She froze. Thorne had gone a lot farther than she’d expected and now he was standing near the room’s entrance, holding the knife and gun she’d dropped when she’d tried to save him. The barrel of the gun was aimed at her head.
Cinder swayed. Stumbled once. Regained her footing.
A gunshot echoed off the room’s stone walls. Cinder recoiled, expecting a jolt of pain, but instead she heard a bellowed curse. The gun Thorne had grabbed skittered across the floor. Cinder shook away the light-headedness and gawked at Thorne, who was in turn staring, horrified, at his hand. His arm was still raised, but his hand was now empty and covered in blood.
“I’m sorry!” Cress cried. She was on the floor against the doorway, struggling to get back up. The kickback had knocked her off balance. “I’m sorry, Captain!”
Thorne cursed again. Sweat was beading on his brow. But when he looked at Cress, jaw hanging, he bit back the pain and shouted, “Nice shot!”
“Cress,” Cinder croaked. “The queen, Cress. Shoot the queen!”
Though Cress whimpered, she did change her aim, leveling the gun at Levana.
Cinder ran for the gun that had been shot from Thorne’s hand.
Thorne ran too, yanking Cress’s attention back to him. In one movement, he knocked Cress’s arm up with his elbow while simultaneously, with his noninjured hand, driving the knife into her stomach, burying it to the hilt.
Cinder snatched her gun off the floor. Cress dropped hers. Blood seeped through her dress. She gaped up at Thorne and it was impossible to tell which of them was filled with more horror. Thorne’s hand was still wrapped around the knife’s hilt.
Turning toward the throne, Cinder fired, but Levana threw herself to the floor and the bullet ricocheted off the carved back of the throne. As Cinder loaded another bullet into the chamber, Levana scrambled off the floor, slipping on her billowing skirt as she pulled herself behind the throne. Cinder fired again, barely missing the queen’s leg as she disappeared.
“No,” Cress gasped.
A searing pain sliced through Cinder’s side. She collapsed onto her hands and knees. Flopping onto her back, she pushed herself away, one hand pressed against the wound. Thorne stood over her, gripping the knife. Cress was dangling from his arm in an attempt to pull him away, but he was too strong and she was trying to keep one hand on her stomach wound. Her entire front was already covered in blood.
“I’m sorry,” Thorne sobbed. All signs of his usual confidence were gone. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
Cress bit him then, digging her teeth into the flesh of his hand in an attempt to get him to release the knife. He stifled a scream behind his teeth, but didn’t let go.
Snatching the gun again, Cinder launched herself off the floor, trying to wrestle the knife out of Thorne’s grip. With a grunt, she planted a foot on his chest and kicked, ripping the knife away. He fell back, catching one of the audience chairs between his shoulders. His face barely registered the pain. His actions were becoming less graceful, more stilted.
Maybe because of his injuries, but more likely because Levana was growing too tired to go on controlling him.
Cress collapsed to her knees, clutching her stomach. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. “Cinder…”
Cinder stood over them, the gun in her left hand and the blood-slicked knife in her right, every muscle trembling.
“Stars…”
She whipped her head toward the doorway. Scarlet and Wolf had arrived.
“No. Run! Get out of here!”
Scarlet met her gaze and started to shake her head. “Wha—?”
More weapons. More potential enemies. More people she loved that Levana could take from her. Gritting her teeth, Cinder reached out, trying to lock on to their bioelectricity.
Too late. Wolf could no longer be controlled, and Scarlet was already taken.
Ninety
Cinder glanced toward Levana, who was peering at the newcomers over one of the throne’s carved arms. Then Levana looked at the second gun, lying forgotten near the doorway.
Scarlet gasped as her body lurched forward of its own accord.
Cinder dove for it too, sliding across the slick floor. There were too many weapons, too many threats, and she did not have enough hands.
Instead of grabbing the gun, she shoved it and watched as it went careening past Scarlet, toward the audience’s raised dais. A second later the weight of Scarlet’s body landed on top of her. Scarlet grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back, nearly snapping her neck. Cinder cried in pain and rolled over, shoving Scarlet off her. Maintaining her grip on the gun, she whipped her arm around, sending the back of her metal hand into Scarlet’s temple.
