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And then what? How the hell are we going to disentangle ourselves? At some point, we have to move.
A burly figure charges into view, another of those crossbow-guns clutched in his hands. It’s one of the teenaged shadowbloods, a vengeful laugh hitching out of him as he pelts the shadowkind with silver-and-iron bolts. More cries and grunts ring out.
Was that Lance’s voice? Pearl’s?
Tears sear up behind my eyes, but I have to protectsomeone. The shriek that was building inside me tears up my throat, and I propel it toward the boy with the gun.
My power socks him right in the skull with more force than I probably needed to use even against a fellow shadowblood. A swell of pain surges from him into me as the bones splinter and pierce the flesh around them, as his nose crumples in and his jaw cracks.
Nausea hits me along with the punch of energy. I’m not here to torture, only to protect whoever I can.
I yank at the energy coursing through my scream and jab one of those splinters deep enough into the boy’s heart to sever his life.
The sensations flowing from him blank out. He topples over to join the other corpses now littering the ground.
I don’t have time to wallow in the guilt that clutches my chest. Gulping another breath, I prepare to cast out my shriek again.
Before the first hint of sound can pass from my lips, a body slams into me from behind. I fly forward, just barely catching myself with my hands before my face smacks into the pavement.
My chin still catches on the gritty ground, a slash of pain spreading through the skin. I swallow a sob and shove myself up and around to face my attacker.
Whoever shoved me has already moved on. But through the melee, I see something worse.
Booker has emerged from the building where I left him in supposed safety. He’s walking toward the battle with nothing at all to protect him from the weapons and powers being flung around.
His face has gone pale, but it’s set with resolve. There’s no sign of the easy-going surfer-dude attitude in him now.
Somewhere in the fighting, one of my earplugs popped out. So I hear his voice perfectly clearly when he raises it over the clamor of the fray.
“Nadia! Nadia, please, you’ve got to help us stop this craziness. Please, come talk to me.”
I step toward him. “Booker, get back into one of the buildings. It isn’t safe for—”
He swipes his hand through the air to dismiss my concerns. “I only want to talk to Nadia. Nadia, where are you? Please. I love you. You know that, right?”
A lump rises in my throat—and Nadia’s statuesque frame sways into view through the grappling bodies. Her pixie cut sticks up in tufts between strands slicked to her scalp with sweat or maybe blood. Her eyes look wild, the pupils over-dilated.
She stares at Booker. “You’re here.”
He nods, a gentle smile spreading across his face that’s totally at odds with our surroundings. “I’ll always be here. I miss you. If we could just—”
Something hisses through the air. Booker’s plea is cut off in mid-sentence with a bloom of red in the middle of his throat.
A bloom of blood around a glint of metal. Someone’s shot him with one of those crossbow bolts.
Booker staggers and coughs. More blood sputters up over his lips to dribble down his chin.
With a cry, I dash over to him. My call for help vibrates up my throat as forceful as any scream. “Dominic! Anyone—we need a healer!”
Nadia gets to Booker first. He collapses into her arms, his jaw working but no more sound than a ragged gasp escaping his mouth. More blood spurts across her dark gray sweater.
“No,” she mumbles. “No, no—Booker, no.”
His head slumps forward. His eyes glaze. Nadia’s fingers clutch at his back, but when his legs give, she has to sink with him to the ground.
I come to a halt over them, not knowing what else to do. He’s gone. I’m not sure even Dominic could save him if he got here now.
Anguish for both the boy I couldn’t save and the girl grieving him clogs my lungs. For a few seconds, I can’t breathe.
