“Astrid wanted you alive,” said Holland, drawing the curved blade from beneath his cloak. “She insisted upon it.” His free hand curled into a fist, and the water tightened, crushing the air from Kell’s lungs. “But I’m sure she will understand if I have no choice but to kill you in order to retrieve the stone.”
Holland strode toward him with measured steps over the icy ground, the curved blade hanging at his side, and Kell twisted and thrashed, scouring for something, anything he could use. He reached for the knife in Holland’s grip, but the metal was warded, and it didn’t even quiver. Kell was running out of air, and Holland was nearly to him. And then through the wall of water he saw the rippling image of the ship supplies, the pile of boards and poles and the dark metal of chains coiled on posts by the bridge.
Kell’s fingers twitched, and the nearest set of chains flew forward, wrapping around Holland’s wrist, jarring his focus. The water lost its shape and fell apart, and Kell stumbled forward to the ground, soaking wet and gasping for breath. Holland was still trying to free himself, and Kell knew he couldn’t afford to hesitate. Another set of chains, from another post, snaked around the Antari’s leg and up his waist. Holland moved to throw the curved blade, but a third set of chains caught his arm and drew taut. It wouldn’t hold, not for long. Kell willed a metal pole up from the dock floor and through the air, the bar hovering a foot or so behind Holland.
“I can’t let you win,” said Kell.
“Then you’d better kill me,” growled Holland. “If you don’t, it will never end.”
Kell drew the knife from his forearm and lifted it as if to strike.
“You’re going to have to try harder than that,” said Holland as Kell’s hand froze, the bones held still by the other Antari’s will. It was exactly what Kell was hoping for. The moment Holland’s focus was on the knife, Kell attacked, not from the front, but from behind, willing the metal bar forward with all his strength.
It soared through the air and found its mark, striking Holland in the back with enough force to pierce through cloak and skin and bone. It protruded from Holland’s chest, the metal and blood obscuring the seal scarred over his heart. The silver circle clasp broke and tumbled away, the half-cloak sliding off Holland’s shoulders as his knees folded.
Kell staggered to his feet as Holland collapsed onto the damp street. A horrible sadness rolled through him as he crossed to the Antari’s body. They had been two of a kind, a dying breed. Now he was the only one. And soon, there would be none. Perhaps that was how it should be. How it needed to be.
Kell wrapped his fingers around the bloody metal bar and pulled it free of Holland’s chest. He tossed the pole aside, the dull sound of it clanging down the road like a faltering heartbeat. Kell knelt beside Holland’s body as blood began to pool beneath it. When he felt for a pulse, he found one there. But it was shallow, fading.
“I’m sorry,” he said. It felt stupid and useless to say, but the sharpness had gone out of his anger, and his sadness, his fear, his loss—they had all dulled into a steady ache, one he felt he might never shake as he reached under the Antari’s collar and found a White London token on a cord around his neck.
Holland knew. He’d seen the attack coming, and he hadn’t stopped it. The instant before the metal struck him from behind, Holland had stopped fighting. It was only a second, a fraction of a breath, but it had been enough to give Kell the edge, the opening. And in the sliver of time after the metal pierced his body, and before he fell, it wasn’t anger or pain that crossed his face. It was relief.
Kell snapped the cord and straightened, but couldn’t bring himself to leave the Antari there, in the street. He looked from the token to the waiting wall and then dragged Holland’s body to its feet.
VI
The first thing Kell saw when he stepped into White London was Lila brandishing two knives, both of them bloody. She’d managed to cut a path through several men—their bodies littered the street—but four or five were circling her, and more hung back and watched with hungry eyes and whispered in their guttural tongue.
“Pretty red blood.”
“Smells like magic.”
“Open her up.”
“See what’s inside.”
Kell lowered Holland’s body to the ground, and stepped forward.
“V?s rensk torejk!” he boomed, rumbling the ground for good measure. Back away from her.
A ripple went through the crowd when they saw him—some fled, but others, too curious, took only a step or two back. The moment Lila saw him, her eyes narrowed.
“You are very, very late,” she growled. Her usual calm had cracked, and underneath she looked tense with fear. “And why are you wet?” Kell looked down at his dripping clothes. He ran his hands along them, willing the water out, and a moment later, he stood, dry except for the puddle at his boots.
“I hit a snag,” he said, gesturing back toward Holland. But several dark-eyed citizens were already beginning to investigate the body. One pulled out a knife and pressed it to the dying Antari’s wrist.
“Stop,” ordered Kell, slamming the assailants backward with a gust of wind. He hauled the Antari up over his shoulder.