I nod, gritting teeth, trying to make no sound. Marrok’s glare flickers over us. He raises a pistol—fires it into the ceiling. The blast rattles ear drums, dust falls. Everyone jumps. He yells, “Silence!”
That moment of distraction is enough. Alaina slips an ankle free; her leg bends. She shifts the binding in one motion. I feel slack behind me.
Marrok turns, holding Caelix tight. “Do not presume strength,” he warns.
I step toward him, voice low. “Put him down. Now.”
He laughs. “Or what?” He lifts the pistol, finger poised. “I’ll kill you both, and then I’ll raise him to be the instrument I couldn’t become.”
Alaina’s free hand creeps along the pillar. She presses against the bomb box. Sparks flare faintly. Her breathing is shallow.
Marrok speaks more quietly, softly to Caelix in an alien tone. “You will understand loyalty when you are older.” The child frantically reaches for her mother.
I seal my jaw. Something inside me snaps. I step off the pillar, drawing Marrok’s attention. “You think you can lecture me about loyalty after this betrayal?” I shout.
He turns. The child is pressed between them. Guards shift.
I lunge forward, toward the balcony edge. Marrok’s attention halves. Alaina flicks the cigarette she'd lit earlier—flame winks. She’s crouched behind me, dark silhouette.
Troka voice, low but fierce: “Now, Alaina.”
She flicks the cigarette’s burning tip at Marrok’s back while I lunge.
I push him hard—one brutal shove. He stumbles over the balcony railing. For a terrifying heartbeat, he’s airborne. The whole hall stretches slow.
Then he lands across the atrium—somersaults. He rights himself, feet hitting tile, knees bent, then rises.
Caelix lets out a shriek. I rise, heart hammering. Marrok glares upward, hatred in every muscle. “You will pay for that,” he hisses. “And your whelp.”
Then with fluid ferocity, he hauls himself up over the balcony edge—arms hooking over the ledge, body pulling. He drags himself onto the second floor walkway. His silhouette is fierce against emergency lighting.
Troka bursts through behind me. He lunges. His shoulder slams into Marrok’s torso. The sound cracks. Metal railing bends. Marrok grunts; the child flinches in his arms.
I raise a hand, ready to leap over the railing, to move toward them.
The hallway goes loud: shouts, gunfire, the alarms screaming. The world is chaotic.
Troka’s arms coil around Marrok, struggling. Marrok swings one arm, the echo of struggle filling the bridge between floors.
I scream, “Troka, hold him—don’t let him hurt Caelix!”
And as their bodies twist and slam against metal, the scene fractures in adrenaline, pain, and the question of who will come out standing.
CHAPTER 43
TROKA
My vision is half blur when Marrok lunges across the floor, launching himself at me like a predator. The carousel’s broken mechanism nearby hums faintly. I brace one arm behind me, shift my weight. Then—whap!—a mannequin arm, severed from the display we’d destroyed earlier, sails across the floor like a boomerang. It smacks Marrok square in the face. He staggers, stunned, mid-charge.
“Didn’t seethatcoming,” I mutter breathless, then sprint. Our scuffle careens through the mall’s shattered children’s arcade, where claw machines and toy dispensers explode from our impact. We crash through a “Galactic Pet Emporium”—a row of cages shatters as we barrel in. Alien hamsters (furred spheroids with too many claws) spill out like confetti. One rockets between Marrok’s ankles; he yelps and stumbles. A feathered bird with neon plumage squawks overhead, flapping madly, knocking a tray of stuffed alien rabbits from display. One hops straight at Marrok’s face; he swats at it, eyes watering.
I close in, grab a leftover mannequin arm. He swings at me—missing—and I slap his helmet with the arm. It makes a comicalclonksound. He staggers backward, bumping into a stack of plastic jars full of candy. The jars crash, spilling neonsugar across the tile, slicking the floor. I slip—slide—nearly fall headlong. He tries to lunge; his boot catches in the candy slick and he slides like a goon in a cartoon, arms flailing, until he collides with a snack stand. Nacho cheese geysers out, coating him in goo. He howls, reaches to wipe his face—cheese stretching between fingers.
While he’s distracted, I dart behind a kiosk, grab a length of stiff pipe, swing hard. He blocks with his forearm. Sparks fly from wrist augments. He grunts, pushes me back. I rebound, body-check him into a vending machine full of fizzy drinks. Cola cans crack, fizzy rockets of dark fizz spray. The hiss and fizz drown out our labored breathing. He lunges. I dodge through shards of broken glass and enter the ruined food court.
He pursues. We crash through umbrella stands, twist around broken tables, overturn hot dog carts, wade through spilled mustard and relish globs. Patrons and hostages are pressed to walls, faces wide with shock. Marrok swings a punch; I duck under a cart, flip the table toward him—he parries with forearm. The table slams into a soda fountain; geysering soda sprays both of us. My vision blurs, sticky. I taste sweet, acid fizz in my mouth.
He catches my shirt with one hand, pulls me into a spin. My elbow drives into his ribs. He gasps. I kick outward. We stumble into the remains of a rotating children’s ride—a mini hover-carousel for toddlers. Its panels flicker. A broken horse spins. We tumble across it, grappling on its moving platform. He grabs a broken horse pole. I wrench it from his grip, shove him off balance. He scrambles mid-ride, knocking other horses, sending them swinging.
