Текст книги "Daggermouth"

Автор книги: H. M. Wolfe

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

Chapter eightThe Fallout

Greyson stared back at Shadera as he let his mask slip from his fingers and clatter to the floor. The sound of metal striking marble echoed through the room like a final heartbeat.

For a moment, everything froze—the Veyra with fingers on triggers, Moraine Daunt with a hand clasped over her masked mouth, even the air itself seemed to crystallize around them.

Greyson didn’t turn to his father.

His eyes remained locked with Shadera’s, a strange calm settling over him like snowfall. This was it.

The end.

No more executions. No more pretending.

No more loyalty to a system that had consumed his soul.

The bullet in his gut was liberation.

“Greyson!” Elara’s scream sliced through the silence as she pushed past the Veyra and rushed to him. The cry was muted to him, muffled like a distant wail somewhere in the city. His head began to buzz, limbs tingling with loss of sensation.

Elara fell to her knees at Greyson’s side, and he let himself collapse into her chest as her hands pressed against his wounds.

The Veyra began to move, weapons trained on Shadera’s head as the President’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.

“Hold!”

His father’s command froze the guards mid-step. Maximus pushed through their ranks, golden mask fracturing the light as he advanced toward his son.

“What have you done?” Maximus’s words were half snarl, half gasp as he looked from Greyson to Shadera.

Greyson wasn’t sure if he was referring to the mask he’d removed or the bullet she’d put in his abdomen. Knowing the President, he cared more about the mask.

His father began barking orders at the Veyra.

“Get the Daunt family out and get my son to the hospital!” He turned to Shadera, lips curling into a sneer. “And put this Daggermouth filth in the hole.”

The Veyra officers moved in formation, surrounding Shadera with weapons raised, the red dots growing larger as Greyson watched.

Still, she kept her gun trained on him with no fear in her green eyes. They were bottomless, unrepentant.

Greyson wished she hadn’t hesitated.

A Veyra officer tackled Shadera from behind, sending her weapon sliding across the floor. She fought like a cornered animal, with a ferociousness Greyson had never witnessed in anyone.

His vision went black for only a second, light slipping back in just long enough to see his father’s hand wrap around a Veyra captain’s arm, ordering him to keep the Daunt’s quarantined. His sight pulsed again, black, then fading light, then back to black.

Greyson didn’t hear as the medical team arrived.

He realized then that the world’s noise had receded until all that remained was the slowing beat of his own heart as his body lifted from the bloody marble floor. He was cold, untethered, weightless as he drifted into somewhere deep inside the abyss.

His mind was a dark, twisted place that sometimes even frightened him. A place that no light or happiness thrived.

Memories surfaced like bodies in a flood, all claws grasping for his flesh to pull him to hell.

He’d let them, of course.

They blended together, these ghosts of both past and present. Faces without masks, people he’d killed. People he’d failed to save. Each execution had carved something vital from him until he was hollow inside, an empty vessel for the will of the Heart.

He’d been seven the first time he’d watched his father kill a man.

The rebel had been brought to their private residence, and beaten for information but remained defiant. Greyson remembered how his father had removed his golden mask and laid it carefully on the desk as if it were too precious to dirty with the blood of someone less-than. Maximus had wrapped his fingers around Greyson’s chin, holding his head still as he placed the gun between the man’s eyes and shot him without hesitation.

Blood had sprayed across the pristine carpet, droplets landing across Greyson’s face and clothes.

‘This is how we maintain order,’ Maximus had said, voice steady as he replaced his mask. ‘A Serel does not hesitate, a Serel does not show mercy. A Serel does not look away.’

Greyson remembered, and he remembered every death since.

The darkness shifted, memories giving way to sensations. He was aware of the movement, violent jerks. Someone was tugging him, hands pressing against the wound in his stomach. Pain bloomed, then receded, then bloomed again brighter and sharper.

He heard his mother’s voice, high and frantic, demanding they save him. Save the heir. Save the legacy.

Not save her son. Never that.

Light stabbed through his eyelids. Hospital lights, the white ceiling peeling past overhead as they wheeled him through corridors.

His father’s voice cut through the haze, threatening the medical staff with execution if word of this was leaked. The words followed Greyson into the dark as consciousness slipped away again for only a breath, or what felt like it to him.

