Snow Like Ashes(103)

I keep my chakram up, my body prepared for attack. The fingers of my other hand grope over Herod’s desktop. Something else, please, something—

At that exact, perfect moment, a siren echoes over Abril, a panicked screech calling all soldiers to their stations and all generals to their posts. Herod’s face spasms at the noise but he doesn’t move. The siren wails again and he growls, a low bubble telling me his focus isn’t entirely here. It’s on his king, who is probably using his dark magic to tell his highest-ranking general to get to his post, to leave his toy for later and obey his ruler.

My fingers close over something. An ink jar. Perfect.

I flick my arm out when Herod’s attention jerks to the door for one perfect, distracted second, the jar twirling through the air like a black shooting star. Ink trails around it, painting the air between us until it pops against Herod’s jaw. He jerks back enough that Theron is able to duck away and rip the knife out of his hand. Herod claws at the air but Theron drops to the ground, darts out of the way, giving me a clear shot at Herod’s neck.

The chakram leaves my hand. As it flies I follow it, closing the space between Herod and me until it licks through Herod’s neck, the force of my throw making it rebound into my hands as I leap off the floor. The chakram hitting Herod shocks him backward and I’m already soaring toward him, weapon rising above my head. Herod’s one good eye blinks up at me, ink dripping down his cheek.

The two of us fall onto the floor, my knees slamming into his stomach. My chakram’s worn wooden handle cradles in my palms like it never left as I slide the blade into Herod’s skull, the vibration ringing up my arm. It rises, blood trailing the metal. And down again, bone rending.

You are weak, Herod. You don’t exist beyond the things you let Angra make you do.

I should be killing Angra, not Herod. Herod is just a pawn. But he doesn’t deserve to live.

You are weak.

Meira, stop!

Hannah. Cold sucks my breath away as hands grab my arms.

“Meira!” Theron pulls me back and we collapse in a tangled ball of limbs and tears and blood. He broke the chains with Herod’s dagger and pulls me into his arms now, cradling me and stroking my hair and whispering my name over and over, the lull of his voice rocking me away from this horror. Like the rush of morning light that floods a dark room after a night of endless, mindless terror, sending reminders that the world is not a completely awful place. That even screaming children awaken from nightmares.

Theron tightens his hold on me and I realize that I am screaming, my voice pinching in strangled sobs. I drop my chakram on the floor and bury my face in Theron’s shirt, wanting to splinter into fragments of myself and disintegrate into him. I don’t think it’s possible for him to hold me any tighter but he does, his arms clasped around me, impenetrable walls that envelope my body as the smell of blood washes over me.

I killed Herod.

“Meira,” Theron says again, just my name, like it’s all he knows how to say. “Meira.”

He kisses my forehead, my hair, my neck, keeping my face pressed into his chest and away from the mangled corpse of Herod at our feet. He’s dead. He’s gone.

Something on the edge of my mind, something distant and numb, urges me to pull back from Theron. I look up at him until he comes into focus, his dark eyes, the bruises on his face, the dried blood on his forehead. The small shadow of a smile on his lips, still trying to offer comfort in a place so horrible.

“We’ll be all right,” he says. Us. Together, we’ll be all right.

Theron pulls me to my feet, keeping my back to Herod’s body. I watch his eyes dart to the bloody corpse behind me. I don’t even know what I did to Herod. I don’t remember anything but the feel of my chakram, slick with blood.

I’m coated in blood—my pathetic cotton shirt, the torn pants I wore under my armor for Bithai’s battle. It’s splattered all over my face, my hair, but I can’t bring myself to touch it to wipe it off.

“What now?” I close my eyes and draw in a calming breath, focusing on how the air flows into my lungs, fills me up. Alive. I’m alive.

And Angra will never be able to use Herod to hurt anyone again.

I don’t think what I saw in Sir when he killed people was ease. What I saw was what I’m feeling now—tired and sad and even more connected to the endless strands of life. But not regret. I don’t regret killing Herod.

I wish I could tell Sir all of this. I wish I could talk to him about everything.

Theron backs up a step, and when I open my eyes he’s surveying Herod’s room. A wardrobe in the corner catches his attention and he marches toward it. The doors swing open, light from the windows spilling over an array of clothes and shoes and weapons.