True to his word, the turn for the bridge was up ahead on the left. But that wasn’t the only thing in front of them: A cavalry of police vehicles hurtled toward them from the opposite direction.
“We have to get to the bridge first,” Poppy said, pressing the blazer back onto Hasan. The hem of her dress bloomed red as she did what Zeyar had instructed, pressing her knee to the wound.
“Nathria, get me there,” Zeyar muttered. He laid into the gas pedal, the engine roaring in response. Ahead, the police vehicles accelerated toward them, approaching dead on. There wasn’t enough room to swerve around them. If Zeyar didn’t make the turn, they would collide at a speed they wouldn’t survive.
“Zeyar,” Harithi said, her voice wavering, “you’d better know what the fuck you’re doing.”
“I got this.” He brushed her off. “Trust me, Harithi.”
Zeyar hit the brakes so suddenly that Poppy was nearly thrown for a third time. The smell of burned rubber filled the car. As he turned the wheel, he eased off the brakes. The car skidded onto the bridge with a hard bump, the trunk scraping one of the bridge posts. Zeyar straightened, slamming back onto the gas as the police cars behind them either sailed past the turning point or turned too soon, spinning out of control and through the guardrail, falling like boulders into the river below.
Then one of the police cars cleared the turn, getting onto the bridge. Poppy watched through the rear windshield as, slowly but surely, the rest of the cop cars made the turn, learning from the mistakes of those who had failed earlier.
“Zeyar,” she said, “they’re behind us.”
“Harithi,” Zeyar gritted out. “Your daivyakhi. Can you destroy the bridge?”
“Not in your wildest dreams,” Harithi retorted, “but I can do my best.”
She leaned out of the window again. This time, Poppy studied her, determined to see how she used her power?—daivyakhi, Zeyar had called it.
Harithi inhaled deeply, splaying her fingers wide. She brought her hands together, interlacing them. A low, grating sound filled the air. Before Poppy’s eyes, a deep, uneven crack shot through the bridge. As Harithi knotted her hands together, the pavement on the two sides of the division pressed together with a groan before rising up into a sharp, jagged ridge.
Nowthatwas a true display of power, one that reminded Poppy vividly of the tales that Nanny used to tell, about kings and queens who could move the earth at their whim.
Bang. The first car hit the ridge, front tires exploding as the spikes punctured the rubber. The other cars slammed on the brakes, but it was too late?—they struck Harithi’s barrier first, then each other, piling into a glittering mass.
Harithi sighed, rolling the window back up as they zipped through the Virian quarter unchallenged. She didn’t look ill, though what she’d done had been far more complex than bursting a pipe. Poppy’s heart sank. Was she broken? Why couldn’t she do that?
Zeyar raced past the docks, turning out onto the highway to the countryside. They might have driven for an hour, it might have been the whole night. Later, Poppy would only be able to recall flashes: Her knee, pressed on the Jackal’s wound. The copper scent of blood, sticky on her skin. Stiff red gloves, no longer white, discarded in the footwell. Finally, the car slowed to a stop underneath a streetlight in front of a nondescript country house, with a thatched roof and weather-beaten wooden shutters over the windows.
After killing the engine, Zeyar turned around fully, giving Poppy her first full look at his face. “How’s he doing?” he asked, his brows knitted in concern. His right eyebrow was split, scarred in a way that mirrored Hasan’s. That little detail jiggled something in her brain, and then all Poppy could see were similarities: the same dark eyes, serious and intelligent; the same proud nose, albeit unbroken; the same full lips, pressed tight with worry.
She sucked in a breath. “You’re his brother.”
Chapter Twenty
A Man Born of Flesh
Hasan woke to the sound of his mother shouting. He cracked one eyelid open slowly, staring at the white ceiling above him.Where am I?
“So stupid!” his mother railed. “You had one job....”
His throat was tight, his tongue parched. “Water,” he said?—or tried to. It came out as an incoherent rasp, no louder than a wheeze. His mother’s ranting overshadowed his voice.
“Bring your brother back, not lose the other...”
“Ma,” he croaked, lifting his left hand feebly. A spasm of pain ran down into his shoulder blade.
“Ma,” came Zeyar’s voice, interrupting her tirade. “Ma, Hasan is awake.”
The yelling stopped immediately. Rohini’s face appeared over Hasan, the wrinkles in her skin creased deeply. “Zeyar, get your brother a glass of water.”
To Hasan’s right, he could hear water being poured from a pitcher. Together, Zeyar and their ma lifted him into an upright position. Hasan accepted the water. Little ripples formed in the surface as his hand trembled, but he managed to take a sip without spilling it. Once he had drunk his fill, he passed the glass back to his mother.
“How?—” he began, but Zeyar spoke first.
“We were ambushed. Montrose and his men got the jump on us. We made it out?—you, me, Harithi, Poppy. We’re in the Sanivali safe house now.”
