The Forgotten City

by Nina D'Aleo

  He turned and saw Ismail hunched at the end of the corridor. He snatched up the portal and raced toward the scullion, whose leg was badly ripped up and gushing blood.

  “Hiltees. They’re coming,” Eli gasped.

  “Leave me! Get to the elevator!” Ismail shouted.

  “No!” He grabbed hold of Ismail and forced the scullion to move. Together they staggered in the direction of the elevator, following the route Diamond had mapped out for them.

  Finally they saw the elevator up ahead. The rusted doors were hanging open. Eli could have literally screamed with joy, except that he was terrified it would bring some kind of horrendous mutant smashing up out of the ground to stop them. The gnashing whirr of the Hiltees echoed close behind them. They raced forward and crashed into the elevator. Eli threw open the control panel and connected it to his external computer system. He started typing override codes, reconnecting the elevator to Scorpia’s power core. When nothing seemed to be working, a terrible thought occurred to him – maybe an ebomb had already taken out the power core. The swarm of Hiltees appeared at the end of the corridor ahead of them.

  “Get us moving, soldier!” Ismail yelled.

  Eli’s hands flew over the keypad as he hit it with everything he had. He almost passed out with relief when the lights of the elevator flickered on and the doors screeched shut. Now to get it moving. The Hiltees hit the elevator hard, rattling it violently as they started to eat their way through. Ismail slammed his boot against a hole as it opened up. He yelled, the ferocious little creatures biting through into his foot. Eli smashed in the last code and the elevator gave a shake and a shudder, then started moving. At first it crawled, then gathered momentum, and soon they were rocketing out of control. Before Eli could even muster a scream, the elevator collided with a ceiling and the doors blasted open.

  Chapter 38

  Croy

  Kullra Fornax

  Nÿr-Corum (The Tower)

  The Tower, once a mundane workplace full of scuffed hallways and stuffy air, had become a nightmare of stalking shadows and lurking threat. Croy moved through the corridors as quickly as she could, dreading that the Arequium Mors had followed her and were about to turn the whole damn place against her. She feigned her limp so as to not rouse suspicion and kept her head down, cutting a straight line for the training rooms. Darius often hung out in there before a shift, working out with his teammates and other Controllers who liked to lift weights. She glanced around the training room door, trying to remain unseen – he wasn’t there.

  Next she checked the mess hall, the dragger maintenance bays and the locker rooms – all without success. Panic started to rise inside her. Her throat felt too tight to breathe. Where was he? She was too afraid to stop to ask anyone, or to go and get a replacement I-Sect, in case it attracted attention. Her drive to find Darius so they could release the evidence and salvage the city was fast being replaced by a desperation just to find him so she knew he was alright. Screw the rest of the city. If something had happened to Darius, she didn’t want to go on living.

  With every muscle in her body shaking with tension, she headed for the administrative offices. Darry had told her they would be assigned new areas on their next shift, which was now, so perhaps he was there, picking up their orders. She reached the reception area and was walking toward the front desk when a voice spoke in her mind. It was faint and she couldn’t decipher the words, but it drew her attention to the corridor behind reception. She knew where that led – VP’s office. Going anywhere near him at this time felt like the worst of all terrible ideas, but the voice whispered again and she felt a fearsome tide drawing her in. She thought it must be Darius. What if VP had realized she’d taken the information and had trapped her partner to destroy the evidence?

  Croy let her body lead her, ignoring her mind full of John L’s words and warnings. Her whole life had been built on and driven by what he’d said, what he’d done – all poison and lies. She moved through the shadows to VP’s office door and leaned in close, listening through the keyhole for Darry’s voice, but instead of her partner speaking, she heard VP and then Castor Quartermaine – it sounded like he was sobbing.

  Croy clutched for her Firestorm, but it was gone. She only had her knife now. She drew it and crouched down, trying to decide what to do – leave them and run, or go in and fight. She had to get to Darius and this would only slow her down or worse. The decision was abruptly taken out of her hands as the door flew open. Croy stood and VP’s assistant, who was on his way out, baulked at the sight of her.