She grimaced at the impact, but it worked. Letting go, Scarlet skidded halfway across the room and lay sprawled across the floor.
The guilt didn’t have time to sink in—when she heard a roar, fear drew her attention back toward Wolf. Snarling, furious. He was already charging toward her.
The gun. The knife. It was Wolf but it wasn’t Wolf and she didn’t have the strength to fight him off, not now, not again …
Cinder scrunched up her face as a drop of sweat slid into her eyes and raised the gun.
But Wolf’s focus was on Scarlet’s fallen body, and when he leaped, he cleared Cinder entirely. She spun around, stunned, as Wolf scooped Scarlet into his arms and cradled her against him.
Wolf, who was a monster, who was one of the queen’s uncontrollable beasts …
He was still Wolf after all.
Gulping, choking, gulping again, Cinder raised herself up. She lost balance and fell onto one knee. “Wolf,” she stammered. “Please … help Cress, and Thorne … Please…”
He raised his head, green eyes burning at first, but then he looked over to where Cress was clutching her stomach, deathly pale. To where Thorne was crumpled against a fallen chair, looking like he wanted to go to Cress but was terrified that his own body couldn’t be trusted if he got close enough.
Wolf gave an understanding nod.
Relieved that, if nothing else, she could trust Wolf to get her friends out of here and start tending to their wounds, Cinder tried again to stand. This time she succeeded. She stumbled toward the throne, gripping the gun in one hand and the knife in the other. When she rounded the dais, she saw Levana on her knees, one hand dug into the folds of her dress while she clung to the back of the throne with the other. Her coronation gown billowed around her, elegant and distinguished, a sharp contrast to her grotesque face. She had given up on trying to use her glamour.
Cinder hated her own mind for labeling the queen as grotesque. She had once been a victim, as Cinder had once been a victim. And how many had labeled Cinder’s own metal limbs as grotesque, unnatural, disgusting?
No. Levana was a monster, but it wasn’t because of the face she’d kept hidden all these years. Her monstrosities were buried much deeper than that.
Another drop of sweat fell into Cinder’s lashes and she swiped it away with the back of her wrist. Then she lifted the gun, aiming at Levana’s heart.
At the same time, Levana lifted the hand that had been tucked into the luxurious fabric. She held the gun that Cinder had shoved toward the dais. Her arm trembled as if the weapon were impossibly heavy and it was clear from the way she held it that she had never held a gun before. She was a queen, after all. She had minions to do the killing for her.
The queen locked her teeth in concentration, and Cinder felt the muscles in her right arm pull in tight against her bones. The tendons started to cramp, the ligaments tightened.
She grimaced and looked at the gun in her hand. At her finger on the trigger.
She tried to pull the trigger.
Urged her finger to pull. Begged it.
Pull the trigger.
Pull it.
Her hand began to shake, the gun wobbling at the end of her arm. Her breaths came in short, stifled gasps as the trigger dug into the pad of her finger.
But
she couldn’t pull it. She couldn’t.
Levana’s terror began to melt away. Her lips twitched in what could have been relief if her brow hadn’t been furrowed with so much concentration. She kept a firm hold of Cinder’s arm, the finger, the gun.
Levana’s tongue snaked out of her mouth, wetting her parched lips.
“Ah,” she whispered, gaze flashing with pride. “You are tired too, I see.”
Cinder snarled. An earthquake rumbled inside her body. She settled her focus on the queen’s trembling hand and lashed out with her thoughts.
Levana’s eyes widened. Her hair clung to the scar tissue on her face. She looked down at her own hand, as much a traitor as Cinder’s.
Cinder forced Levana’s arm to bend. She guided the gun upward, every centimeter a battle. Every moment a struggle.
Levana flushed red. She pinched her teeth in renewed concentration, and Cinder felt her own arm following suit. Her traitor of a hand lifted the gun and pressed the barrel against her own temple. She was the mirror image of her aunt, each of them primed to shoot.