When awareness returned, it was fragmented. He caught snippets of conversation, felt tubes inserted into his veins, heard the steady beep of machines monitoring his reluctant survival.

His body fought to live while his mind craved the quiet of extinction.

“Blood pressure dropping—”

“—more fluids—”

“—bullet missed vital—”

Greyson drifted again, sinking deeper into himself.

In darkness he found a strange comfort. He always had. Here, there were no masks, no expectations, no laws of the Heart to follow. Just silence—beautiful, peaceful silence.

The quiet was interrupted again by a new voice, sharper than the others. “I need everyone out of the room. Now.”

Through slitted eyes Greyson caught the silhouette of a man in surgical scrubs, mask covering the lower half of his face. Not the mask of the Heart, but of the doctor.

“President Serel, with all due respect, I cannot operate with you breathing down my neck.”

His father’s voice came from somewhere behind him. “You will operate in whatever conditions I dictate, Doctor Knowles.”

“Then prepare to watch your son die.” The words were flat, clinical.

Yes. Yes, let me die. He tried to force his eyes open.

“The bullet fragmented. I need space and concentration,” Doctor Knowles added.

A tense silence seized the room, broken only by the steady beep of machines. Then his father’s footsteps retreated, followed by others.

Greyson felt a sharp prick in his arm, then warmth spreading through his veins. The doctor leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper.

“I know what you did in the Cardinal last month. The medical supplies that appeared in the clinic. I recognized the serial numbers. Thank you, you saved ten lives.”

Greyson tried to focus on the man’s face, but the drugs pulled his eyes closed. Then, the darkness swallowed him whole.

Maximus Serel strode into his office in Haven Tower, the golden mask suffocating him. His jaw ground underneath it, using all his strength not to tear it from his face as Clay and Moraine Daunt followed behind him, their own masks perfect reflections of Heart tradition. Elara and Lira were already there, standing near the window, postures rigid and worried.

“This is outrageous!” Clay Daunt’s voice filled the room as the door closed behind them. “A Daggermouth in the Vow chamber! Your son removing his mask before that parasite!”

Maximus turned slowly, the weight of his gaze enough to make Clay step back.

He did not answer to this pathetic excuse for a man. Clay was weak, had always been weak. A stomach not strong enough to hold down his breakfast at the sight of an execution and brain too dull to be any use to the Heart.

The only thing he was good for was his money, and a breedable daughter that seemed to steal all of his spine at her conception.

“Your concern is noted,” he said, keeping each word measured.

“Noted?” Moraine’s voice cut in, sharper than her father’s. “This goes beyond concern, President Serel. I was promised the heir to the Heart and now your son has contaminated himself. His face has been seen by that . . . that animal.”

Maximus remained perfectly still, though his rage flared at her insolence. “Choose your next words carefully, Moraine.”

“The law is clear,” Clay interjected. “When one’s face is seen outside of the sacred bond of the Vow, their life is forfeit. Both parties must be executed.”

Maximus clenched his fist then slowly unfurled his fingers, wishing he had a gun in his hand to shove it down Clay’s throat and pull the trigger. His methods, his power, had been questioned one too many times this week.

“Are you suggesting,” Maximus started softly, dangerously, “that my son—my last living heir—should be put to death for breaking a law I created? In a city that my family built?”

If it were any other person, any other family name, Maximus would have put a bullet through their skull the moment they saw Greyson in the throne room maskless.

But it wasn’t.

A scandal like this could threaten what he had built, the lifetime of power he had accumulated. Maximus would not lose that power under any circumstance—to any law.

“The law—” Clay began again, his voice trembling now.

“I am the law!” Maximus roared, stepping so close to him that their masks nearly touched.

Clay’s posture wilted, his shoulders slumping as he took a half step back. Even behind his mask, his fear was palpable. Moraine stood still beside him, her silence more defiant than any words.

“If you ever suggest executing my son again,” Maximus continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to suck all oxygen from the room, “I will lift a single finger, and your entire bloodline will disappear from the Heart’s memory. Do you understand me?”

Clay nodded stiffly, his eyes darting to his daughter.

“I did not hear you,” Maximus pressed.

“Yes, President Serel,” Clay managed. “Forgive my . . . presumption.”

Elara stepped forward, her movements cautious as she kept her eyes lowered to the floor and spoke. “There’s a loophole.”

All eyes turned to her. Maximus’s jaw tightened beneath his mask. “What did you say?”

