The air in the underground prison was cool, but Akos knew that wasn’t why Isae was trembling as she said, “Your mother said Ori would be here.”
“There has to be a mistake,” Cisi said softly. “Something she didn’t see—”
Akos was pretty sure there was no mistake, but he wasn’t about to share that now. They had to find Ori. If she wasn’t in the prison, she had to be closer to the amphitheater—maybe above them, in the arena, or on the platform where Ryzek had cut into his own sister.
“We’re wasting time. We need to go upstairs and find her,” he said, surprised by how forceful his own voice sounded. “Now.”
Apparently his voice had broken through Isae’s panic. She took a deep breath and turned toward the door, where the distant footsteps of a few ticks ago had resolved into the menacing form of Vas Kuzar.
“Surukta. Kereseth. Ah—Benesit,” Vas said, looking at Isae with a little tilt to his mouth. “Not as pretty as your twin, I have to say. Is that scar from a Shotet blade, by any chance?”
“Benesit?” Teka said, staring at Isae. “As in . . .”
Isae nodded.
Cisi had backed up against the wall of one of the cells, her hands flat against the glass. Akos wondered if his sister felt like she was standing in their living room again, watching Vas Kuzar murder their dad. That was how he had felt the first few times he saw Vas after the kidnapping—like everything was unraveling inside him at once. He didn’t feel that way anymore.
Vas was empty-eyed as always. It had been disappointing to figure out that Vas was so empty of wrath, numb inside as well as outside. It was easier to think of him as pure evil, but the truth was, he was just a pet doing his master’s bidding.
The memory of Akos’s dad’s death surfaced: his broken skin, the rich color of his blood, like the currentstream above them; the bloody blade that Vas had wiped on a pant leg as he left the house. The man with the polished Shotet armor and golden-brown eyes who couldn’t feel pain. Unless—unless.
Unless Akos touched him.
He didn’t bother to reason with Vas. It was a waste of time. Akos just started toward him, his boots scraping the grit they had tracked onto the glass floor. Vas’s eyes looked even colder, despite being such a warm shade of hazel, because of the lights coming from beneath him.
Akos had the heart of prey; he wanted to run, or at least keep space between them, but he made himself press against that space. Breathed open-mouthed, with flared nose; never breathing enough.
Vas lunged, and Akos let himself be prey, then; he sprang away. Not fast enough. Vas’s knife scraped his armor. Akos winced at the sound, turning again to face him.
He would let Vas get a few close calls in, let him get cocky. Cocky meant sloppy, and sloppy meant Akos might live.
Vas’s eyes were like stamped metal, his arms were like twisted rope. He lunged again, but instead of trying to stab Akos, he grabbed his arm with his free hand and slammed him, hard, against the cell wall. Akos’s head snapped back, smacking into the glass. He saw bursts of color and the glow of the floor against the flat ceiling. Vas’s hand was clamped around him, stern enough to bruise.
And close enough to grab. Akos seized him before he could try to stab again, pressing his knife arm back as hard as he could muster. Vas’s eyes went wide, startled by his touch. In pain, maybe. Akos tried to slam his forehead into Vas’s nose, but he just tossed Akos aside.
Akos fell. The grit they had tracked in clung to his arms. He watched Teka dragging Isae and Cisi away, one hand on each arm. He felt relief, even as blood or sweat tickled the back of his neck; he wasn’t sure which. His head throbbed from the impact with the wall. Vas was strong, and he was not.
Vas licked his lips as he stalked toward Akos again. He kicked, hitting Akos’s armored side. And again, this time driving the toe of his boot into Akos’s jaw. He sprawled flat on his back, covering his face with his hands, and groaned. The pain made it hard to think, hard even to breathe.
Vas laughed. He bent over Akos, grabbed the front of his armor, and pulled him half off the ground. Flecks of his spit hit Akos’s face as he spoke.
“In whatever life there is to come, give your father my greetings.”
This, Akos realized, was his last chance. He put his hand on Vas’s throat. Not even grabbing, just touching, the best he could do. Vas gave him that startled look he’d given before, that pained look. He was bent, leaving a strip of skin exposed beneath his armor, right over the waistband of his pants. And while Akos was touching him—forcing him to feel pain again—he drew the knife he kept in the side of his boot, and stabbed with his left hand. Up, under the armor. Into Vas’s gut.
Vas’s eyes were so wide Akos saw the whites around his bright irises. Then he screamed. He screamed, and tears came into his eyes. His blood was hot on Akos’s hand. They were locked together, Akos’s blade in his flesh, his hands on Akos’s shoulders, their eyes meeting. Together they sank to the ground, and Vas let out a heavy sob.
It took Akos a long time to let go. He needed to make sure Vas was dead.
He thought of his dad’s button in his mom’s hand, its sheen worn away by his fingers, and pulled his knife free.
He’d dreamt of killing Vas Kuzar so many times. The need to do it had been a second heartbeat in his body. In his dreams, though, he stood over the body and raised his knife to the sky and let the blood run down his arm like it was a wisp of the currentstream itself. In his dreams, he felt triumph and victory and vengeance, and like he could finally let his dad go.
In his dreams, he didn’t huddle near the cell wall, scrubbing at his palm with a handkerchief. Shaking so badly he dropped the cloth on the glowing floor.
Vas’s body looked so much smaller now that he was dead. His eyes were still open halfway, and so was his mouth, so Akos could see Vas’s crooked teeth. He swallowed down bile at the image, determined not to throw up.
Ori, he thought. So he stumbled toward the door, and started running.