“This is how it should have ended the night of the ball,” Levana whispered. “This is how it should be.” She smiled a mad woman’s smile and stared at the place where the gun pressed against Cinder’s damp skin.
Cinder remembered the night clearly, like a nightmare she’d never forget. Levana had controlled her arm, forcing her to take Jacin’s gun and hold it against her temple. Cinder had been sure she was going to die, but her cyborg programming had saved her.
It would not save her this time.
“Good-bye, niece.”
Cinder could not take back her own arm, but her body burned with resolve. She would keep her finger from squeezing the trigger. She would not let Levana pull it. She would not.
The finger twitched. Throbbed, torn between two masters. Such a tiny limb. A tiny, tiny finger.
The rest of her willpower tightened around Levana’s own hand. She could feel the bioelectricity sizzling in the air between them. She listened to the crackle of energy. There was an ebb and flow to their strengths and their weaknesses. Cinder would think she was making progress, curling Levana’s finger inward, only to feel her own finger twitch against her control. A drop of sweat tickled the inside of her elbow. A stray hair clung to her lips. The smell of iron assaulted her nostrils. Every sense was a distraction. Every moment she could feel herself growing weaker.
But Levana’s brow was drawn too. Levana was sweating too, her face contorted with the strain. They were both struggling for breath, and then—
A snap cracked loud inside Cinder’s head.
She gasped, and her hand dropped to her side. Her muscles ached from the strain, but they were her muscles again. She gulped down a breath, dizzy from the effort.
Levana sobbed with frustration. Her body sagged. “Fine. Fine. I surrender.” She spoke so quietly, Cinder wasn’t sure she’d heard right. Though she was still controlling Levana’s hand and still had the gun poised at Levana’s temple, the queen seemed to have forgotten it was there. Her face crumpled, her body wilting into the enormous gown. “I relinquish my crown to you, my country, my throne. Take it all. Just … just let me be. Let me have my beauty again. Please.”
Cinder studied her aunt. Her scars and her matted hair and her sealed-shut eyelid. Her trembling lip and defeated shoulders. She was too exhausted for even her glamour. Too weak to fight anymore.
A shock of pity stole through her.
This miserable, awful woman still had no idea what it meant to be truly beautiful, or truly loved.
Cinder doubted she ever would.
She gulped, though it was difficult around her parched tongue.
“I accept,” Cinder said, dazed. She kept hold of Levana’s trigger finger but allowed Levana to lower the gun. Cinder held out her hand and Levana stared at it for a moment before reaching forward and setting the gun into Cinder’s palm.
In the same movement, she grabbed the forgotten knife and lurched forward, driving the blade into Cinder’s heart.
The breath left her all at once, like her lungs imploding on themselves. Like a lightning bolt striking her from her head to her toes. Shock exploded through her chest and she fell backward. Levana fell with her, her face tight with rage. She had both hands on the knife handle now and when she twisted it, every nerve in Cinder’s head exploded with agony. The world went foggy, vague, blurred in her vision.
Instinct alone prompted her to raise the gun and fire.
The blast knocked Levana away. Cinder didn’t see where the bullet had gone, but she saw a line of blood arc across the back of the throne.
Her vision glazed over, all white and dancing stars. Her body was pain and blackness and hot and sticky with blood. Stars. It wasn’t just in her head, she realized. Someone had painted stars on the throne room ceiling. A galaxy spread out before her.
In the silence of space, she heard a million noises at once. Faraway and inconsistent. A scream. A roar, like an angered animal. Pounding footsteps. A door crashing against a wall.
Her name.
Muddled. Echoing. Her lungs twitched, or maybe it was her whole body, convulsing. She tasted blood on the back of her tongue.
A shadow passed in front of her. Brown eyes, filled with terror. Messy black hair. Lips that every girl in the Commonwealth had admired a thousand times.
Kai looked at her, the wound, the knife handle, the blade still buried. She saw his mouth forming her name. He turned and screamed something over his shoulder, but his voice was lost to her—so loud, but far, far, far away.