Elara swallowed, straightening her spine. “When I drafted the mask law, I included provisions for extreme circumstances. Accidents. Cases where a mask might fall in another’s presence.

“In such cases, the parties have a choice: execution, or to take the Vow with each other, since they’ve seen each other’s faces.” Her hands clasped together, knuckles white. “We cannot prove Greyson willingly removed his mask. It could have fallen during the struggle.”

Silence descended as the implications sank in.

Maximus knew that was not the case, knew Greyson had taken it off of his own volition. He saw the mask in his son’s hand, saw as he dropped it to the floor as if he were offering himself up to this fate.

“You’re suggesting,” Moraine said, voice trembling with rage, “that Greyson should take the Vow with that Boundary filth?”

“I’m stating the legal options,” Elara replied, voice steadier now. “Greyson could be forced to take the Vow with the mercenary instead of facing execution, the law applies to him as elite. The Daggermouth would essentially receive clemency by default if he chooses the Vow.”

Moraine made a strangled sound behind her mask and Clay’s hand shot out to steady his daughter.

“This is outrageous!” Clay’s free hand balled into a fist at his side. “I will not let you push my daughter aside for some criminal!”

Maximus stopped abruptly, turning to face him. “Again you presume that your opinion matters to me. Again, you speak to me with such contempt.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

“Mr. Daunt,” Maximus continued, “I suggest you consider your position carefully. Your wife—is she not currently receiving the highest level of medical care the Heart can provide for her condition?”

Clay swallowed. “Yes, Mr. President, she is.”

“How long do you think she will last without that care? A week? A day?” Maximus did not wait for an answer. “How long do you think Moraine would last in the Boundary before you start selling her body for food?”

Moraine’s eyes went wide behind her mask as Clay took a half step in front of her. Maximus smiled, seeing the understanding flash in their irises.

“You see, Clay, there are worse fates than death for a man like you, and God is not the one that decides what that is. I do,” he said, the threat landing with precision.

“Of course, President Serel. We only wish to uphold the sanctity of the law.”

“As do I.” Maximus gestured toward the door. “You may go, and perhaps take a tour of the Boundary to help you decide where your loyalties lie.”

The Daunts left with as much dignity as they could muster, Moraine’s back stiff with indignation as they slipped through the door. When it closed behind them, Maximus waited three heartbeats, ensuring they were truly gone, before he ripped the golden mask from his face and hurled it across the room.

It struck a glass display panel with devastating force, shattering it into a thousand glittering shards that rained down on the polished floor. Elara flinched, taking an instinctive step back toward the window as Lira’s fingers wrapped around her forearm.

“Of all the times for him to show weakness,” Maximus snarled, his bare face contorted with rage. “Of all the moments to break, he chooses now? With a Daggermouth’s gun at his head?”

Elara remained silent, knowing better than to speak without permission when her husband was in this state.

Maximus turned to his wife, his eyes boring into Elara’s masked face.

“This loophole, you are certain it will hold?”

Elara nodded. “I wrote it myself. It has never been challenged.”

“Father,” Lira began cautiously.

“Not now, Lira,” he snapped.

“But there is something to consider,” she pressed, her voice steadier than her mother’s had been. “Something Mother’s suggestion offers us outside of staying within the law.”

Maximus turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. “What?”

Elara moved closer, emboldened by her daughter’s courage. “If Greyson takes the Vow with the Daggermouth girl,” she said carefully, “it could benefit us. A political union between the Heart and the Boundary. It would send a message that even the most violent resistance can be brought to heel.”

He paused, considering. “Go on.”

“We find what she loves most and use it against her, use it to ensure her compliance. Make her a mouthpiece for the Heart, let the rebels see one of their own bound to the Serel family. Through her, we could pacify the Daggermouths, perhaps even identify rebel strongholds throughout the rings.”

“It would be the ultimate display of power,” Lira added. “Showing that even their deadliest weapon can be tamed by the Heart.”

Maximus paced the length of his office, stepping over the shattered glass without care. His mind raced with possibilities, calculating potential outcomes. The mask law had never been broken by someone of Greyson’s status—the solution would need to be both definitive and public.

“The Vow between Greyson and Moraine was not yet public, which means it never existed in the public’s eyes,” Elara started again. “If we were to broadcast a live ceremony for all of New Found Haven to witness her willfully taking the Vow, there would be no room to question its validity as nothing more than a political union.”

