“Leave us alone!” she screamed, waving her oversized weapon.
Bray looked from the woman, to the children, to the hovel in which they lived, which was larger than any the slaves occupied. An angry handful of slaves pushed past Bray and Teddy. A look of malice spread over their faces as they saw an outlet to their repressed anger.
“Kill them!” a slave shouted, rage in his voice.
“Death to the guards and their families!” shouted another.
The woman and the children backed into a corner. The woman’s sword wouldn’t last long against an angry mob, once an attack started. A few slaves took offensive steps into the room. Before they could get further, Bray shouted, “Stop!”
There was enough power in his voice to make even this bloodthirsty group pause.
The slaves in front turned to face him, surprised.
“They are not responsible for our slavery,” Bray yelled. “They did not beat us, as the others did.”
He traded a look with Teddy.
“Let them live,” Teddy said sternly.
A few slaves stuck out their chins in defiance. One or two looked at Bray and Teddy angrily.
“They live their lives with more food in their stomachs than we receive all week,” one man argued.
“They did not ask for it,” Bray said. “If you kill or touch them, deal with me.”
The slaves looked at him with intensity. Seeing the combative look in both Bray’s and Teddy’s eyes, they backed down and left the house. The frightened, shaking woman and her children remained in the corner, watching Bray and Teddy, as if they still planned something awful.
Bray plucked the keys from the door, throwing them toward the woman’s feet.
Motioning toward her heavy sword, he said, “My knife will fit your hand better. You can barely hold that sword. Trade me for it.”
“The sword is my husband’s,” the woman said, with tears in her eyes.
Losing some of his patient tone, Bray said, “Hurry. I won’t ask again.”
With hesitant steps, the woman crossed the room and traded the sword for Bray’s knife. Bray hefted it. The sword was old and didn’t feel as good in his grasp as his old one, but it was better than a shorter weapon in a fight like this.
“Lock the door when we leave. Don’t come out until this is over,” he instructed.
Together, he and Teddy departed.
Behind them, they heard the woman frantically locking the door.
Chapter 65: William
William stood at the threshold of The Library Room, unable to pry his eyes from the gory scene. A few of The Gifted—the first to be attacked—were reduced to mangled carcasses, bloody bits of flesh hanging around arms and legs. Others kicked weakly as the demons took the last of their life from them.
Those who hadn’t been knocked through the windows probably wished they had. Their misshapen, bulbous heads bled from various bite wounds. Their robes hung in tatters. One or two pleaded to William as the demons ate them, but he ignored them. None had listened to Cullen’s cries, when the demons ate him alive.
Fifteen feet from where William stood, Amelia lay on her back as demons gnawed on her legs and torso. To his surprise, her eyes were still open and looking at him.
“William,” she whispered, her voice shaking with pain. “Help me.”
Looking at her, all William saw was his friends being beaten and pulled into that city all those weeks ago. Any sympathy he might’ve had was stripped away because of her lies.
Soon, she would be a ghost, just like Cullen, or the people trapped in her glass windows, now scattered over the bottom of New City.
Spitting a mouthful of blood, her eyes left his face and turned toward the window. “You could have been one of us.”
William shook his head. “Never.”
He listened as her last, gurgling whisper went quiet.
Loud commotion drew his attention from the feeding demons to the windows, where shouts floated up from the city. Something was going on outside.
He needed to get down and help his friends.
He turned, ready to head down the stairs.
And stopped.
Two staring, frightened guards stood on the landing, looking from William to the gun in his hand. The blades in their hands were wholly inadequate for a roomful of demons and a boy with Tech Magic. William pointed his gun. Neither advanced.
Finding a moment of mercy, he said, “Go!”
He nodded to the stairs below them.
A vengeful thought passed through one man’s eyes.
“Come on!” urged his friend, shutting down the man’s suicidal fantasy.
They took a last look before darting down the stairs, their footsteps echoing down several flights. William was surprised, but probably shouldn’t have been, to hear them screaming a moment later.
The demons in the room weren’t the only ones in the building.
He’d left the door open.
**
William headed down the stairs, away from the gnashing of flesh in The Library Room. With each flight he descended, the cries from the city outside grew louder.
It sounded like a war.
The actions he’d taken up here had sparked something below. Or maybe something else was happening.
His friends were in danger. And staying in a lofty tower would do nothing to help them.
Heading fast down the stairs, he tensed as a few snarling demons came up and toward him. Building off of the power he’d reclaimed with the demons in The Library Room, William said, “The food up there is all gone. Come with me!”
The demons watched him with red eyes.
They listened.
Blowing a breath of relief, William continued down the stairs with his new brothers. Some of the twisted men had bashed down the doors on the other levels, searching for more food, exploring a place in which they’d never been allowed. They dug through the bureaus and tore up the bed sheets, turning a place of luxury into a place of ruin.
The Gifted would never occupy those rooms again.
Commotion from the next landing startled him. Holding up his gun, William approached slowly as a cluster of demons feasted on more human bodies. He recognized the stone-faced guard who had given him meals, and his comrade. Demons gnawed on their skin, pulling out their entrails. Next to one of their bodies, William saw a set of keys.
