In front of Agent Crow, the woman shakes away the hands of her captors, but only because their intent was to let her go. She straightens her winter cloak and readjusts the flat cap on her head. She lifts her chin in a show of bravado.
“You, Census agent,” the woman shrieks in rage, “are a filthy coward!” She spits in his face before he has a chance to address her.
As if in a fog, I recognize Reykin Winterstrom’s housekeeper. Mags! It’s Mags! My attention darts away from her small frame to the burned-out shell of Reykin’s home. I hadn’t recognized it from the outside—I’d seen it only through a haze of pain and a brutal concussion. The once beautiful facade is now nothing more than an inferno. The elegant bedroom where Reykin nursed my wounds, after saving me from a raging mob of Gates of Dawn soldiers, is no more. A dull ache pierces my chest.
The malicious blond psychopath wears a mask of calm. His body still slouches in a negligent pose on his royal seat. Slowly, he extracts a white handkerchief from the pocket of his black uniform trousers and unfolds it. He wipes the sputum from his cheek before folding and tucking the fabric away. Cold blue eyes assess the woman in front of him.
“Where’s Reykin Winterstrom, Stone?” he asks. A growing grin exposes his steely front teeth. I know that smile well. He’s never more satisfied than when he has his prey cornered.
The brown mountain range of Mag’s moniker gives off the dull glow of a Fate of Stones secondborn. “You’ll never find Reykin!” she declares. She has the rich, lilting accent of a non-aristocratic Star instead of a secondborn Stone. It lacks the blandness of the Stars aristocracy. It’s probably because, even though she’s a Stone, she grew up here in Stars before her Transition Day. It’s her home.
Agent Crow rises from the ostentatious chair to tower over Mags. “I find everyone.”
“The resistance will bury you!” she sneers.
Agent Crow’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Will it? I don’t think so. It’s much more likely that they’ll all be made to turn on each other, one by one. They won’t find you, though. There won’t be much of you left to bury when we’re finished here—maybe a few bones.” He snakes his hand out to encircle Mags’s delicate throat and lifts her from the ground. Her eyes bulge, and her fists pound against his forearms. I’m struck by his speed and strength. He has always been a fit man, but he was never this strong. Not many people are. He isn’t even straining to hold up Mags’s struggling body.
The palms of my hands run down my sides, searching for a weapon. My fusionblade is gone. I have nothing on me with which to fight him. Frustrated, I ball my hands into fists.
It doesn’t matter. I can kill him without a weapon.
I shift to take a step toward Agent Crow. It’s harder than it should be. My feet want to remain rooted to the lawn. I’m a statue coming to life. With supreme effort, I break the stillness and manage to inch forward. The next step is a bit easier. My momentum carries me. I near Agent Crow and break into a run. Lowering my shoulder, I lead with it, aiming for his knees and plowing into the psychopath with all the force I can muster. The impact of my tackle knocks him sideways. His grip on Mags breaks as he careens to the rocky garden path. I land on top of him. He wheezes from the unexpected contact. The blue light affixed to his left temple emits a series of flashes, illuminating the side of his face, turning his flesh aqua in waves—pale, blue, pale, blue, pale, blue.
I reach for a rock and curl my fingers around its rough surface. With all my might, I lift it and bring it down. The stone smashes against Agent Crow’s head. Blood spatters outward from a jagged cut on his chiseled cheekbone. His groan turns into a growl of rage. The blow should’ve rendered him unconscious, but he’s still very much awake.
My knees dig into his abdomen, holding him down. I clutch the rock tighter. The uneven surface of the stone abrades my fingers. I raise the rock over my head again before plunging it down, aiming for the blinking light on his temple, but Agent Crow’s hand lashes out and latches on to my throat with alarming strength. Startled and unable to breathe, with my fingers weakened, I drop the stone. I’m ripped from my perch on the idiot’s chest as he stands, lifting me with one arm.
My face must be turning blue. I meet his gaze. His pupils dilate, letting me know just how much he’s enjoying hurting me. His hair is uncharacteristically tussled. I grow dizzy from lack of air, and my vision distorts. Just when I think I might pass out, the pressure on my throat eases. He opens his fingers, and I fall from his grip.
On the ground, my arms and legs sprawling, I’m unable to do anything other than cough, sputter, and gasp for breath. Smoke from Reykin’s burning home stings my lungs. “Hold her, Cherno,” Agent Crow barks. Bulky arms with the tough-textured skin of a dragon catch me and drag me to my feet. My back slumps against a soldier’s chest. When I can, I struggle, my hands gliding over cool, jagged skin. Smoldering-brimstone breath warms my neck. The thing behind me squeezes tighter. I can’t move more than a few inches, no matter how hard I kick or jerk. I groan in sheer frustration.
Agent Crow probes his cheek gingerly. Blood wets his black collar. He eyes me with a vicious snarl. “How are you awake, Roselle?” His jaw tenses, and he moves closer.
The implication of his question sends a chill through me. Was I asleep? I glance at the mob of unmoving, brain-altered soldiers. Was I one of them?
Blood trails down the Census agent’s cheek and drips from his chin. The area around his wound swells like a budding horn, forming an angry red welt. “How is she awake?” he roars, spinning to glare behind him, addressing the sea of statuesque soldiers he finds there. No one answers. Their faces remain expressionless—inanimate. He latches on to one soldier by the front of her uniform and lifts her onto her toes. “Fetch Roselle’s technician from my airship!” When he lets go of the trooper’s collar, she doesn’t move. Agent Crow gnashes his teeth. Reaching up, he touches the disc on his temple with two fingers, maneuvering it a millimeter or two, settling it back into place. The blue light flashes again, reflecting off of the ashes that fall on us like snow. The woman animates and bounds away from us through the crowd. Agent Crow turns and faces me.
“I’ll kill you,” I growl with another heave against my captor’s arms—I’m hardly able to move at all.
A smug smile curls his lips. “How will you do that? I’m so much more powerful than you are—I’ve been enhanced.”
“Enhanced?” I laugh, shaking soot from my hair. “The only thing that will improve your personality is a lobotomy.”
“I’d hoped that we’d found a solution for your sharp tongue, Roselle—maybe the only cure is to cut it out.”
“You already did that to my father.”
“That was your mother’s idea, but I did enjoy the result.”
“You’re next. I promise.”
“Always so sure of yourself, aren’t you? I’ve missed your wicked disobedience, Roselle.” He fixes me with a sinister stare. “I find that surprising, seeing as how your mouth usually makes me want to smash all of your teeth in. Still”—his head cocks to the side—“I’ve missed your feral nature. No one resists me quite like you do, especially now, when I can make them do whatever I want—whenever I want. When you’re in a state of compliance, an altered state, it’s almost no fun hurting you.” He leans near my ear and whispers, “Almost.” The feel of his breath on my skin, along with his scent, makes me want to retch. He pulls away so he can see my face.