The gun shook in Patrick’s hand. “No,” he whispered desperately.
John looked at his son as though he was seeing his own reckoning. “It’s too late, Pat,” he said. “They’re already on their way. One day, you’ll thank me.”
“You fuckin’ bastard.” Patrick lowered the gun. He meant to turn, to run back the way he’d come, back to Nina.
But John grabbed his collar in both hands, the action pleading, manic, rather than confrontational. He clapped a hand around the back of Patrick’s neck, and Patrick fought against him. “You know the funny thing, Pat?”
“Getoffme!”
“No, listen! The funny thing is, your ma…she ain’t perfect, neither. She’s crossed her own lines, Patty. And I’ve looked the other way. She—”
But there was the click of a gun hammer pulling back, a shadow emerging from an alley. A figure Patrick knew like the back of his hand.
“Ma,” he muttered.
But the sound of a gunshot rent the air. Smoke blew from the muzzle of the rifle she held.
And John toppled to the ground, blood seeping from a hole in his neck. A terrible sound expelled from him. He blinked slowly, once, twice, then went completely still but for the blood gurgling out.
Somewhere overhead, birds took flight.
A siren, wrenched from the depths of Patrick’s nightmares, permeating muscle and sinew. Shaking his rib cage.
The siren wailed and wailed.
His father bled.
Tess Colson, shotgun still in her hand, looked upon her husband and did not utter a sound.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVENINA
The shop across the way had once been a confectionary. The lady who owned it would spare me a butterscotch toffee every so often, if I looked forlorn enough.
Now the windows were barred and the lettering readFULTON BROKERS. A kid slept beneath it, back pressed against the coal bin, which had no doubt gone cold in the night.
I crossed to her.
She was maybe twelve. A twelve-year-old who wouldn’t board a train to the city and attend her siphoning ceremony. What did the boys and girls of the brink hope for now, if not the scratch of a Scribbler’s letter? If not the prospect of magic?
The girl slept with her ruddy face half hidden in blanket. I took off my coat and laid it over her.
Scurry was waking around me. Doors opening, reluctant feet dragging. I backed away from the girl and stumbled over the pile of newspapers, still bound in twine at the stoop of the brokers.
“Shit,” I mumbled, righting myself before I fell. I looked down at them.
The headline blared back at me.
NEW TERRANIUM FOUND IN THE BRINK
And there was something about the energy in the air. Some change inScurry. The doors that opened snapped back on their hinges. Voices called loudly down the lane. Feet ran, bolted.
A siren wailed.
“RAID!” called a far away voice. “RAID!”
My stomach fell away.No, I thought.
And I could picture that train rattling down its tracks, thundering into the station, the platform teeming with soldiers, just as the square in Kenton Hill had.
