by Rowan Rook
Blaker was left gasping when the seizure ended, coughing up blood.
Anson's eyes misted over as his helplessness sunk in. His supplies couldn't save Blaker. Something inside his friend's body had broken.
"It's okay. Go...get away from the window..." Tears streaked Blaker's cheeks, the color already draining from his face.
Anson shook his head, but was answered by another kick to the stomach. By the time the second seizure was over, Blaker was barely breathing.
Anson gritted his teeth, coming to a decision.
"I'll save you!" Anson promised. "I'll kill Rita and finish what I started. I'll bring you back with the others!"
Blaker's pallid face lit up with alarm. "No, don't—" He gagged, his pleas garbled. "I...don't want...a different life."
Anson shook his head. "It'll be better, I promise!"
Blaker's shaking hands grasped at Anson's sleeves. "My life made me...the man that I am. Let me keep my failures...my successes. You're quite the man, my friend...but you're no god."
His fingers fell away. His body gave a one last shudder, then slacked, limp.
Anson stared, his eyes nearly as wide and blank as Blaker's. When a scream from outside startled him out of his shock, he searched for signs of life—a breath, a pulse, a heartbeat, anything—but found nothing.
Blaker was dead.
Anson clenched his fists and bit back tears. He'd kill Rita. He'd beat him, shoot him, burn him, hear him scream. For perhaps the first time, he understood Shakaya's precious anger. Rita would suffer all that Blaker had and more.
Gun in hand, he charged for the door.
Blaker was wrong, and he'd make sure his friend breathed again to admit it.
When Anson emerged from the cabin, the ice user was still alive, even though its ally had fallen. The Lyrum circled around Shakaya, preparing arrows of ice. It was so honed in on her that it was oblivious to the rest of the world.
Anson aimed his gun at its back and pulled the trigger.
The bullet hit its mark.
Shakaya startled when her foe fell into the mud, dead.
Anson expected at least a disapproving glare when Shakaya's eyes found his, but she only stared. The animus on her face mirrored his. Then she spun away, scanning the skies for Rita. The Councilor was the last remaining intruder.
"From the north," Shakaya shouted.
The raptor dove toward Anson with the same deadly intent that had killed Blaker.
Shakaya charged at the Councilor, tossing her chakram ahead of her.
Anson crouched down in time to narrowly avoid Rita's bloodstained talons. Above his head, Shakaya's chakram grazed the raptor's wing. He swallowed a shout, but forced himself to reach toward the sky, summoning fire.
The shapeshifter screeched, rising higher. He landed on the cabin's roof before resorting to his Lyrum shape to escape his burning feathers. A few smoldering quills drifted down on the breeze.
Anson noticed for the first time that the Councilor wasn't carrying his usual bow. In his hands was a spear. It wasn't dissimilar to the weapons carried by Riksharre's guards, but its sharp point was laced with silver. It seemed Rita had decided to try a different approach. It made sense—guns would always beat bows. The spear caught the moonlight spilling through the branches and leaves, glistening.
"This world has gone to Hell," the Councilor hissed through clenched teeth. "First the Butterflies try to unleash the Editor, then my asinine brother starts a war he can't win." His glower sharpened to match the tip of his spear. "I may not be able to clean my brother's mess, but I will put an end to yours!"
Anson craned his neck to meet the Councilor's gaze. "If you say this world is broken, isn't that all the more reason it needs to be rewritten?"
Rita laughed. "If the Editor starts the Draft there won't be anything left! A Hellhole or not, I'm not ready to give up on Auratessa yet!"
Anson opened his mouth to object, but the Councilor shifted into his avian self, his feathers still singed. He lunged toward Anson.
Shakaya's chakram slit the shifter's injured wing and threw him off balance. He dove sideways, screeching in pain.
"Shoot him out of the sky!" she ordered. "I'll cover you."
Anson raised his gun without reservation. Bullets flew in Rita's direction, but each missed. The shifter made for a much swifter target than any average Lyrum, despite his injuries and his size. Anson grit his teeth. The more he longed to see Rita collapse to the ground, the more his gun seemed to shake in his hands. Why the Hell couldn't he make the final shot?
