“You,” the guy said, pointing his gun at me. “You’re a street rat. Is this your corner? Did you see it?”
A woman came up next to him, her long black hair hanging down in two braids tied with silk ribbons to match the Chung uniform. “Don’t make us cut it out of you,” she said, pulling out an eight-inch hunting knife, the kind used to skin deer or wild pigs. “My name is Ki-Iseul. It was my brother, Prince Chul-Gun, who died yesterday. You will tell us what you know.” Her voice was icy and a bit raw, as if she had been crying.
“I don’t know anything,” I said firmly. “I didn’t see it.”
“Grab her!” ordered Ki-Iseul.
CHAPTER 13
I jumped up, but from a still, standing position managed to get only about two meters high. Hands clamped onto my ankles, dragging me down to the waiting group. When I landed, many arms grabbed me. I twisted free, punching, kicking, knocking heads together, but as soon as I downed one, two more would take his place. Someone cracked my head with the butt of her pistol and I saw stars but didn’t fall over.
At eight against one, it took them more than five minutes to subdue me, twisting my arms behind my back, grabbing my feet so I couldn’t move. Then Ki-Iseul leaned over me with her knife.
“Tell me what happened yesterday,” she said in a voice like razor blades.
“I didn’t see anything!” I insisted. “Gunfights happen every day here—how was I supposed to know which one was extra special?”
We both realized my mistake at the same time. Ki-Iseul’s brown eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed into a line so tight that they lost color. “I never said it was a gunfight,” she said.
Crap. Crappity crap-crap. I forced myself to shrug, or shrug as much as I could, considering there were seven people holding me down. “I was guessing,” I said. “There’s lots of gunfights—it’s an easy way to die.”
I could see her weighing my words. This would be a perfect time for the Voxvoce to strike—the Chungs were probably as susceptible to it as most people. Come on, McCallum! I thought. Show your paranoia!
Someone really tall moved in back of the thugs holding me. It was the guy from earlier, the one whose butt I’d kicked when he was on my corner. Now he looked at me and gave me a mean, snide smile.
“She’s the Pater prince’s girlfriend,” he offered, and I immediately tried to break free again, yanking my arms and legs.
Ki-Iseul looked at me with loathing.
“I’m not anyone’s girlfriend!” I spat, silently promising myself that I would kill that guy as soon as I could.
“Let’s let the Paters know that we will surely avenge my brother,” the princess said. She nodded to one of the Chung soldiers. “Mark her!”
Two people held my head while I bucked as hard as I could. Someone cracked me again on my temple and I went limp, dazed and nauseated with pain. My limbs were heavy and refused to do what I ordered. I was powerless to stop them, and one of them quickly carved a C into my cheek with her knife. My skin opened under the blade, a sharp, bright pain tracing the edge of my jaw. Warm, sticky blood flowed out over my cheek to run down and drip off my neck.
“Now what, my lady?” asked one of the goons.
“She doesn’t want to talk,” Ki-Iseul said. “So cut out her vocal cords. She doesn’t need them.”
It hit me that I really was going to die. I was already losing a ton of blood from the deep cut on my cheek—I’d never survive losing my vocal cords. I let myself go completely limp while my brain went into hyperdrive. I really might die here. The lab rats wouldn’t know what had happened to me. If my stupid parents ever, ever came back, they wouldn’t find me. They’d never find me. It would serve them right.
My cheek stung horribly and felt sticky. I smelled the sharp, coppery scent of my blood, heard it dripping to the street. Get yourself out of this, goddamnit, my brain commanded. Feeling me go limp, their hands loosened ever so slightly on my arms and legs. The cold, sharp tip of a knife pressed against my throat—they really were going to cut out my vocal cords. Time for some desperation.
With one last-ditch effort, I gave an almighty heave, snapping my feet downward and my arms in. They were taken by surprise and I got myself mostly loose. In the next second, I unfolded my wings from beneath my poncho—not all the way—I was hemmed in, couldn’t extend them fully.
There were gasps. Tentative hands reached out to touch my feathers.
“You’re a freak!” one of the henchmen exclaimed.
“You’re the one with the forehead horns,” I pointed out, then crouched down and jumped. Hands grabbed my feet again, but I was able to whip my wings open, gaining altitude. I soared upward, kicking my feet free. The street went silent. Every head turned. I’d kept my wings a secret from the outside world for ten years, and it felt like a failure to blow their cover now. But it had been life or death.
I glanced down again at the Chung gang, just below me, out of reach, and the guy pointed to his horns. “These are fake!” he protested.
Shaking my head, I stroked down hard again with my wings, blood from my cheek spraying in the wind as I deliberately whacked Ki-Iseul and another soldier together. Their heads banged hard and they dropped, stunned. And then I was soaring upward, free, untouchable, leaving a trail of blood behind me. By the time they realized their guns would still work on me, I was much too high.
CHAPTER 14
For the first time ever, I didn’t give my mythical parents a full half hour on my corner. I was practically guaranteeing that this would be the day they showed up.
I flew high enough to be out of sight, but I knew I had totally rocked the world below—news of the freak bird-girl would no doubt travel everywhere in the City of the Dead. I really hadn’t had a choice. I wasn’t going to die to keep my secret. It just meant that I had to—
My head swam for a second. I took my hand away from my cheek and saw that it was coated thickly with blood. Looking down, I saw that my whole right side was red with blood, soaked down to my boots. And I was dizzy.
Flying took real strength, and I was weak, was losing too much blood, and was still several kilometers from home. Where was I? I flew downward till I recognized the buildings below—this was one of the few nice areas of the city, where trees still grew and houses and cars and people were clean. This was where Pietro lived.
I straightened out my arms and legs, heading downward fast. If I lost more blood I would just drop out of the sky, breaking all my bones and probably my wings, too. Anyway, it was Pietro’s fault that this had happened to me. Time to ante up.
The Pater homestead—palace—was on the outskirts of the neighborhood, not far from the high stone walls of the city. It was huge, covering an entire city block, with an enormous protected courtyard in the middle. Its smooth plaster walls were painted a warm terra-cotta, and most windows above the second floor had balconies. The palace had its own ten-foot walls, and they’d had the brilliant idea of gluing broken glass bottles on top, to keep Paters in and Opes out. I counted three armed guards wearing the Pater colors, and I knew I’d no doubt missed some.
All the same, it wasn’t hard landing in a tall oak tree to wait for an opening. From where I clung I could see directly into Pietro’s room—its balcony’s glass doors were open. As I watched, the hallway door swung open and Pietro entered his room by himself, closing the door behind him. Time to take a chance.