serina smiled back. “You will.”
Ember took over with Mirror so Serina could wash her hands clean of blood at the edge of the pier. She searched the ocean for signs of another ship, for the next danger. It was hard to imagine the threat was over, that after everything, they’d achieved their goal. A ship, an escape route. Serina had greeted the dawn in defeat, so much of the island burned to its lava-black bedrock. Now they had everything they needed.
Anika came up to Serina with her firearm in her hands. She looked as flabbergasted as Serina felt. “Did we just… win?”
“It doesn’t feel real,” Serina replied. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, now that she had no need to use them as weapons. She rubbed the back of each, wincing at the bruises and torn skin.
Val joined them, his face still covered in the soot he’d used to camouflage it. “The Superior underestimated you. Only thirty soldiers.”
Queen of Ruin (Grace and Fury) Page 16