The Councilor arched in large swoops, circling above Anson with his talons ready and his spear in his beak, but the flailing bullets and the threat of Shakaya's chakram kept him at bay.
"Calm down," Shakaya ordered. "You can do at least this."
Sweat beaded on Anson's brow and dripped down his cheeks. Each of his bullets hit only the hollow air. Damn it! Why was the thing so damn fast? Shakaya was relying on him. He knew he was doing the right thing. He wanted to watch Rita die. So why...? He nearly shouted when the barrel clicked emptily. Out of bullets. He had no choice but to reload.
Anson spared a glance at Shakaya, who nodded. She'd continue covering him. He bent down and pulled the unused bullets from his pockets.
The Councilor lunged, but this time, he wasn't targeting Anson. Seizing the moment of ceasefire, he threw himself toward the soldier protecting the Editor.
With her gaze focused on Anson, Shakaya noticed a second too late.
Anson saw it happen in slow motion. Rita changed shape as he fell, switching the spear from his beak to his hands and plummeting through the air as his wings disappeared. He aimed his weapon as he dove, harnessing the power of gravity.
The spear split through Shakaya's armor and sunk into her chest.
Shakaya screeched—the first time Anson had heard her scream—as her eyes stretched wide. Her hands wrapped around the spear before her muscles suddenly slackened. She collapsed forward. The blade dug into the dirt and suspended her body, as if she were kneeling on her knees. Blood dripped down its rod.
Rita smiled with delight, relishing the moment before yanking out the spear. A terrifying amount of blood gushed loose and splashed the Councilor's cloak. Shakaya crumbled to the grass, unmoving.
Anson's legs gave out from under him. "Shakaya!" His oldest friend only laid there, silent, spread across the ground like a broken doll covered in scarlet paint.
Rita hovered over her, waiting, before kicking her hard with his boot. She didn't react. A victorious grin lit up his face as he turned to Anson. "It looks like it's just you and me now."
It...couldn't be...
Despite the circumstances from which their friendship had formed, he'd come to see Shakaya as the one constant in his life. She was a skilled soldier, without fear or doubt or vulnerability. She never changed. No matter what happened, she was always ready to stand and fight. For a decade, she'd been his rock, just as he had been hers. He'd come to believe that everything would be all right, so long as she was there. Even now, against his better judgment, he still believed that.
So...she couldn't be...
Anson stared at Shakaya, bloodied and still. His body shook. It took all of the strength he had left not to crumble into the dirt, like her.
Rita stepped forward, blocking her from sight. He lingered just beyond the reach of Anson's flames, as if assessing any potential threat from his trembling enemy. "What now, Editor?" he taunted. "You're nothing without her. Are you going to try for revenge, or are you going to run like the rodent you are? Either way, you'll join your Human soon."
Anson shook his head, his consciousness scattered and whirling, as if it was no longer attached to his body. His thudding heart drowned out his senses. Every instinct pulled him in separate directions, until the war between fury, grief, and fear threatened to rip him apart from inside.
Rita smirked and ran his tongue along the sharp tip of the spear, licking off Shakaya's blood.
&n
bsp; Anson charged forward with a scream as rage won the battle and erupted through him.
Rita held out the same spear, ready to strike, but adrenaline gave Anson's legs a grace and speed they had never had before. He dodged downward—toward Rita—and crashed into his ankles.
Rita cried out, transforming in an instant and beating his wings to keep from falling. Anson clung to Rita's talons as he took to the air, but the shifter tossed him aside with a kick.
Anson hit the soil in a crouch, digging in his fingers to keep from skidding. If the fall had hurt, he hadn't felt it.
Rita screeched in rage, landing in the foliage and adjusting the spear in his beak.
Anson charged forward and set fire to the trees. The flames danced up the trunks like hungry snakes, devouring them, reaching up for the bastard in their branches.
Rita fled, his injured wing tilting him sideways in the air.