Ninety-One
“I told you, I’m fine,” Scarlet insisted, though her tone was weary. “It’s just been a really long few months.”
“‘Fine’?” Émilie screeched. By the way her eyes blurred and her blonde curls took up the screen, Scarlet could tell that the waitress—the only friend she had back in Rieux—was holding her port far too close to her face. “You have been missing for weeks! You were gone during the attacks, and then the war broke out, and I found those convicts in your house and then—nothing! I was sure you were dead! And now you think you can send me a comm and ask me to go throw some mulch on the garden like everything is … is fine?”
“Everything is fine. Look—I’m not dead.”
“I can see you’re not dead! But, Scar, you are all over the news down here! It’s all anyone will talk about. This … this Lunar revolution, and our little Scarling in the center of it all. They’re calling you a hero in town, you know. Gilles is talking about putting up a plaque in the tavern, about how Rieux’s own hero, Scarlet Benoit, stood on this very bar and yelled at us all, and we’re so proud of her!” Émilie craned her head, as if that would allow her to see more in Scarlet’s background. “Where are you, anyway?”
“I’m…” Scarlet glanced around the lavish suite of Artemisia Palace. The room was a thousand times more extravagant than her little farmhouse, and she hated it with a great passion. “I’m still on Luna, actually.”
“Luna! Can I see? Is it even safe up there?”
“Ém, please stop screaming.” Scarlet rubbed her temple.
“Don’t you tell me to stop screaming, Mademoiselle Too-Busy-to-Send-a-Comm-and-Let-Me-Know-You’re-Not-Dead.”
“I was a prisoner!” Scarlet yelled.
Émilie gasped. “A prisoner! Did they hurt you? Is that a black eye or is it just my port, because my screen’s been acting up lately…” Émilie scrubbed her sleeve over the screen.
“Listen, I promise I will tell you the whole story when I get home. Just, please tell me you’re still watching the farm. Please tell me I have a home to go back to?”
Émilie scowled. Despite her hysteria, she’d been a welcome sight. Pretty and bubbly and so far removed from everything Scarlet had been through. Hearing her voice reminded Scarlet of home.
“Of course I’m still watching the farm,” said Émilie, in a tone that suggested she was hurt Scarlet had doubted it. “You asked me
to, after all, and I didn’t want to think you were dead, even though … even though everyone believed it, and I did too for a while. I’m so glad you’re not dead, Scar.”
“Me too.”
“The animals are fine and your android rentals are still coming … you must have paid them very far in advance.”
Scarlet smiled tightly, recalling something about how Cress had set up a few payments in her absence.
“Scar?”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Did you ever find your grand-mère?”
Her heart had built up a strong-enough wall that the question didn’t knock the breath out of her, but Scarlet still felt the pang of remembering. It was impossible to keep away the memories of the prisons beneath the opera house. Her grandmother’s broken body. Her murder, as Scarlet watched and could do nothing.
This and this alone was the one thing she dreaded about returning home. The house wouldn’t be the same without her grandmother’s bread rising in the kitchen or her muddy boots left in the entry.
“She’s dead,” Scarlet said. “She died in the first attacks on Paris.”
Émilie’s face pinched. “I’m so sorry.”
A silence crept in, that moment when there was nothing appropriate to say.
Scarlet straightened her spine, needing to change the subject. “Do you remember that street fighter who was coming into the tavern for a while?”
Émilie’s expression lit up. “With the eyes?” she asked. “How could a girl forget?”
Scarlet laughed. “Yeah, well. It turns out he’s Lunar.”
Émilie gasped. “No.”
“Also, I’m kind of dating him.”
The view on the screen shook as Émilie clasped a hand over her mouth. “Scarlet Benoit!” She stammered for a moment, before—“It’s going to take weeks for you to explain this all to me, isn’t it?”
“Probably.” Scarlet brushed her hair over one shoulder. “But I will. I promise. Look, I should go. I just wanted you to know I’m all right, and to check on the farm—”
“I’ll tell everyone you’re safe. But when are you coming home?”
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