  “Controller Croy!” he gasped. He was a groveling lickspittle whose name was Martin or Kevin or something like that – she could never remember. She held the knife behind her back and nodded to him as he informed VP of her presence. Then he moved around her and continued down the hallway, casting back a questioning look.

  “Croy,” VP’s voice called her into the room.

  She braced herself and stepped from the shadows into the light. Her eyes mapped out the situation – VP standing, with his other assistant, over Castor kneeling in front of them. Kellor lay slumped in one corner, unconscious, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. As Croy’s gaze swept over the girl she heard the voice again, Kellor’s voice, calling for her help. She and the twins were connected by the Dray rete, through the implants in their bodies.

  Croy’s eyes went to VP and she saw him for what he really was – not an intimidating boss, but a soulless psychopath, someone who could run experiments on people with no mercy or remorse, as though they were nothing more than breathing bags of meat. He’d killed John L out of revenge because he’d shut down their experiment and ruined the data. And when Ezra Quartermaine had tried to come clean for whatever reason he had, which Croy suspected could have only been selfishly motivated, VP had tried to kill him as well.

  VP must have seen something in her eyes, because his hand hesitated and twitched toward his gun, a Hooster 5. Castor looked over at her, his hands chained behind his back and his face badly bruised, bleeding and tearstained.

  “Help her,” he whispered, his desperate eyes going to his sister.

  “Shut up!” VP’s assistant shouted and booted Castor in the chest. The boy crashed over sideways. Croy felt Castor’s pain radiating through her own body. Its heat ran into cold fury. She saw her next few steps playing out before her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said to VP. “I’ve been given classified information to pass on to you.”

  VP narrowed his sharp stare, and Croy wondered if he could see through to her intentions.

  He nodded to his assistant and said, “Stay here,” then gestured to Croy. “Come with me.”

  They stepped outside the door into the shadows and he said in a lowered voice, “What is it, Croy?”

  “They’ve found something at the bottom of the Filter,” she whispered back.

  Emotion flickered through VP’s eyes, then died out cold.

  “What did they find?”

  “A facility,” she said, watching his face.

  He shook his head, playing ignorant extremely well. “What kind of facility?”

  “The one where you tortured and killed all those children.” She let the truth speak and as VP’s eyes stretched wide she stabbed the knife into his chest, shoving it deep into his heart. He gasped, and despite all his wealth, all his power, his purple cloak and his calculating mind, he was dead in seconds – as dead as the fox he wore around his neck with such pride. Croy wrenched out her blade and let him crash to the ground. Then she had a second thought. She grabbed his Hooster and dragged off his purple cloak. She was going for his I-Sect when the door opened and his assistant looked out. His mouth gaped open. He went for his gun and Croy shot him point blank in the face. His head exploded and body dropped. The blast resounded around the corridor and she knew it would bring people running. She lunged into VP’s office and dragged Castor up to his feet.

  “My sister,” he sobbed. “You have to help her. They�
��ve hurt her. I couldn’t stop them.”

  Croy picked open the shackles around his wrists.

  “Carry her,” she said, gesturing to Kellor. “We need to get out of here fast – do you understand?”

  Castor managed to compose himself and nodded. He grabbed his sister up and held her close and Croy threw VP’s purple cloak over them.

  “Keep your head down,” she instructed and guided him out the door, stepping over the bodies of VP and the assistant. They made it to end of the corridor and took a right as people were appearing out of the administrative offices and peering around, all looking to each other for what to do next. Herd animals, John L had called them. Croy pushed the words and the speaker out of her mind.

  She and Castor moved fast, almost clearing the administrative section of the Tower before a voice called out behind them.

  “Croy!”

  Croy’s skin chilled. She glanced over her shoulder but didn’t slow. It was Angeline. Croy turned away and stepped up the pace, but Roth’s girlfriend ran after them, chasing them until she caught up. She grabbed hold of Croy’s arm.