A slow smile spread across Maximus’s face, terrible in its calculation. “My clever wife. Always finding ways to turn disaster to advantage.”

Elara remained perfectly still, not acknowledging the rare praise. “Shall I make the arrangements?”

“Yes.” Maximus crossed to his desk, already formulating plans. “When Greyson wakes, I will speak with him. The Daggermouth will be kept alive until then.”

Elara nodded and moved toward the door, her steps as careful as a woman walking across thin ice as Lira followed behind her.

“Elara,” Maximus called after her.

She turned, mask catching the prism of colors from the shattered glass.

“If this fails,” he said softly, “it will be on your head.” Maximus didn’t look up as he said the words, only let them land where he had intended.

The door closed behind them with a whisper of finality as he moved to the window. In the reflection of the glass, Maximus’s lips curled into a smile that never reached his eyes. Greyson’s weakness might actually prove useful to him for once.

He stared out at the city, at the perfect concentric rings that divided the worthy from the worthless, all oblivious to the machinations unfolding in its highest tower.

For now, at least, the balance of power remained unchanged. And Maximus Serel intended to keep it that way, no matter the cost.

Chapter nineKill Me Instead

Shadera’s world narrowed to a coffin made of iron and rot.

Time was something that happened on the outside; inside the cell, it pooled and curdled like stagnant water, collecting in her lungs, her muscles, her skull. Moisture wept down the metal walls and gathered around the cots’ legs, painting everything in filth. The other prisoners looked like they’d been born there—skin mottled and thin, eyes gone sallow from lack of sun and food.

She sat on her cot against the wall, knees drawn up, forearms dangling over them, trying to breathe slow enough that the tremors surfacing in her chest every time she drew in oxygen did not betray her.

She’d definitely broken at least two ribs, the stab wound in her side pulsed hot and her collarbone was fucked. She was also sure she’d torn some vital muscle in her back by the pain that radiated there every time she moved. But she didn’t flinch. Not a single muscle on Shadera’s face twitched as she sat in silence.

It was never dark. The lights above flickered with the rhythm of a failing heart, and she counted the seconds between beats to keep herself awake. First rule in any lockup: never sleep unless you trust the person next to you.

Shadera trusted no one.

She wasn’t alone in the cell, seven others—four women, three men—were crammed inside with her, huddled in various states of collapse. All of them wore the same red tunics, the numbers of their crimes stenciled in black on their sleeves. Shadera looked down at her left hand, at the new tattoo that sat across each of her knuckles. Four numbers, one for each finger. 9758. She’d woken with it when she finally came to in the cell.

Names didn’t matter in this hellhole, Shadera knew that. Knew that here, inside the system, she was prisoner 9758 crime number 00.

Double zero. The worst crime you can commit.

Murder of the Heart’s elite.

Those two numbers gave her comfort. At least if she were to die, she would die with one less Serel in the world. Would die knowing Maximus Serel had no more male heirs.

The woman next to her—prisoner 3421 according to her knuckles, crime 17 according to her sleeve—had been beaten so badly her left eye had swollen shut, the bruising spread down her collapsed cheek like spilled ink. Her breathing came in shallow gasps that suggested broken ribs, maybe worse. She couldn’t have been older than twenty, but the Heart’s cruelty had aged her into something haggard.

Across from them, an older man sat with his back pressed to the bars, arms wrapped around legs that ended in stumps below the knee. The cauterized flesh told Shadera everything she needed to know about Veyra interrogation techniques.

His crime: number 23—unlawful assembly.

They’d taken his legs for gathering with friends.

These people were starving. Actually starving. Their cheekbones cut sharp angles in faces that’d been stripped of everything soft, everything human. The Heart fed them just enough to keep them breathing until their execution date, and never enough to give them strength. Even here, in their own fucking prison, they made sure the outer rings suffered.

Rage bloomed hot in Shadera’s chest as she watched a young man—barely eighteen by the look of him—try to distribute the thin gruel they’d been given. His hands shook with the effort of holding the metal cup, but he made sure everyone got a spoonful before taking any for himself. Crime number 31: theft of food. He’d probably stolen bread for his family.

The fury built behind her shattered ribs like steam in a sealed pipe. These weren’t criminals. They were people who’d dared to be human in a city that demanded they be livestock.

