Pain made Agatha waver in front of Nate. He squeezed his eyes shut. Whatever she was going to do, it couldn’t hurt much worse than the agony searing through his hands.
“I didn’t want to do this,” Agatha muttered. “I wanted to protect you. All of you.” Her knife skated along Nate’s side, and she whispered to herself, counting. Counting his ribs. Finding the right place, he realized. The surest way to kill him.
He heard the sounds of bodies hitting the thin wall in the hallway. Grunts and shouts.
I don’t want to die.
Nate opened his eyes.
“Agatha!” Ivy stood in the entrance to the living room, her hands stretched out. “Gods, don’t do this.”
“Vivian.” Agatha’s breath was hot against Nate’s skin. “You should have stayed in the towers. How dare you show your face after you left all of us behind. After you leftme.”
“Let him go.” Ivy’s words became a moan. “Agatha.”
“You knew what they would do. What they would make of me without your protection.” Agatha’s fingers dug into Nate’s tender shoulder. He stifled a cry, sickened by the blank horror on Ivy’s face.
“He’s my son. I never thought. . .”
“You did not think. Not at all.”
“I know.” Tears wet Ivy’s face, her pale eyes big, hurt. And remorseful. “Please don’t take him.”
Agatha rasped a toneless chuckle. “You won’t have to mourn him for long.”
A current of fury ran through Nate, hotter than the fire. No one was going to touch his mother.
He grasped the knife, sliding his hand along the blade until it met Agatha’s. Slack-jawed, she looked down at the smear of his blood, and he used that moment to pivot and yank the knife forward, using her strength. The edge sliced along the tender skin at his ribs and landed exactly how he wanted it—in the wooden edge of the couch, trapped under his arm.
Nate had never been strong. But as a Tinkerer, he’d learned how to find the perfect angles. The weak spots. Where to press. How to bend things so they snapped.
Agatha snarled. He twisted her arm, and she lost her balance—and her grip on the knife.
You’ve gotta mean it, Brick had told him.
If he was going to die, he was taking Agatha into the stillness with him. Where she’d never touch his mother. Or Pixel. Or Reed. Or anyone.
She clawed at him, and he reached back and found the handle of the knife. His hand slipped, slick with blood and burned ruin. Agatha elbowed him in the throat, and he doubled over, gasping.
Ivy swung James’s metal medicine box at Agatha’s head, catching the sharp edge near her ear. The glass inside shattered, tinkling like chimes. Agatha shrieked out a guttural sound and sprang up at Ivy. They crashed into the wall by the window.
Nate moaned, trying to breathe. He reached back for the knife again, and his hand slipped once more, fingers refusing to curl into a grip. He crawled forward, bearing his weight on his elbows, wrecked palms facing up. It was slow going. Too slow. Agatha had her hands on Ivy’s throat, overpowering her, too much taller, too much stronger.
Ivy went still, her arms dropping at her sides. Limp.
“No!” Nate levered his elbow against a chair and pulled himself up. He staggered to the side, the room tilting beneath him. He couldn’t lose her too.
Agatha turned slowly, blood glaring down the side of her face, dripping down her shirt and pants. She gritted her teeth.
Her hands were shaking.
Nate dodged to the side, getting in the sightline of the eye slicked with blood. His only chance. His last chance. He dove for her feet, hoping to get her off-balance—to grapple with her somehow. His pulse thundered in his ears, and his throat vibrated with a broken growl.
He lost his balance and came up short, crashing down to his knees. It knocked the wind out of him. He’d failed. He couldn’t fight, wasn’t strong enough.
Agatha’s breath made a gurgling sound. She stared at Nate—and slowly lowered her gaze.
The gleaming tip of the huge knife protruded from her gut.
