Heat so intense I feel it cook my skin before my body reacts on its own, throwing me away from it—the Springer is ripped apart, a living being one second, splattering piles of sizzling meat the next. Blue blood splashes out, all over the floor, all over me.
I sit there, unthinking, staring at my fingers. They are spotted with beads of blue, each drop reflecting the raging fire above, like a thousand tiny jewels all dancing in perfect time.
That could have been me…what do I do, what do I do…
Hands grab me, yank me to my knees. It’s Borjigin, coughing so hard that spit flies from his open mouth. He drags me away from the mess and the sickening smell of scorched Springer.
“Come on,” he grunts. “I’m not leaving you here.”
I’m almost to my feet when he cries out, falls down next to me, holding the back of his head. I turn to face the danger—a fist drives into my nose. I stumble back, slump to the floor.
“You two aren’t going anywhere.”
It’s O’Malley.
I’m dizzy, can’t focus. I taste blood on my lips. I roll to my hands and knees, try to keep from falling to my side as the world spins.
O’Malley stands in front of me, aiming his bracelet-point somewhere into the room. This close, I see him work it, see how he flicks his fingers straight out, flat as a board, and a split second later the bracelet flashes with white light.
I hear another Springer scream.
O’Malley laughs. He’s enjoying the slaughter. On my hands and knees, my eyes are at his waist level. There, in his belt, the ornate knife he used to murder his creator.
The boy I love is dead.
Now I must kill him a second time.
I reach out, feel the knife handle against my palm an instant before my fingers curl tight around it. One pull—fast, firm—and the blade slides free from the sheath.
O’Malley felt the tug. He looks down, sees the knife in my hand. He opens his mouth—to say no, maybe—but he doesn’t have time to say even that.
I stab. The knifepoint slides through his coveralls into his belly, angles up inside his chest. The blade sinks deep, doesn’t stop until the hilt thumps against his body.
He makes a noise—half-sigh, half-cough.
“You killed him,” I say.
I pull the blade out. Blood spills instantly, spraying on my hand, my sleeve.
Red blood.
“I loved him, and you erased him.”
I stab him a second time, again driving the blade up and in.
O’Malley stares down with an expression of disbelief. Wide eyes. Open mouth. He shakes his head, just a little, as if to say, This can’t be happening.
His expression changes, melts into something else. The eyes look at me with warmth, with love.
It’s the real O’Malley…my O’Malley…and he smiles.
“Thank you,” he says.
He collapses. I catch him as he falls. His back on my thighs, my arm under his head. He’s shivering. His blood…it’s everywhere. The knife is still sticking out of him.
“Kevin! Hold on! I’ll get you out of here.”
He grabs my shoulders with what little strength he has. His fingers dig into my coveralls.
“Too late,” he says. He tries to take a breath, but a spasm cuts it short. A shudder courses over him, through him, and his face shifts from love to pure hate. The same eyes glare at me, but it is not the same person. From deep in his throat, he growls out words.
“You always were a bitch, Savage.”
His neck relaxes, his head tilts to the side.
Dead eyes stare out.
He was still in there.
Borjigin hauls me up, tries to drag me to the racks, to whatever way out is hidden in the shadows.
I knock his hands away. I grab O’Malley’s silver bracelet, slide it clear from his hand.
“Hem!” It’s Barkah, screaming to be heard over the roaring flames. “Hem, move!”
I stand, crouching against the blistering heat that blazes down from a fire-engulfed ceiling. My lungs burn and rebel—I cough so hard I can’t draw a breath.
The only Grownups I see lie motionless on the blood-splattered floor. None of them are Matilda. Or Gaston.
Four Springers stand victorious. Coughing, bloody, wounded, exhausted—at least three of their kind are dead, but they won.
Through the smoke and flames, I see a final battle still under way.
By the ruins of the X, the old Bishop straddles the young one, raining down blow after blow, smashing gnarled, black fists into ravaged pink flesh. Any one of those punches would shatter me completely.
I slide the bracelet onto my right wrist. I feel it squeeze down on my forearm.
My lungs burn, my eyes water, the heat is cooking me alive, but I am not finished here.
Old Bishop stands on wobbly legs. His hands are a mangled mix of torn flesh and blood.
On the stone floor in front of him, my Bishop struggles to move.
The worm of rage writhes inside my chest.
I stride toward them. Borjigin and Barkah fall in at my sides.
Old Bishop stares at me, mask cracked and askew, chest heaving, red eyes blazing with pride.
“I won,” he says. “I beat him.”