Blood Trust

THIRTY-TWO

ALLI WAS in the middle of the student riot in the city plaza. The fog, a metallic brown from gunpowder, garbage, and the grit of the streets, thrust itself like a living thing against her. She was buffeted by the currents of running people. Screams found her, as insistent as the tolling of bells from the cathedral, which seemed to watch indifferently with its elongated El Greco face.

In the melee, Alli lost sight of Liridona altogether, and her heart beat even faster in her chest as she plowed her way through the mob, nearer now to the mass of truncheons lifting and falling, to the sprays of blood and bone, to the tilted bodies, to the cries of pain and terror.

Then she spotted one of Arian Xhafa’s men, his tall frame sinister as a bat, rising for a moment above the heads of the students. Her way lay directly in the path of the militia. She calculated that there was no time to circle around, so she plunged ahead until she was close to the line of truncheons, advancing en masse like a phalanx of Roman soldiers. On hands and knees, she made herself inconspicuous, crawling through the churning legs of the militia until she eeled her way to the other side.

Scrambling to her feet, she looked around and spotted the men pushing Liridona around a corner. On the fringe of the mob at last, she ran toward the corner. Running with her heart in her mouth, running toward the sudden roar of gunshots that spurted at her from around the corner.

“No!” she cried. “No!”

Hurtling around the corner, she was jerked off her feet. She stared into the monstrous eyes of the Syrian. The blue eye, the green eye. They regarded her as if each had a separate intelligence, both cold as permafrost.

From somewhere out of her sight, she heard Liridona weeping, and, like glass shattering against stone, she began to struggle free. But the Syrian shoved the barrel of his pearl-gripped .45 into her mouth.

“Once again, quiet.” His voice a constricting iron band. “Before the end.”

The air shivered as Edon, appearing out of nowhere, swung a tire iron into the Syrian’s back. His body arched forward and he let go of the .45 as he fell. Darting down, Alli picked it up.

“How—?” She aimed the pistol at the Syrian, but she heard Liridona’s scream.

“There’s no time!” Edon shouted, turning and running down a dank back alley.

Alli sprinted after her. “Stay back!” she called. “Stay back, Edon!”

Catching up with the girl, Alli ran past her. She could see Liridona between the two men. On the run, she shot one of them in the shoulder. The other turned his handgun on her and she shot him dead. The first man grabbed his wounded shoulder, then, shaking himself like a dog coming in from the rain, ran straight at her. Liridona leaped, barreled into the back of his knees, and he stumbled down onto the filthy concrete. Liridona scooped up his handgun and, as he twisted his torso up and took a swing at her, shot him point-blank in the face.