“It’s okay,” William said to the demons, using a soothing tone. “Keep feasting, my brothers.”
He skirted around the bloody scene, carefully retrieving the keys without disturbing the twisted men.
On the bottom floor again, William paused. The noise from over the city walls had become a vicious roar. Shouts and pained screams wafted through the open doorway and to where he stood.
He looked down at the gun in his hand, which only contained four rounds. He needed more weapons, along with the demons he’d collected.
One chance to save his friends.
He spun, facing the locked door he hadn’t had a chance to go through earlier. Finding the right key from the guard’s key ring, he unlocked it.
Chapter 66: Kirby
“Hurry!” Kirby screamed to the running slaves next to her, as they chased the guards toward the front gate, cutting through the bonfire area. Up ahead, Drew managed to tackle one guard to the ground.
“Help!” someone screamed, pulling Kirby’s attention away.
She looked over to find a woman struggling with a guard. The woman swung her bloody shiv with weak arms as the guard overpowered her. Momentarily diverted, Kirby raced over to assist.
“Keep going!” she yelled to the other slaves, who kept bounding to the gate.
She surprised the guard, plunging her knife into his back, sending him sprawling. Looking over at the woman, she found her on the ground, clutching a severe, bloody wound.
“It’s over,” the woman whispered, opening and closing her eyes as she held her chest.
Someone slammed into Kirby.
In the distance, she heard the cries and shouts of Drew and the others, clashing with the guards by the gate.
Kirby blinked and found the strength to turn her head sideways.
A shadow loomed over her.
Ollie.
Ollie smiled through the blood on his face. In his hands was his bloodied blade. Reaching down, he grabbed hold of her shirt, pulled her up, and slammed her back to the ground.
“Filthy forest-dweller!” he sneered.
Pain shocked through Kirby as he booted her in the ribs.
She rolled with the blow and kept going.
Ollie stomped after her as if she was a bug he might squash underfoot. “You aren’t going anywhere,” he snorted.
A dam of violence seemed to have broken loose inside him.
Perhaps he realized the same thing as Kirby: whether they lived or died, New City no longer belonged to him.
Kirby pushed herself up on her hands, but another kick from Ollie’s thick boots sent her back down. Her eyes watered with pain. Grunting, she lifted her head, noticing a few slaves who had fallen at the start of the battle, their expressions pale in death. Far in the distance, she saw the stomping boots of slaves and guards as they battled the guards by the gate. Screams and shouts penetrated the air. Slaves fell. Others cried out in pain.
Her life was a barrage of those images, because of the people in her homeland.
Because of people like Ollie.
Kirby rolled and jumped to her feet, avoiding Ollie’s swiping knife. She backed off a few steps and caught her breath.
Ollie faced her with a snarl.
The expression on his face was clear: she was the obstinate slave he had beaten all those weeks ago outside the cell and pulled through the alleys of Ashville. She represented the death of a system that had provided Ollie the power to punch, kick, and rule.
And she would never forgive his beatings.
Kirby rushed past Ollie, trying to reach her dropped weapon, which had skittered to the other side of him.
Realizing her intention, Ollie slashed at her, hitting nothing but air.
Kirby leapt back.
“You want your weapon, forest-dweller?” Ollie spat, his eyes lit with rage. He kept between her and the knife as he jabbed in her direction with bulky, fat arms. “Come get it.”
She scanned the ground for something else that might give her more advantage. Slaves had scavenged most of the available weapons from fallen bodies. Of course, they had.
She wasn’t fleeing.
Kirby clenched her fists as Ollie came closer. She felt as if a courtyard of people watched her, cheering for blood. But the shouts she heard now were from the other slaves, fighting for their freedom by the gate. No one was in a position to help.
Forcing logic through her anger, she recalled the battles she’d fought as a soldier. Ollie had a weapon. She didn’t.
She needed to get it from his hands.
“Come on, forest-dweller!” he roared again, losing his patience.
Ollie lumbered toward her on thick, meaty legs. She waited until he got close, turned sideways, and darted next to the blade, getting into the zone where he couldn’t stab, as she had done so many times in battle. Kirby dropped a closed fist on his knife hand, knocking the weapon from his fingers. Rearing back, she punched him in the gut. Ollie grunted, but managed to plow forward, pushing his blubbery body against her and knocking her backward.
Kirby landed in the dirt on her face. A crack and a flash of pain told her she’d broken her nose. Blood dripped from her nostrils into the dirt. She looked for something—anything—to help her.
The fire pits.
Kirby crawled, spitting dripping blood from her mouth as she made for the charred remains of the previous night’s blaze.
“Get back here, bitch!”
Ollie recovered from her punch, found his weapon, and went after her. Kirby’s breath heaved as she crawled fast. Her fingers stung from the blows she’d landed. The blood from her nose felt as if it was choking her. A fat hand grabbed hold of her boot, but she kicked it off, buying enough time to heave herself over the circle of stones and into the fire pit’s center.
