“No.” He notches the gears, eliciting a horrible grinding sound. “You?”
“No!” I panic because he usually knows how to do everything. He shifts a lever and we lurch forward. The hovertruck lists into the vehicles parked on the side of the street. Sparks fly. Hawthorne corrects the levers and guides us back into the center of the channel. “This thing is like driving a humpback whale,” he complains. “Can you see the maginot?”
I open my window. Cold air blows inside the cab. Sticking my head out, I search the area behind us. At first, the blackness is complete, but as my eyes adjust, the darkness takes the shape of a wolf, and it’s gaining ground. “Give me your sword”—Hawthorne tosses me the fusionblade—“and just keep moving.” Hoisting myself up, I sit on the edge of the open window. Holding the handrail on the side of the cab, I climb onto the roof. I brace my feet and ignite the fusionblade. It glows golden in the moonlight.
The yellow-eyed maginot is just a few paces back. It moves alongside us for a few strides, then leaps upward, almost making it to the roof. It falls back into the channel and continues without breaking stride.
I jump the small gap from the cab to the top of the garbage collector. Tapping my heel against the metal of the humpback, I hear a hollow ring. Wielding Hawthorne’s sword, I slash through the metal roof, cutting as I run to the other end. I make a right-angle turn, carving a perpendicular line. Reaching the flank, I pause. The creature running below hurdles onto the top of a parked hovercar beside us and crashes over other vehicles that line the channel until it pulls abreast of us.
I make another right-angle turn and continue to slice through the rooftop. The metal glows orange, melting away. I run back toward the front, a spine-chilling howl shivering the air behind me.
Suddenly the whole vehicle shakes as the maginot lands on the roof near the tailgate. We sway, and my thighs burn with the strain of maintaining my balance, but Hawthorne keeps us in the channel. Hackles on the cyborg’s crest stand straight up. The flews on the sides of its mouth rise, exposing its sharp fangs. Its massive forepaw steps toward me. Steely claws grip the surface of the humpback. I hold Hawthorne’s sword in my sweaty hand, the burning blade angled toward my feet. I wait. One breath. Two.
The maginot lowers its head and rushes toward me. I plant the fusionblade into the roof and rake it across the hold, creating the final seam. The back of the rectangle falls first. The cyborg slides backward, its razor-sharp claws digging into the metal, trying to find purchase. Then the rest of the ceiling gives way. The beast falls, disappearing inside the belly of the whale.
An angry yowl comes from inside the humpback, and the rampaging maginot rams the side. The hovertruck careens. I sprawl onto my stomach, dropping Hawthorne’s sword. It slides away. I reach for it, but another cataclysmic jolt to the flank of the hovertruck throws me toward the edge. I stop just short of falling over. The sword slides toward me. I stretch out and catch it.
Tearing away a piece of my hem, I hold the fabric against the fusionblade. The cloth ignites. I drop it into the garbage hold. Smoke rises, and the reek of burning garbage is almost unbearable. A terrifying wail echoes from the hole. Turning, I leap back to the cab of the truck. Lying on the rooftop, I swing myself over the side and back in through the window.
“Stop!” I order, slumping against the seat.
Hawthorne reverses the engine. The chassis crashes to the ground and skids to a halt amid a shower of sparks. I’m about to speak when the cab pitches sideways again. Inside the refuse hopper, the maginot is ramming the walls of the hull. Through the side mirror, I see enormous dents radiate from the inside out. I pull a blue lever between Hawthorne and me labeled “Compaction.” It triggers the hydraulic system. The garbage compactor whines, compressing. Smoke pours out of the hole in the rooftop. The framework rumbles and shakes, and a horrific howl cuts short, leaving only the sound of crunching metal. The blue handle shifts back to its resting position and the night grows quiet.
Sirens arise in the distance. “Can you run?” Hawthorne asks me. I nod. We get out on the shadowy side of the channel, ducking between the nearest buildings, and slip away into the night.
Chapter 25
A Rose Gardener
Hawthorne guides me to a stop beside a rather expensive-looking Fairweather. I try to catch my breath while he breaks into the luxury airship. Once inside, it doesn’t take him long to manually start the engine.
We lift off the hoverpad and fly in the direction of the sea. Neither of us says a word about the maginot. The fact that we’re both still alive is enough. Hawthorne finds my hand and threads our fingers together. About a mile from my apartment, I realize he’s taking me home.
“How do you know where I live, Hawthorne? I only just moved in.”
“I stalk you, Roselle.” He sounds unapologetic.
“And yet all that time you never contacted me.”
His lips form a grim line. “I couldn’t. They’d have known, and they’d have killed you for it.”
“It doesn’t matter now. They plan to kill me anyway.”
“And I plan to stop them.”
We near my apartment, circling once. The terrace is alive with Salloway bodyguards. Instead of landing, Hawthorne flies to the channel a block from the building. He sets us down facing the sea, letting the engine idle. “I’ve been following you and Salloway. I’ve known about this place for a while now. It didn’t take me a second, once I saw this building, to recognize your moniker. They can try to pass off its shape as that of a secondborn weapon, but I know the crown at the top is you. I know every curve of your body. Every contour. Every shape you take. This place was built for you.”
“They have plans for me.” I shiver and rub my arms. “Do you know about Hammon and Edgerton?”
“Agent Crow came to me, looking for them. I know you had something to do with their disappearance. I’m not sure how you pulled it all off—getting them out of Swords. But I know you paid for it. A beating like that means someone meant to kill you. What happened? Where are they?”
“I can’t tell you,” I reply, “for your own safety.”
“You don’t trust me.” He sounds hurt, but not surprised.
“You’re right,” I agree, “but I also don’t want you to be in danger because of me.”
“I can accept that. Did the Star soldiers hurt you worse than the beating that I saw?” he asks through gritted teeth, his gray eyes bleak.
“I know what you’re asking. They didn’t rape me.” Reykin wouldn’t let them, I think to myself. I don’t want him to see me cry, so I open my door, get out, and walk toward the beach. Hawthorne catches up and takes my hand. “I was afraid—I am afraid,” I admit as we wander through the sand. “The kind of fear that makes me think if I had to do it again, I might not be able to. I might just let them die and that . . . that makes me feel”—my voice cracks—“angry and guilty. I’m afraid to go to sleep tonight. I’m afraid to dream that I’m in the middle of it all again, and there’s no way out . . .”
His arms engulf me, tugging me to his chest. I breathe hard until I get my emotions under control. A tear escapes from the corner of one eye anyway. I growl and wipe it away with a trembling hand. “Hammon is pregnant,” I murmur. “You’re going to be an uncle.”
Hawthorne swears softly. “I’m going to kill Edge! So thoughtless!”
“Believe me, he’d have welcomed it after the beating he took.”
“Is he okay?” Hawthorne asks. “Is the baby okay—and Hammon?”
“Like I said, they’re as okay as I can make them.”