Anson raced from tree to tree, setting the trunks ablaze like torches, never letting the shifter stop to prepare a strike or rest his wounded wing. He savored the crackling wood and the frantic flapping of Rita's wings, madness sinking into him as the forest itself became his fire.
Rita shuddered with an avian scream and dove down, the accursed spear in his beak.
Instead of dodging, Anson lunged closer and surrounded himself in flames.
The raptor wasn't able to pull back in time. The feathers of his underbelly caught fire and a horrible screech ripped from his beak. The spear fell to the ground.
The flames melted away when Rita returned to his Lyrum form, but he free fell, landing on top of Anson with a thud and sending them both to the soil.
Rita reached for Anson's throat, holding it tight enough to seal his breath.
Anson kicked his knee into Rita's stomach with every bit of strength he'd ever had. The Councilor coughed, his grip loosening but stubbornly refusing to let go.
Blaker. Shakaya. He'd killed them! He'd killed them both!
Anson screamed through his strangled throat. "I was going to let you go! I was going to stop collecting the Inkwells!" His knee bit again into the Councilor's belly. Again again again. It would never be enough. "I don't have a choice anymore! I'll kill you! I'll rip you apart! I'm going to kill you and bring them back!"
Rita gagged, stumbling backward.
Anson reached out for Rita, but the Councilor danced away, recovering quickly. He countered with a wide kick of his own, slamming Anson in the chest. The air rushed from his lungs.
Rita's eyes shimmered as he threw himself over Anson, pinning down his wrists with one arm and leaning in to choke him with the other. "Now you know how I felt when you put one of your bullets through my Kaida's head!"
Anson jerked forward and sunk his teeth into Rita's throat.
Blood gargled the scream.
Anson seized Rita's shock and shoved him to the ground, his teeth still clinging to the bastard's neck and the tang of blood still tingling on his tongue. "I'll bring them all back, but not you." He raised a fist and slammed it into Rita's face.
Rita gasped, spitting out scarlet.
Lyrum were hardly suited to hand-to-hand combat. Against each other, however, their weakness disappeared. Rita was vastly more experienced, but suddenly, it didn't seem to matter.
Anson slammed down another fist. And then another. Another. Another. He seethed, drunk off Rita's wails and the bruises slowly darkening his face. Anson relished every bit of agony that crossed Rita's eyes and every breathless cry that slipped from his swelling lips. But it wasn't enough. No matter how many times Anson's fists smacked flesh, it wasn't enough. The anger built inside of him until it erupted in screams of his own.
A savageness he'd never felt before flowed through his veins, pumped by his pounding heart, filling him up with a rage he'd never be able to quell. All of his intellect melted away. All he wanted was to watch Rita suffer. The fury had been inside of him for a long time, waiting and growing as he'd learned how to kill, as he'd witnessed so much death, as he'd watched what remained of his life rip apart around him.
Anson drove his fists into Rita's face again and again, oblivious to the burning trees around him, oblivious to the fact that more flames could end it, oblivious to the frantic squirming beneath his fingers. He kept searching for a satisfaction he could never find, swallowed up by a wrath that could never be sated.
Damn them! Damn them all! This world didn't even deserve to be rewritten. It all deserved to die! It all deserved to writhe and scream until there was nothing left.
A violent crack from above yanked Anson back to himself. He looked up just in time to see the trunk of a burning tree shatter and fall toward him and Rita.
Reacting on instinct, Anson threw himself to the side.
Rita wasn't so lucky. He didn't open his swollen eyes in time to see the tree topple down. It landed with a booming thud and a sickening crunch. Blood seeped out from beneath its branches.
Anson gaped with heaving breaths. A familiar jolt rattled his senses as they slowly returned to him and another Inkwell entered his body.
Rita was dead.
Anson sobbed, digging his bloody fingers into his hair as his eyes closed tight.
Chapter Thirty-One: Amaranth and Shakaya, part II
Anson dragged himself back toward Blaker's cabin. Morning indigo peeked through the foliage, bathing the woods in soft shadows. Light rain pattered against the leaves. The flames had fizzled out and left only ashes behind in the clearing where Rita had died. Songbirds sung from the trees that still stood, as if oblivious to the night's carnage.
