CHAPTER 27

Brothers

As if the battle were a piece of music and he its conductor, Archer could sense the rhythm of the fight charging toward its conclusion. Arcs of bloodshed. Clashes of steel. The thrill of things dying in his hands.

A grand crescendo of violence and then—

The stillness of the dead.

The groans of the wounded.

Panting, he surveyed the stone building where they had brought the battle to a close. Tables were upturned. Chairs were broken. Their enemies were scissored on the floor. He could almost feel the reverberations of their last cries and the soft, pulpy impacts of their bodies hitting the ground.

Four down.

None to go.

He should have felt relieved. After tonight, there would be no more impressors in Deliene.

But all he could think of was continuing the mission—in Oxscini, in Everica, Liccaro, and Roku. Hunting impressors, saving boys, and building his army.

Archer’s sword clattered against the floor as his squad began securing prisoners.

“You?” one of the impressors said as the bloodletters tied her wrists. “You’re the leader of the bloodletters? I should’ve known.”

Half of her face was purpled with bruises, but Archer recognized her from the Cage in Jahara, where he’d once fought for an audience with Serakeen. A whale-tooth pendant still hung from her neck.

“Lavinia?” Archer asked, sliding his revolver back into its holster.

“In the flesh.” She bared her broken teeth. “For now.”

“Is Gregor here too?” Last he’d seen, the black-haired boy had been moaning, bloody, in the sawdust.

“You beat him.” The woman made a tsking sound. “What do you think?”

He should never have left Gregor and Haku once they’d been defeated. He should have known. But he hadn’t thought. And now they were dead. He advanced on her.

Lavinia glared at him out of her good eye, daring him to strike. “It’s you, isn’t it? I should have known as soon as I saw you fight. Serakeen’s sure got a surprise coming for him.”

You’re wrong, he wanted to say. It’s not me.

But Lavinia saw in him what he’d been trying to deny for weeks, the same thing Kaito had seen in him all along. His taste and talent for violence. His inability to stop. A shiver ran through him.

Then Aljan began to scream.

Archer ran to the door, where he took in the scene in the yard—Versil’s body in his brother’s arms, Sefia holding the impressor in place, Kaito’s helpless fury.

Versil was dead. He was dead.

Sefia had warned him, but he hadn’t listened. He’d been impatient. Reckless.

And Versil had paid for it.

Archer knew he’d dream about this for the rest of his life—the sound of Aljan’s screams, the spatter of the rain on Versil’s upturned face. Another dead boy.

And it was his fault. For not stopping. For not listening. For leading them into this.

His hand was on his revolver. He wanted to fight. To kill. To drown himself in violence so he wouldn’t have to think of this, deal with this, feel this.

Kaito put his gun to the impressor’s temple.

He’d kill him. He’d kill a defenseless man, and after that, he’d never be able to come back. He’d be wild, his thirst uncontrollable, all-consuming, destroying himself and everyone who loved him.

In that split second, Archer was afraid.

For Kaito. And for himself.

“Stop!” he cried, splashing into the downpour. In the puddles, his footsteps beat out another rhythm: Versil is dead. Versil is dead.

Kaito’s eyes were bloodshot. He could barely get his words out: “He killed Versil.”

Archer fought the urge to look back at Frey and Aljan huddled in the mud. “Give me the gun, Kaito,” he said.

Kaito stepped back. His hands were shaking. “Versil’s dead. He’s dead. And you want to let his killer live? Get out of my way.”

“He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

“You were his leader. He trusted you.” Kaito’s words were loud and choked with tears. “You were supposed to be there. You were supposed to protect him. Where were you?”

Archer flinched.

The sound of Aljan’s screams.

The spatter of rain on Versil’s upturned face.

“Move.” Brushing Archer aside, Kaito pointed the gun at the impressor and pulled the trigger.

But Archer was faster. He’d always been faster. His hand slammed into Kaito’s wrist, and the bullet went speeding harmlessly into the darkness.