“What’s your story?”

The voice startled Shadera from her thoughts. The woman with the swollen eye was looking at her, curiosity flickering in the one good iris. The others turned their attention to her, waiting for an answer.

Shadera met each of their gazes in turn, seeing the hope they tried to hide. Hope that maybe, just maybe, someone in there might have done something that mattered.

“I tried to kill Greyson Serel,” she stated with no emotion.

A collective gasp rippled through the cell, followed by a stunned silence that seemed to suck all the air from the prison. Then, it started. A murmur began to build—whispers at first, then rising to a fevered pitch as the prisoners processed what Shadera had just said.

“You tried to kill him?” the man with the missing legs leaned forward, eyes wide with a mix of awe and disbelief. “The Executioner himself?”

Shadera nodded once, jaw tight.

The man was yelling before she could stop him, spreading the word throughout the rest of the cells. “She tried to kill the Executioner!”

Voices began to grow throughout the prison in response. Inmates yelling out questions, some cheering, others praying she’d succeeded.

The woman beside Shadera leaned closer, the shift in her position almost desperate. “Is he dead?”

Shadera swallowed hard, the memory of Greyson’s unmasked face flashing behind her eyes. The way he’d looked at her in that final moment, resigned and almost . . . relieved.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I shot him, but was taken before I could watch him die.”

The woman nodded, something like understanding passing over her bruised features. “Even if he lives, you hurt him. You made him bleed.” A small smile flickered over her lips. “That is all that matters. That is fuel to the rebellion.”

“I didn’t do this as an act of rebellion, I didn’t do this for the cause,” Shadera snapped back. She didn’t need them thinking she was some rebel savior. “I’m not a rebel, I’m a Daggermouth, and he was just another name on a contract.”

The last part was a lie, but Shadera wouldn’t tell them that. Wouldn’t tell them that it was personal, that she would’ve tried to kill him one day with or without a contract.

“This will change everything,” the older man said, his shoulders squaring as his chin lifted. “Contract or not, when you pulled that trigger, you told the rings the Serels aren’t untouchable.”

Shouts of agreement rose from the surrounding cells, a ripple of defiance passing through the broken bodies. For a heartbeat, Shadera saw a flicker of the spirit the Heart tried so hard to crush—the unbreakable will of those who had suffered too much to ever fully submit.

Heavy boots thudded down the corridor, accompanied by the crackle of shock batons.

“Quiet!” a Veyra officer snarled, slamming his baton against the bars. Sparks flew, illuminating the mask that suctioned to his face. “Or I’ll come in there and shut you up myself.”

But the prisoners only grew louder, their voices rising in a ragged chorus of rebellion. They pounded their fists against the bars, stomping their feet and screaming profanities at the guards until the very air seemed to tremble with the force of their rage.

Shadera opened her mouth to speak, but the words died in her throat as a Veyra officer stopped in front of her cell.

“9758,” the guard barked. “On your feet.”

Shadera didn’t move, didn’t so much as blink, just stared back at him with a defiant tilt to her chin.

“I said, on your feet!”

Still Shadera remained sitting as the chanting from the inmates grew louder. The cell door swung open with a rusty shriek and three guards entered, batons and guns drawn.

The first guard lunged forward, swinging his baton at her head. Shadera ducked, the movement sending knives of pain through her broken ribs. The second guard jammed his shock baton into her side before she could recover, and she could’ve sworn in that moment her soul fled her body.

Electricity surged through her, muscles seizing, teeth clamping down on her tongue so hard she tasted blood. The current was liquid fire in her veins, burning through nerve endings down to the bone. She collapsed to the floor, body jerking involuntarily as she swallowed back a scream. Through watering eyes, she saw the third guard pointing his gun at the other prisoners, forcing them back against the wall.

“I said get up,” the first guard hissed, striking her with the butt of his rifle.

The blow caught her temple and her vision exploded into white stars, ears ringing as if someone had detonated a bomb inside her skull. Blood trickled warm down the side of her face. Shadera turned her head slowly, cheek scraping against the floor, and let her lips spread into a bloody grin.

She wouldn’t give them what they wanted, she would never obey Veyra orders.

Gloved hands grabbed her shoulders, dragging her upright and setting her on her feet as she jerked against their hold. Their grip on her body tightened as they began to haul her toward the door. Shadera kicked wildly, grunting against the pain. She wouldn’t go without a fight.

