I’m hoping no serious action will be necessary, but as we all park and fan out across the marina, hiding in boats and behind bushes, I stay close to Stanton and Dione, because that’s the key to staying alive. Luna tells us to look after each other like family, and even though that word has been meaningless for years, we know we better live up to her expectations. So many acolytes would love to take our places.
I tense up as the cargo ship pulls in to the pier. The door swings open, and while the hydra’s growl is chilling, nothing freaks me out more than a dozen armed mercenaries exiting the boat with wands and daggers swinging from their belts. We don’t have nearly as many acolytes as we need to survive this. To even attempt it.
“Let’s call them off,” I say. “Wait for them at the arena.”
“Security at Apollo is tight,” Dione says.
“We’ll die if we move now,” I say.
“We’ll never truly live if we don’t,” Dione says.
Dione lunges into action. She reaches mercenaries with her bursts of swift-speed before their spells can be fired, and she snaps one’s neck. The acolytes come out of hiding, distracting the mercenaries long enough for Stanton to strike.
Here we go.
My wand is charged to the max. I need to make these six blasts of lightning count. I enter the fray right as one acolyte takes a spell straight through his heart, falling over into the river. The mercenary responsible takes aim at me, and I shoulder roll out of the way, almost going over the edge and into the water myself. Before I can fight back, Stanton pops up behind the bearded man, sinks his teeth into his neck, and rips out a chunk of flesh. Blood gushes all over the dock, and the mercenary falls into it, writhing around.
Stanton grins and waves before spinning in time to catch the wrist of someone who was trying to stab him.
Objective: protect the hydra from harm.
Reaching the boat isn’t simple. I only get two discharges out of my wand before a mercenary blasts it in half, burning my hand. An inch to the left would’ve been a head shot. I would’ve died as someone else. . . .
I hop onto the nearest boat and take cover in this ridiculous midlife crisis purchase. The little wobble of the boat is enough to trigger my seasickness. The couple times I rode the ferry with my mother were enough to keep me off water forever. I try to hold my dinner in, but when I look through the foggy window and onto the dock, I see a mercenary pin an acolyte under her boot and shoot a spell between his eyes. I throw up all over my boots.
Dione and Stanton and the remaining three acolytes are being overpowered.
“Ness!” Dione shouts.
There’s fury all over her face as if I’m stronger than her, as if I’m the one who said we should go and try to fight this battle.
New plan: Morph into one of the fallen mercenaries long enough to get past the survivors who are keeping my people at bay. Then we all run.
I’m in the process of modeling myself after the one Stanton thought was acceptable to bite like some vicious storybook vampire when someone tackles me from behind.
“I hate shifters,” the man growls.
He flips me over. He swings his long red hair out of his face, revealing a thick scar that travels across his cheek. Who knows if the hydra that did that became a trophy in his home, but at least that creature managed to slash away half of this man’s nose. The mercenary chokes me, and I’m hoping Stanton and Dione are going to appear out of the shadows and save me, but nothing. I lose concentration on my morph, and my entire glamour fades away.
“You . . .” His face goes white. “Aren’t you—”
I rip the wand out of his holster and fire a spell through his heart.
“I’m no one,” I say with my first breath.
The life vanishes from his eyes, and he collapses on me. His corpse is heavy, but I manage to roll him off. I tried to avoid this—so badly—but if it’s my life or someone else’s, there’s no competition. Footsteps are coming my way. If I could swim, I’d throw myself overboard. But I can play dead better than anyone I know. I morph into an acolyte with blood staining my shirt and stay very still, even though my heart is alive and racing. Let everyone think we took each other out.
The Blood Casters failed tonight, but I can make this right.
I have to make this right.
May the stars have mercy on me if I can’t.
Twenty-One
Hope
MARIBELLE
It’s a couple days after Brighton’s campaign before something worthy pierces the news cycle, but this late-night report of an attack on the Brooklyn marina catches my eye. There are images of dead acolytes being bagged up, and that’s all I need to resist Atlas pulling me back into bed. This is a solid lead, and because Atlas is a gentleman, he gets up, and we rush out to his car with our gear.
“The couple that hunts together, stays together,” I say as we take off.
Atlas yawns. “I vote for becoming the couple that stays in together and gets a full night’s rest.”
I had that once—didn’t work for me. The only person I dated before Atlas was Aquila, a powerful celestial who was rescued by Iris’s parents. I was fourteen when I bumped into her outside the haven’s bathroom, oblivious to who she was and why I was so attracted to her. I was able to talk through my feelings with Iris, who’s always understood her heart. Aquila and I bonded over music and strong mothers, but unlike me, she wasn’t committed to the fight and wanted to stay indoors instead. Going off on her because her power was more active and better primed for the fight than mine wasn’t my finest hour. But praying to the stars that everything will sort itself out isn’t me. I get out of bed to make a difference.
“Iris is going to be pissed we didn’t wake her up,” Atlas says.
“If she was really on her game, she wouldn’t need us to.”
“Mari, she can’t be awake twenty-four seven.”
“Why not, she’s the all-powerful celestial who’s going to save the world from itself, isn’t she?”
I can’t believe I didn’t see all her arrogance when we were growing up.
“Sounds more like Emil,” Atlas says. “What people are expecting, at least.”
“I don’t want to say it to Emil’s face, but the wrong brother got powers. Emil’s sensitivity and resistance to fighting is much more suited to doing all the behind-the-scenes activity. Brighton’s take-charge attitude paired with those powers could’ve been truly revolutionary for us.”
“I believe in Emil. He’s doing his best.”
“I hope his best gets better.”
We park minutes away and almost bump into a couple holding hands as they exit a bodega, carrying groceries. I’m envious. No one is expecting them to save the world. They’re not trying to avenge the deaths of their parents. They get to hold hands and breathe in peace. I’m tempted to reach for Atlas’s, but we have to keep our hooded heads low under the moonlight and not draw attention to ourselves as we continue our late-night mission.
There’s yellow tape stretched across the dock. All the body bags and police are gone. I step in puddles of blood that haven’t dried yet, and I’m adding more crimson footprints to the grimy wooden panels. I investigate the insides of a metal cargo crate, using my phone’s flashlight to expose the claw marks and scattered fur.