The gun dropped. Dingy water splashed Archer’s boots.

Bending to retrieve the revolver, he caught a knee in the face. Suns exploded behind his eyes.

Then Kaito was on top of him.

But oh, he welcomed it. The way his vision sharpened. The way he could sense every raindrop striking the slate. The way he could forget he’d never hear Versil’s laughter again. The way he could lose himself. The way he could forget.

He and Kaito fought without weapons, their fists and elbows making dull impacts in the rain. It was like practice all over again.

Except for the grief. And the guilt.

Except for that.

“Stop!” Sefia cried. Archer felt her try to thrust them apart with magic, but he slipped her grasp.

Griegi tried to stop him next, pulling him to the ground. If Griegi found a hold, he wouldn’t let go.

Archer elbowed him in the nose. Something crunched, and the boy let go. Archer vaulted up again.

Sefia had frozen Kaito, who was struggling against her magic like a rabbit caught in a snare—eyes wild, saliva flying from his lips.

Archer charged him. As they fell to the ground, Sefia’s invisible grip loosened. Kaito was free. They scrambled to their feet, circling again.

Scarza grabbed Kaito from behind. Seizing the opportunity, Archer got in a few hits before the Gormani boy threw them both off.

Around and around they went in the gravel, their hands slippery, their faces bruised.

With Griegi trying to stanch his bleeding nose and Scarza stunned on the ground, none of the other bloodletters tried to stop them.

The end came quick after that. With a grunt, Archer threw Kaito into the gravel. Lightning flashed. The green-eyed boy lay on his back, gasping.

Archer wiped at his lower lip with his sleeve. Everything hurt. His head. His knuckles. His heart.

Versil was still dead.

In the stillness, his grief and guilt came rushing back.

But as Archer pressed his hands to his aching chest, Kaito got up and attacked again.

Archer tried to dodge, but the Gormani boy grabbed his arm and wrenched him back. They went at it again—circling, grappling, throwing punches—and this time it was different. It wasn’t because they wanted to practice. It wasn’t because they wanted to forget.

It was because they wanted to hurt someone—anyone—the way they were already hurting.

Again and again, Archer threw Kaito to the ground, and again and again, Kaito got up. Even Sefia could no longer intervene, her magic shaky enough as it was, holding the impressor in place so long.

At last, Archer hit Kaito so hard his knees gave out. His face hit the gravel, his fingers curling around sharp bits of stone.

The bloodletters were silent. It was as if they knew Kaito was beaten.

Archer’s whole body hurt, but inside he finally felt numb. Blissfully, mercifully numb. No guilt. No grief. Nothing. Even knowing Aljan was still sitting there whimpering.

The rain spattered against the rocks as Archer leaned over Kaito. “Enough,” he said. “It’s over.” Blood sprayed from between his teeth.

“It’ll never be over.” Kaito pushed himself off the quarry floor like a creature of rock and mud and rain. “Something has to change. Something has to be different. It’s not fair. He shouldn’t have died. You didn’t deserve him. You don’t deserve any of this.”

Archer turned. Kaito flung gravel at him, the pebbles rattling harmlessly off his back.

Behind him, Sefia ordered the bloodletters to bind the prisoner’s hands. As he walked away, Archer tripped on the wet stone. Everything that didn’t sting ached. Blood and water dribbled from his fingertips.

And then—“Archer!”—Aljan’s voice. Aljan, whose brother was dead in his arms.

Archer spun. He saw it all in a flash: Kaito with the gun. Kaito pulling back the hammer. Kaito’s finger on the trigger.

Archer didn’t think. He didn’t have to.

The revolver was already in his hands. The bullet was already leaving the chamber.

Kaito Kemura was already dead.

For a split second, Archer thought he saw Kaito’s horror . . . and his regret.

Then the bullet hit him between the eyes.

The boy dropped. His arms and legs crumpled under him. His face—green eyes going dark and anger fading from his lips—looked completely unsurprised.