Halle is gone. She’s just gone.
Like Papa after the accident. Like Mama after the chapels took her.
Kelda races toward me, screaming Halle’s name, and I turn just in time to catch her in my arms. She sobs and screams and lashes at me with nails and fists, and I let her rage and anguish wash over me until she finally melts to the ground.
I melt with her. She has nothing left to hold her up, so I become her bones, her strength, her breath.
My eyes are burning. Not with tears, with flames. I swing my head around toward the wreckage of that Archangel—that fucking Archangel—and everything in me seethes. Halos of blue-white cut my vision.
Orion comes toward us, and I motion for him to take Kelda, to hold her tight, and then I’m on my feet, storming for that monster, swatting aside Dani when she tries to step in front of me.
“Val, stop. Stop! The metal is still hot, and it’s down—”
“It’s down when I say it’sfucking down!” With pure adrenaline, I surge forward and throw my shoulder under the wrecked Archangel and shove it over onto its back, clambering up onto its shattered chest cavity, my fists and knives raised to tear every piece of it apart.
But as soon as I’m up there, staring down into the heart of this thing, I stop, frozen in shock.
There’s a human inside the Archangel’s construct, staring up at the sky with glassy, unseeing eyes. And I recognize their face. I recognize the remnants of their bright-red hair, arrayed around their head in a wispy crown.
It’s Sorcha Tannith. A saint.
THEN
I’m fourteen years old, standing on the edge of the Crater, a body wrapped in white beside me—
No. Not fourteen. I am… I—
Nine. I’m nine, and the Crater is a bottomless mouth in front of me. There are tear tracks on my face and the weight of little Kelda on my hip. I watch a young Atlas say the funeral rites over Papa’s body while Mama—
Wait. Mama isn’t at the Crater. Mama is in the streets. Her hair wild, her eyes gone white, wandering and humming. And I’m running. I’m fourteen, and I’m running after her, calling for her, hoping that the preachers—
The preachers. They charge too much cash to perform funerals. They charge extra to come to places like the Shipyards. More than we have. Atlas does it instead. I’m nine years old and still a believer. I’m nine years old, praying for Papa’s spirit to be delivered to the Heralds—
The Heralds make people prophets. They made Mama a prophet and it’ssuch a blessing. The wardens in the streets find her before I can get to her. I’m only fourteen, I’m not fast enough,and they grab her with meaty hands, taking her away. Halle runs for Mama, but I catch her in my arms, holding her back;it’s no use now, it’s over—
It’s over. The rites are done. Mama kneels next to Papa’s body. She cries as she pushes it over the edge of the Crater, delivering it to the Depths. One moment Papa is taking up space and breath and life. And the next, he’s just gone—
Mama’s gone. Nothing but an empty spot in the street where she once was. Nothing but an empty hole in three young chests that she always filled. It’s bottomless and infinite, a dull, broken edge digging slowly, ever so slowly into your skin, working its agonizing way to your bones.
I am nine, standing at the Crater, and Halle cries into my shirt.It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair, it isn’t fair…
I am fourteen, standing in the streets, and Kelda leans against my shoulder, shaking.Who’s gonna take care of us now?
I am nine and I am fourteen, swallowing my own sobs, my own tears, pressing it all down until it crystallizes and hardens.
You still have me, I say.And I’m not going anywhere.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“WE ARE THE ONES WHO BEST KNOW THE TASTE OF METAL. IT IS IN THE RUST THAT COATS OUR SKIN AND THE BLOOD WE SPILL UPON IT.”
—EXCERPT FROMTRACTS FROM A REBEL PREACHER
Night blankets the town of Concord.
It’s so much darker out here than in Covenant, where the lights of the airships and homesteads result in a permanent glow all over the city. But Concord barely has any lights, and above me is a carpet of stars, bright-white sparks against the black. Some of them are slightly bigger; some of them flicker like they’re changing colors. All of them glimmer and glint like scattered diamond dust—pretty but meaningless.
I’m sitting on the porch roof again. The place where Halle and I sat just hours ago.
