“Stop halfway to the gate,” he whispers. “I’ll send help.”
He turns and walks back into the shuttle.
There is nothing left but to face the path I have made for myself.
I walk down the ramp, across the landing pad, and head for the city gate.
It is dark and drizzling. Blackness drapes the city in a shroud of hidden threats. I don’t want to use the flashlight, because it will let anyone following know exactly where I am.
Just like Bishop told me to do, I stopped halfway to the gate. How long should I wait? I need to get out of the city, find Barkah’s church. I still have no idea how to locate the Springers—my best chance is for Barkah to find me there.
The breeze makes leaves rustle, makes me see and hear things that I know aren’t there. I feel so exposed. Maybe Aramovsky won’t wait for the Springers to finish me off—what if he sends Bawden, or Farrar? Now that Aramovsky is the leader, would either of them obey his orders to kill me? Maybe, maybe not, but one of the little circle-stars certainly would.
My coveralls can’t keep out all the weather. I’m wet. I’m cold. I’m hungry. I’m afraid.
I’m alone.
There is only one person you can always count on—yourself.
My father’s voice. A new memory. Sitting on his knee, my head against his chest. I’m crying. I was six years old…maybe seven. Something bad had just happened. Something that hurt me, terrified me. I’m looking at my father’s face. A mustache, black. Kind eyes. Heavy, black hair, like mine. His forehead…
My father didn’t have a symbol.
And…neither did I. At least not then.
He’s crying, too. He’s holding it back but I can see it, I can hear it in his voice even though he’s trying to hide it.
Matilda, I have to send you away. I know you can’t understand right now, but you will. The only way I can keep you safe is to hide you. There may come a time when the tooth-girls tell you to do something dangerous, or the double-rings try to hurt you because they know no one will punish them. If that happens, remember—do whatever it takes to survive.
I can smell soap on his skin. I can hear his rough hands petting my hair. This isn’t a Matilda memory—it’s not secondhand, as if I’m seeing and feeling what someone else experienced. It’s like I was there, that my father spoke to me.
My father. His name was…
…his name was David.
He sent me away because of something my grandfather did. He sent me away to become one of the…the Cherished. That word has power. When I was at school, I did what my father told me—I did whatever it took to survive.
There is only one person you can count on…
I realize I’m standing in the middle of the street like a fool. What would my father think if he knew I was waiting for someone else to take care of me?
I watched Visca. I watched Bishop. I saw how the circle-stars blend in. I know how they track, I know how they move.
Maybe I’m not a circle-star, or a gear or a half—but I’m not an empty, either.
Not anymore.
I am the wind…I am death.
—
Someone is coming.
My back is pressed against a ziggurat’s base layer. I’m wedged in behind the thick vines that cover the cold, wet stone. The breeze drives the drizzle sideways, makes the leaves surrounding me quiver.
Damn this overcast sky. I wish there was some moonlight, anything that would let me see who is out there.
I hold a jagged piece of masonry. In a city that is steadily deteriorating, this is one weapon that’s not hard to find.
Who is coming? I hope it’s Bishop. But if it isn’t? If it’s someone sent to kill me? Then I will kill them first.
A hissed whisper cuts through the darkness.
“Em?”
Is that Bishop? I can’t tell. It’s a boy, but the stiff breeze and rattling leaves make the voice impossible to recognize.
The clouds must break for a moment, allow a thin bit of moonlight to shine down. A boy, a tall boy, draped in shadow. Holding…is that a shovel?
Farrar. Did Bishop send him, or did Aramovsky?
The moonlight vanishes. The night is pitch-black.
I hear footsteps coming closer.
My fingers tighten on the rock. The rock is hard and jagged and final. It’s not as elegant as my spear, but it will take life just the same.
He’s coming my way. Not directly, he’s searching, like he knows I should be in his area but doesn’t know exactly where.
Closer. A few more steps, and I will crush his skull.
My hand shakes. My arm trembles. The wind and the leaves keep me hidden and silent.
Two steps away. Slowly, so slowly, I raise the rock.
“Em, are you there?”
This close, I instantly recognize the voice.
“O’Malley?”
He jumps away, surprised. His feet catch and he falls face-first.
I step out from the vines. O’Malley rolls to his butt, sees me, starts scrambling backward.
“No! Don’t kill me!”
I stop, confused. He doesn’t recognize me? No—of course he doesn’t.
“It’s me,” I say. “It’s Em.”