Chapter Twenty-Five

Ivan had three broken fingers, a rapidly swelling eye, knife wounds in his shoulder and in his side, and a burning pain in his chest that might have been fractured ribs or internal bruising--it was hard to be sure when everything hurt.

All of that vanished when he saw Maricela.

Panic roared through him, giving him a second wind. He drove his good fist into the man’s face, taking out his rage at himself on his opponent. It should have bought him time to get to the backup gun in his boot, but the bastard was on him again in a heartbeat.

He’d known better. He’d known better. He should have found a way to lure the Makhai soldier away, because you couldn’t trust a Rios to stand back when the people they loved were in danger.

Now all he could do was keep the man from realizing his target was right behind him. No more dragging it out. No more playing it safe.

Ivan had to kill an unkillable supersoldier.

The next blow hit him in the gut. Ivan stumbled back more than he had to, drawing the man with him. With his good hand, he groped for his last throwing knife, staying bent over his bruised stomach to hide the movement.

Too slow. The Makhai was so fast, on him before he managed to straighten. The weight of the other man’s body slammed into him, and his ears rung under the force of another blow upside his head.

His vision wavering, Ivan spun and lashed out, driving the tip of the knife toward the Makhai’s unprotected face. His blade grazed the man’s cheek. Skin split. Blood ran.

Ivan’s feet left the ground as the Makhai hauled him up and threw him at the table in the courtyard.

The wood shattered. Fresh pain erupted from a dozen parts of his body in the moment before his head crashed against a rock. Dirt stuck to the blood on his face, and he groaned as he rolled, frantic to find Maricela.

To make her run.

To see her one last time.

She was there, hovering in the shadow of a shipping container. Blood splattered her dress. Her arms. Her face. Her eyes were huge. Hurting. Time slowed, and he lived a lifetime of regret in the space it took to draw in one pained breath.

He wanted to take back his impulsive I love you. His death would have hurt her less that way. Now, even if she survived this, she’d never be able to escape him. He’d haunt her forever--on the walls of the temples, on cards they sold in the market, in the artwork inked onto people she passed in the street. A saint and a ghost, her first heartbreak. A soul-crushing world of could-have-been.

Don’t turn me into a saint. Let me vanish into darkness. Let her heart heal.

The crunch of gravel snapped the world back into focus. The Makhai soldier was walking to pick up Ivan’s discarded pistol. Every stabbing breath hurt, but Ivan tried to make his broken hand move, to grasp the gun in his boot.

He couldn’t even feel his fingers.

He switched hands, twisting as far as he could as fire from his broken ribs grayed out the edges of the world.

But he could still see well enough to glimpse Maricela stepping out of the shadows.

»»» § «««

Maricela didn’t realize she was going to move until she did. But the moment she took that first step into the courtyard, she knew what she had to do.

With Gideon, she’d stumbled across the botched attempt on his life almost by accident. She’d intervened--unthinking, out of pure reactionary instinct. She’d rushed Donny, heedless of the gun in his hand or any other weapons he might be carrying.

Heedless of the very real, very mortal danger.

She wasn’t that naive anymore. She knew now what it felt like to stare down your own demise, to see it racing toward you like a summer thunderstorm, violent and unpredictable. It was all around her here, that sensation of inevitability and tragedy, raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck.

But she wasn’t scared. Ivan kept a backup pistol in his ankle holster. If she could buy him enough time to reach it, her death would be worth it. It fit with the narrative of her life, of what it meant to be a Rios--courage, sacrifice. They’d plaster her image all over the temples and their skin and write songs about her, and they’d never know the truth.

She was too selfish to watch him die.

Somehow, the soldier didn’t notice her. It had to be tunnel vision, an adrenaline-fueled artifact of the fight, but a tiny part of her whispered that it was a sign. She was meant to do this. Maybe they’d sing about that, too--a small, perfect miracle at the hour of her death, grace where there should have been none.

Looking at Ivan hurt. He groped at his boot with his good hand, his face lined with pain, his eyes begging her not to do this. His shirt was soaked with blood, and even more dripped from the wound on his head. He was in bad shape, but not too far gone to make it.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, and she believed every word.

She even believed it when the soldier swung around, the pistol in his hand pointed toward where Ivan lay on the ground. She stepped between them, her heart pounding a hard but steady beat.

“No.” The word came out clear, no hint of unsteadiness, because she’d never been more certain of anything in her life.

The man’s blank expression didn’t waver. He stared back at her, his eyes flat except for a spark of something vaguely like surprise tinged with annoyance.

But he didn’t squeeze the trigger.

Maybe this was that trick of the brain the Riders talked about sometimes, time stretching out until it felt like all of eternity was swirling around you, seconds ticking by in excruciatingly slow motion. Or maybe she was already dead, and this was her existence now.

If so, it was closer to heaven than hell. Ivan was alive, and nothing hurt. She’d take it.

The soldier’s eyes narrowed, and he pulled the gun back just a little. For the span of a heartbeat, Maricela almost let herself hope that he was relenting, that somehow the brashness of her command had driven him to surrender.

He stepped to one side. Around her.

Before she could react, a gunshot blasted through the stillness. For the second time that day, hot blood spattered her skin, and she squeezed her eyes shut, her ears ringing painfully.

Irrational fear seized her as she turned, but it was Ivan who held the smoking gun, and the nameless soldier who slumped to the ground, dead.

Ivan’s arm wavered. Agony twisted his features. But his gaze locked on her, raking over the blood on her skin. “Are you--?”

He sounded even worse than he looked. “Don’t.” She dropped beside him, half-crawling to him across the dirt and gravel. “The other Riders will be here soon.”

“No.” The gun fell from his hand. He gripped her arm instead, his fingers digging in with a fraction of his usual strength. “Don’t ever...do that...again. Promise me.”

“Oh, Ivan.” She tried to wipe away the half-dried, sticky blood on his face. “I can’t.”

“Mari--” Her name dissolved into a broken cough that filled his eyes with agony. His hand found her cheek, clumsy but intent. “Promise me,” he rasped. “Promise me you’ll live.”

The rumble of engines in the distance saved her from having to lie. She pulled his hand to her lips instead. “We’ll talk about it all you want. After Kora fixes you up.”

His thumb shifted, brushing the corner of her mouth. “My princess.”

My love. Before she could whisper the words, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he went limp. She prayed it was just the pain driving him out of consciousness, but the specter of possible internal injuries haunted her as she threw back her head and screamed for help.