  “I’m sorry,” Angeline puffed. “I’ve been trying to find you. I have to tell you something. I didn’t know who else to trust.” She glanced at Castor, who was wisely keeping his face in the shadows and the purple cloak drawn firmly around them.

  “I’m in the middle of an official escort,” Croy told her.

  “I know. I’m sorry,” Angeline repeated. “It’s just …” Tears spilled from her eyes. “Roth was acting strange this morning. I saw him …” She bit her quivering lip.

  “What?” Croy prompted, her heart beating faster.

  “I saw him push our neighbor over a railing. I think he … killed him.” Angeline stared at Croy with wide, terrified eyes, half in shock at what she was saying. “And his face … he didn’t look – like him. I was afraid. I hid.”

  Pain tightened all over Croy’s body. The Mors influence was taking hold – and Roth had fallen to it. A moment of grief was all she could spare for the man she thought her heart had broken over.

  “Listen to me,” Croy said to Angeline. “Something is happening in the city. Get to a ship and get out through the gates. Trust me. Get out while you can.” She turned and grabbed hold of Castor’s arm, directing him away. She didn’t hear Angeline following and didn’t look back.

  They reached the Tower parking point and Croy scanned it for Darius’ dragger, but it wasn’t anywhere in sight. There were other places he could have parked, though something inside her was now saying he wasn’t there. She didn’t know whether to trust that feeling or not, but they couldn’t stay at the Tower any longer. The whole city was about to go up.

  Croy ran to her dragger with Castor at her heels. She crouched down to access the engine of the ride beside her, boosting the ignition, bringing it to life.

  “Fly fast. Stay right behind me,” she told the kid. He nodded, climbing on and draping his sister over his knees.

  “Stop!” a voice yelled behind them and Croy heard the click of a Lockwood Hand being armed. She knew whose gun of choice that was. She turned to face Knightsbridge and Newton, with Kisslefish standing beside, but apart from them. The trainee’s expression was tortured with utter dismay, but Knightsbridge looked smug and Newton as cold as ever.

  “I knew you were rotten scum, Croy – ‘the Saint’, my arse!” Knightsbridge mocked her. “Absconding with prisoners, impersonating a Purple Wing, stealing a dragger. They’ll take your badge for this. Get off. Get on your knees.”

  Before Croy could respond at all, Kisslefish raised a metal bar he’d been holding behind his back and slammed it into Knightsbridge’s head. The big Controller roared. Croy leaped off her dragger and rushed him. She grabbed him by the collar and pressed the pressure point in his neck, knocking him out. Newton seized her from behind, lifting her up, and Kisslefish smashed the metal bar over him as well, again and again with raw fury, until he dropped Croy. Newton grabbed the trainee by the throat and headbutted him savagely. Croy kicked Newton’s legs out from under him, slamming a hand into his neck as he toppled, cutting his senses. Kisslefish tumbled over on top of him but scrambled up immediately, blood gushing from his nose. He grabbed the metal bar and raised it above his head, trying to smash it down on Newton’s face. Croy intercepted and the trainee fought her.

  “I hate him,” he yelled over and over until the words dissolved into sobs and he sunk to his knees. Croy held his shoulder as he cried, his arms clutched around himself.

  “You need to get out of here, kid,” Croy told him. “The city is falling.”

  He looked up at Croy with bloodshot eyes and she saw he believed her without question. He whispered, “Please, wherever you’re going, take me too.”

  Croy started to shake her head, but Kisslefish grabbed her arm and yelled, “Please!” He started sobbing again. “Please – please – please! My father will kill me.”

  Croy didn’t know if Kisslefish knew anything about what his father had done, but she could see he was terrified.

  “Get up. We’re flying out of here,”she said.

  Kisslefish uttered a shaky thankyou. He scrambled up and they ran toward Castor, still sitting astride the dragger. He looked Kisslefish over with suspicion and dislike, as Croy jumped onto her own machine and gestured for Kisslefish to get on behind her.