Rita's death had offered him no satisfaction. His ire would never be quelled—maybe there was no possible way it could have been—and emptiness filled the hole it carved inside of him so completely that even grief was nothing more than an ache.
Nonetheless, Anson intended to follow through with the decision he'd made during Blaker's last moments. His sister had been right, it seemed. It truly was the only option he had left. He was going through with the Butterfly's plans and recreating Auratessa and everything he'd lost. At least then his death—his life—would mean something. Right now, it didn't seem to mean anything, at all.
During their final dinner, Shakaya had said that more Butterflies were on their way. He would wait for them at the cabin and hope that his lifespan didn't expire before they arrived. If it did, oh well.
...He wasn't even going to be able to move Blaker's body out of the living room in the meantime. Anson heaved a humorless chuckle. What a grim thought. He'd have to cover his friend's body with a blanket and perhaps lay some flowers nearby. What a pathetic gesture after getting him involved in a disaster he hadn't deserved.
As for Shakaya... He stopped, swallowing hard.
He...wasn't going to be able to move her away from the woods. The thought of scavengers finding her churned his stomach. He could burn the body—it'd be easy—but his legs threatened to give away at the very idea. He could cremate Rita's dead troops, but not his old friend.
He'd have to wrap her up with a blanket, as well. Tightly, in hopes that it would be enough to keep away anything from the woods, keep away the rain, until reinforcements arrived. The Butterflies would surely take care of their fallen soldier. In the end, Shakaya had served them until she no longer could—even they had to have enough respect left in them for a proper burial.
Anson executed his plans as soon as he entered the battered cabin that stank of death. After a bit of searching, he found Blaker's linen closet and placed a thick quilt over the man's own motionless shape. He grabbed another for Shakaya.
He paused when he stepped out on the porch. The thought of seeing her lifeless face...
Flashes of the rage, the grief, that had torn through him echoed in his chest. It seemed unreal, now. In some ways, he wished Shakaya had been right about him. For all of her claims that he was a monster without emotions, it was perhaps his emotions that were the most monstrous part of him. Or at least, the way he had handled them, the choic
es he had let them make. Like the world itself, emotions could be both beautiful and ugly. Both life and death would be easier without them. Suddenly, he was thankful for the dullness gnawing at him. If not for its weight, he would have been crushed by something else entirely.
Taking a deep breath to compose himself, he forced his legs to take him to the place where he'd seen that wretched spear pierce through her. When he neared, he stiffened with a jolt of surprise. His steps quickened.
Shakaya wasn't there. Blood clotted the grass, but there was no body. Drag marks trailed away from the mess.
Anson's eyes stretched wide as the scene sunk in. Either something had snatched her away, or...
"Shakaya?" He whirled around, the world suddenly out of focus. "Shakaya!"
He got no answer, immediately feeling foolish, but there was a rustle from somewhere nearby. His gaze shot toward the source.
She was there, partially hidden beneath the tall brush and a tree's shadow. She laid on the grass, crimson once more pooling beneath her, but her eyes watched him warily.
Anson shivered with disbelief.
She was still alive.
"Oh lord!" His grief broke free and shot to the surface, the tears finally coming. He raced toward her, his head swirling a few steps behind his feet. He kneeled beside her and reached out a shaking hand.
She was...still alive.
"Don't touch me!" Shakaya growled. The blood oozing from her mouth garbled her voice.
Anson froze. He tried to keep the hurt from registering on his face. Her breaths shuddered, her body shook, tears stained her cheeks, sweat dripped from her skin. Her once-white coat was stained sickly shades of red. She still hid behind her anger, but she was in agony.
...If he had believed there was even a chance she'd survived, he'd have been with her nearly an hour earlier. Shakaya really was as tough as anything.
Anson tried again, reaching toward her with careful fingers.
"Don't!" She pushed herself away with her shaking arms.