The guards shoved her through the doorway, her broken body slamming against the metal bars as they manhandled her into the corridor. The impact sent fresh agony through her collarbone, and a cry finally escaped from between her lips.

Shadera had trained for this, had trained to be tortured, to withstand beatings. She’d die before she gave any of her secrets to the Heart.

Behind Shadera, the other prisoners began to scream, their voices growing louder as she snarled at the guards. Her knee met the groin of the first officer and he buckled over as a second round of electricity seized every muscle in her body, and this time a scream tore from her lungs.

“Leave her alone!”

“Get your hands off her!”

The protests spread like wildfire. Every cell they dragged her past erupted in screams and shouts, hands reaching through bars, faces twisted with rage and desperation. The guards grasp on her arms deepened, fingers digging into flesh already mottled with bruises.

“Shut the fuck up,” one of the guards shouted, firing one bullet toward the ceiling as they halted and looked around the cells in warning.

For one second the prison fell quiet, the bullets’ echo the only sound. Then, out of the quiet a woman’s voice, thin but determined, began to sing. The melody was old, but Shadera recognized it immediately and panic shot up to her throat.

No, no. Her eyes frantically searched the cells for its origin. This would cause chaos, would cause a massacre. Her sight locked on the woman. The same woman with the ruined eye from her cell.

Prisoner 3421.

She did not stop singing as she held Shadera’s stare.

Did not stumble over the words.

She nodded once to Shadera, placing her hand over her heart and began to sing louder.

“Silence!” the guard yelled, twisting toward her and aiming his rifle. Still she sang as a red dot found the center of her forehead.

Shadera saw it, the moment the woman accepted her fate. The moment her shoulders fell back and she took one last stand against the Heart, pushing her chin up in defiance.

“No!” Shadera screamed, lunging toward the gun. “Stop—”

The shot rang out as the other two guards yanked her back. For one terrifying moment, Shadera went wholly numb as she watched the woman’s body crumple to the ground. Blood poured from the bullet hole between her brows in three lines as the prison seemed to hold its breath.

Shadera’s chest rose and fell in rapid succession as she dragged her eyes from the woman’s lifeless body to find all the prisoners’ eyes locked on her, hands over their hearts, chins held high.

No.

An explosion of song reverberated off the walls of the prison, every person singing. Every prisoner echoing her defiance. Every head dipping toward Shadera in recognition. Men and women, young and old, their voices blending into a chorus that filled every corner of their cages and spilling out into the corridor beyond.

It was the song of defiance, of hope in the midst of despair, of unity in the face of oppression. It was the national anthem of the old world. The song that had been outlawed when New Found Haven rose.

It was more than a song, it was a battle cry.

More guards flooded into the prison at the sound, guns drawn and circling around Shadera, barrels trained on the innocent.

“I said silence!” the guard snarled again as they spread down the narrow corridor.

The prisoners ignored him, their voices rising higher, the forbidden anthem pouring from their throats as their fists began to bang on the bars, their feet stomping in rhythm with their voices. Each defiant, each scared, each steady.

Shadera stood frozen in the center of the swarm of guards as the song flowed over her skin. Her heart swelled, guilt and fear filling the muscle. Tears began to prick at the corners of her eyes at the disturbing beauty of this moment.

She could feel the weight of their courage, the way they were choosing to defy the Heart knowing it would only bring them death. They were brave in a way she’d never been. She’d never fought for anything other than herself. But these people, these strangers, were giving up any chance of survival, all for a doomed rebellion. All because Shadera had pulled a trigger. All because she had dared to execute the Heart’s heir.

She had never witnessed such bravery.

Something snapped in her then as she watched the guard next to her tighten his finger on the trigger. She shot forward despite the agony aching through every inch of her body, desperate to stop the slaughter she knew was coming. She grabbed the neck of the rifle just as he pressed fully down on the trigger, yanking the gun upward. But she was too late.

She was too late.

The sound cracked in the confined space, and a prisoner in the cell in front of them fell, blood blooming across his chest like a macabre flower.

The singing faltered, a momentary hitch of horror, but then it resumed, louder and more defiant than before. The guard snapped toward Shadera as she twisted the gun from his hands faster than she had ever moved. She fell to a knee, pushing the butt of it into her shoulder and open fired on the guards. Veyra dropped one after another.