  She revved up the engine and felt Kisslefish grab her waist as she released the dragger, soaring into the air beside the tower. In the chaos of her mind the question kept repeating – Where are you, Darry? WHERE ARE YOU?

  Chapter 39

  Eli

  Aquais

  Scorpia (The Galleria Majora)

  Eli ricocheted across a smooth marble floor, ending up with his legs up a wall and his body twisted painfully around a chunk of metal debris. He extracted himself limb by limb and rolled upright. What was left of the elevator hung charred and fractured in a broken wall behind him; just ahead, Ismail lay sprawled out on his back with the portal painting on top of him. Eli scrambled over to him and dragged the picture off. Ismail gazed around them, his eyes distant for a moment, then they sharpened and he sat up fast, clutching his chest. A look of recognition and fear shadowed the scullion’s face and Eli followed his line of sight to the chamber around them where art hung askew on collapsing and broken walls. They’d landed in what was left of the Galleria Majora. It made Eli immediately think of Ev’r. A bomb impacted close by with devastating power. It shook the Galleria, bringing chunks of rock and plaster down on their heads. Another bomb fell straight after, this one more distant. Scorpia was clearly on the brink of complete disaster, but they’d done it – they had the portal, they had the enchant – now they just had to go through. Eli held the painting against his side.

  “We can’t go through unarmed,” he told Ismail. “We’ll have to go back to the hangar and restock, then cross over from there.”

  Ismail looked up and the desolate blankness of his expression sent Eli’s nerves spiraling down into the bitter acid of his stomach.

  “They’re coming,” Ismail said, his voice hollow. “Run. We failed the mission and this is where I die. I saw it in the vision, but you can still save Zara. You have to leave me and go.”

  A light flared from the picture.

  “No!” Eli yelled, holding it up as it began to shake.

  He flung the painting away from them just as it blazed to full light and Omarian shapes appeared in the portal, many more of them than in the tunnels of Duskmaveth or in Adliden. It looked like half an army was coming. The white light blasted out as the Omarians crashed through the portal. The explosion propelled Eli back and he smashed into a pile of rubble. Pain shot through his back and wings, but he struggled to his feet, holding a brick in his hand, ready to fight. He expected the Omarians’ attention to be on him, but none of them were even facing toward him. They were all watching Ismail. He was still kneeling in the same spot. His head was hanging at a strange angle and his shoulders had starte
d convulsing. The tremors spread to the rest of his body and grew violent, flinging him one way and then the other. Vapor poured out of his chest and mouth and formed into the body of the Mocking Witch. Ismail collapsed back onto the ground as the witch muttered a death curse, taking out the first line of Omarians. The others immediately retaliated, but found their skills of small effect against the powerful dark witch. She extinguished their fire blasts even before they threw them and they couldn’t use light-form, because she didn’t have body-lights – she was already dead.

  Eli coughed, the air filling with the reek of smoke and dark magics as the two forces collided again and again. As one line of Omarians fell, another moved up to take its place, battling the relentless zombie witch. Behind her Ismail lay twitching, with fragments of the destroyed portal scattered all around him and the He-Ro at his side where it had slipped from Eli’s grasp. Eli ducked low and dashed toward him, but a fireball exploded at his feet, knocking him back again. He groaned and rolled onto his knees. He started to crawl toward the scullion, the witch’s screams shaking the Galleria as she laid waste to the Omarians. Gore and hot blood rained down on Eli’s head. A severed hand splattered to the ground next to him. He recoiled, but then pounced on it and shoved it into his bag – the blood antidote for Jude!

  Before Eli could reach Ismail, the scullion’s eyes blinked open and locked onto the witch’s back. A moment passed, and then Eli saw a flash of reflected light as Ismail ripped out the He-Ro embedded in his chest, then drew the Morsus Ictus and held it over his heart. Eli saw his intention in the grim lines of his face.

  “No!” he yelled.

  Eli scrambled but he wasn’t fast enough – Ismail brought the deadly blade down with brutal force, driving it deep into the zombie heart and wrenching it back out, only to stab again and again until he slumped down – dead.