It’s not one of mine.
But it’ll definitely do.
I sweep behind Vasya, slashing at his ankles. He cries out and falls heavily to his knees, but even that isn’t enough to totally defang the Gold Town Hammer. He swings an elbow around so fast I don’t see it in time, and it catches me in the jaw, sending me stumbling just as I hear our front door shriek on its hinges, slamming open.
He brought backup. More Gold Towners, I think, but I don’t get the chance to even glance over my shoulder at the new intruders. Vasya reaches out an enormous arm and grabs me by the throat,squeezing so tight I can’t breathe, my vision darkening. I don’t risk phasing in this state. Instead, I slam my heel into his groin, hard enough that he loosens his grip and I can wrench free, coughing from the pressure. I can still feel the imprint of his fingers.
Vasya glares at me from the middle of the apartment, panting. Even on his knees, he’s still as tall as I am.
“Come over here. We’re not done yet.” His voice rolls like gravel out of his throat.
Running my tongue over my teeth, I spit blood onto the floor and twirl the knife in my grip. I’m shifting my weight forward, toward him, towardendinghim, when a scream cuts across the air.
“VALENE!”
Halle.
I spin toward the front door. I was right—more Gold Towners—but they’re not here to help Vasya finish the fight. They’re dragging a struggling Kelda and Halle out into the hall, shoving a gag back into Halle’s mouth as she screams and fights against it. Kelda’s kicking and flailing, but she’s so little and outnumbered. She flings out an arm, her small hand reaching for me—
Pain suddenly shoots through my side, and I look down to see huge, bloodied fingers holding the hilt of a knife up to my stomach, the blade lodged right underneath my ribs. I sway as the burn of the wound hits my brain, and I can’t think, can’t focus, can’t phase. My vision blurs as I look up, look for my sisters, but the doorway is empty.
They’re gone.
No. No no no.
My next inhale is ragged, it sounds wrong, but I slam the point of my elbow down onto Vasya’s wrist with a crack. The knife in my side jolts from the impact, scraping across my rib bones, lacerating already damaged muscles, ripping a sound from my throat that’s half snarl, half scream. But it’s worth it when Vasya lets go of the hilt and I can spin and stab the blade I’m still holding deep into his neck.
He grins at me, blood all over his teeth and pouring down onto his chest. “This is for Kilpatrick.”
There’s a slight click, barely audible, and my breath catches as I see the round little golden sphere in Vasya’s hands, flashing a rainbow of colors—
I have the span of a heartbeat to run for the window, phase through it—
—and then a wave of white heat slams into me, sending me spinning toward the ground as the apartment and everything inside it explodes.
THEN
I’m fourteen years old when the Butcher is born.
Mama is a few months gone, and I’m scrambling to keep everything together. I hit the labor stalls every morning, but I’m short and scrawny, with an anger and intensity I wear on my skin that people find off-putting. Any piecemeal jobs I manage to pick up pay scraps. I give up my food and water to Halle and Kelda, but it isn’t enough. There’s never enough to go around in the dust.
That’s when Bloody Bill Kilpatrick puts out a hit on Big Haul Cruz.
Big Haul is causing a stir in Covenant, speaking out against Gold Town and the wardens, the barons and the preachers. He wants to raise people up, end the stranglehold by those in power, and his popularity is skyrocketing, with more and more dusters joining him. He’s also the size of a homestead—a muscle-wrapped giant surrounded by loyalists and bodyguards. So even though Kilpatrick is offering a cartload of paper, everyone who tries to take him out ends up wrapped in white and thrown into the Elysian Depths.
But none of those people can phase like me. And there’s somuch paper on the line. Maybe, once, I might’ve cared about who held power in this town—
—but not anymore.
I find a rudimentary mask and hood to obscure my features. I lift a cheap, six-shot pulse pistol from an even cheaper storefront and trail Big Haul for days, working myself up to the job as I wait for an opening.
I finally catch Big Haul alone in an alley in the deep hours of the night, phasing in front of him and firing off two shots with the pulse pistol. I’m a bad shot, though, only managing to hit him in the leg, and he responds immediately, surging toward me with a roar. I panic and phase—
—but the pistol doesn’t phase with me.
I pull the pieces of myself back together on the opposite end of the alley, but I’m slow, disoriented. Big Haul whirls around, the pulse pistol I dropped looking tiny in his massive hand as he levels it at me. I try to disappear before he fires, but I’m not quick enough.
The shot hits my side, pain searing through my brain, breaking my focus. Scattering my concentration. Making it almost impossible to remember that I am nothing right now—less than the dust motes and rust flakes hanging in the air—and I’ll stay that way if I can’t find my way back.