She got hold of a handful of ashes and spun, throwing them into Ollie’s face. Ollie cursed and staggered backward, clutching his eyes.
Kirby pushed herself upright.
She grabbed one of the more intact logs from the middle of the fire, turned, and faced him.
To relent was to die.
Ollie tried to wipe away the soot covering his eyes. She ran toward him, wielding the log in a double-handed grip, and swung. Ollie screamed out as the log bashed his fingers, and he lost his weapon again.
“Filthy bitch!”
Kirby swung again, as Ollie ineffectively tried to block with wounded, ash-covered hands.
“Stupid forest-dweller!”
He blinked through the ash and blood stuck to his face as he fought to see and defend himself. Kirby didn’t stop swinging.
She couldn’t.
She reared back, throwing her revenge into another swing of the log as she battered his face, knocking Ollie’s jaw sideways. Blood erupted from his nostrils as she hit him again, and again, breaking his nose, as he’d done to her. Sharp ends of the log splintered into his face as Ollie screamed, and Kirby kept hitting, until she caved in one of his eye sockets.
Ollie fell.
Holding up his bloodied hands, he muttered curses he would take to his grave.
“Stupid bitch…” He blinked his good eye as he looked at her, venom in his expression.
His spiteful words ended here.
Kirby raised the log high above her head.
She finished him.
Chapter 67: Bray
Bray and Teddy raced through the narrow alleys. Mobs ruled. Everywhere they looked, slaves rampaged the filthy streets, brandishing their weapons. Some fought against the guards foolish enough to still battle them. Others battered at the locked doors of the homes where guards had barricaded themselves inside. Every so often, a door burst inward, ushering in a new string of cries and triumphant cheers as slaves swarmed inside.
Passing a slave’s hovel, Bray saw two parents holding their scared children, waiting for the violence to end. More than one house contained the slaves who had chosen not to fight. In others, he saw bodies strewn about the floors, sprawled over bedrolls or amongst pots and pans, presumably victims of the guards who had slaughtered them. No one—not even those who didn’t fight—were safe.
“Too many people are hiding in their homes,” Teddy said.
“I do not blame them,” said Bray.
“At least most of the guards in this area have been killed.”
Bray and Teddy looked toward some guards running in the direction of the shops. Close behind, a group of revolting men and women ran that way to cut them off.
Bray felt a tug of trepidation as he looked north, in the direction where he suspected Kirby might be. “I hear a lot of commotion from the courtyard. We should get back.”
Teddy agreed.
They headed north, stepping over bodies. A few wounded people stared at them from the surrounding houses, tending injuries, or receiving help from comrades. Children huddled close to each other, waiting for an end to the bloody battle.
They had just turned a corner when a group of slaves ran down an adjacent alleyway, screaming and obviously in pursuit of someone. Thinking they might need help, Bray and Teddy raced after them, passing between several dingy houses with cracks in the walls. The path smelled of blood and vomit. Catching up to a winded, dirty man who had paused for breath, Bray asked, “What’s going on?”
“The bastard killed an unarmed woman and child,” the slave said. “They weren’t even fighting. They were in his way.”
The man pointed further down the alle
y, where a boy lay on his back, unmoving, a sharpened piece of metal sticking from his chest. Past him, a woman lay on her side, fresh puncture wounds beneath her ribs. Both were obviously dead.
“Who killed them?”
“Avery.” The slave swallowed as he spoke the Head Guard’s name. “He ran that way. The others are chasing him.”
Bray and Teddy resumed their pursuit. Veering around a corner, they discovered a mob of people gathered around a house. The bulk of the commotion came from the doorway, where a determined man smashed against the door. The people around him stepped away, allowing him a clear path.
“Face me, you coward!” the man yelled. “Face us! Face what you’ve done!”
Bray got close enough to recognize the angry slave.
Gabe.
Gabe’s face still bore some of the bruises from the beating he’d received after his fight in the courtyard, when he’d killed his friend Jonah. His eyes blazed as he battered the door with his shoulder. The other slaves stepped back, afraid to get in the way of a man clearly on a path for vengeance. Bray couldn’t blame them. Gabe’s eyes were lit with the same anger Bray saw the day he’d been forced to kill his friend. Blood covered his knuckles as he pounded the door.
“You are a coward!” Gabe shouted. “I heard how you laughed as you and the other guards pulled Jonah to the Glass Houses. I will laugh as you draw your last breaths!”
After some more pounding, and no response, Gabe hesitated. A few slaves disappeared around a corner, returning a few moments later with torches.
“Why don’t we allow the gods to reap their vengeance?” a man proposed, sympathy in his eyes as he passed one of the torches to Gabe.
Gabe nodded as he accepted the torch. “If he wants to die a coward, let him. He will die in the place where he slept soundlessly, after he made me kill my friend.”
Angry tears flowed down Gabe’s face as he held the torch to the door, watching the wood lick the flames. The other slaves threw torches through the windows, guarding them. Slowly, angry, licking fire engulfed the front door, and the interior filled with smoke. Gabe and the other slaves waited until the door had deteriorated before they kicked it in, tossing more torches inside.
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