Jesper waited by the slit in the wall, a sniper’s bolt, the perfect place for a boy like him. What did we just do? he wondered. But his blood was alive, his rifle was at his shoulder, the world made sense again.
So where were the guards? Jesper had expected them to rush into the courtyard as soon as he and Wylan triggered Black Protocol.
“I’ve got it!” Wylan called from behind him.
Jesper hated to give up the high ground before they knew what they were up against, but they were short on time, and they needed to get to the roof. “All right, let’s go.”
They raced down the stairs. As they were about to burst from the gatehouse archway, six guards came running into the courtyard. Jesper stopped short and held out his arm.
“Turn back,” he said to Wylan.
But Wylan was pointing across the courtyard. “Look.”
The guards weren’t moving towards the gatehouse; all their attention was focused on a man in olive drab clothing standing by one of the stone slabs. That uniform …
A woman walked through the wall, a figure of shimmering mist that solidified beside the stranger. She wore the same olive drab.
“Tidemakers,” Wylan said.
“The Shu.”
The guards opened fire, and the Tidemakers vanished, then reappeared behind the soldiers and lifted their arms.
The guards screamed and dropped their weapons. A red haze formed around them. The haze grew denser as the guards shrieked, their flesh seeming to shrink against their bones.
“It’s their blood,” Jesper said, bile rising in his throat. “All Saints, the Tidemakers are draining their blood.” They were being squeezed dry.
The blood formed floating pools in the vague shapes of men, slick shadows that hovered in the air, the wet red of garnets, then splashed to the ground at the same time as the guards collapsed, flaccid skin hanging from their desiccated bodies in grotesque folds.
“Back up the stairs,” whispered Jesper. “We need to get out of here.”
But it was too late. The female Tidemaker disappeared. In the next breath, she was on the stairs. She balanced her weight on the banisters with her hands and planted her boots against Wylan’s chest, kicking him backwards into Jesper. They tumbled onto the black stone of the courtyard.
The rifle was jerked from Jesper’s arms and tossed aside with a clatter. He tried to stand, and the Tidemaker cuffed him on the back of his head. Then he was lying next to Wylan as the Tidemakers towered above them. They lifted their hands, and Jesper saw the faintest red haze appear over him. He was going to be drained. He felt his strength start to ebb. He looked to the left but the rifle was too far away.
“Jesper,” Wylan gasped. “Metal. Fabrikate.” And then he started to scream.
In a flash, Jesper understood. This was a fight he couldn’t win with a gun. There was no time to think, no time to doubt.
He ignored the pain tearing over his skin and focused all his attention on the bits of metal clinging to his clothes, the shavings and tiny particles from the severed link in the gate chain. He wasn’t a good Fabrikator, but they didn’t expect him to be a Fabrikator at all. He thrust his hands forwards, and the bits of metal flew from his uniform, a gleaming cloud that hung in the air for the briefest second then shot towards the Tidemakers.
The female Tidemaker screamed as the metal burrowed into her flesh, and she tried to turn to mist. The other Tidemaker did the same, features liquefying, but then solidifying once more, his face grey, speckled with
bits of metal. Jesper didn’t relent. He drove the metal home, into their organs, questing deeper. He could feel them attempting to manipulate the particles of metal. If the problem had been a bullet or a blade, they might have succeeded, but the flecks and shavings of steel were too many and too small. The woman clutched her stomach and fell to her knees. The man screamed, coughing up clotted black specks of metal and blood.
“Help me,” the woman sobbed. Her edges blurred, her body vibrating as she struggled to fade to mist.
Jesper dropped his hands. He and Wylan scooted away from the writhing bodies of the Tidemakers.
Were they dying? Had he just killed two of his kind? Jesper had only wanted to survive. He thought again of the banner on the wall, all those strips of red, blue, and purple.
Wylan tugged at his arm. His face looked slightly transparent, the veins too close to the surface. “Jesper, we have to go.”
Jesper nodded slowly.
“Now.”
Jesper made his feet move, made himself follow Wylan, scale the rope to the roof. He felt woozy and lightheaded. The others were depending on him, he knew that. He had to keep going. But he felt as if he’d left some part of himself in the courtyard below, something he hadn’t even known mattered, intangible as mist.
