And when one of the other men, the one with the handgun, reached for Angelina’s arm, barely even acknowledging the fact that Jonas was dying right in front of him, I turned my attention to him also. It was easier this time, and he gasped at first, and then dropped to his knees, writhing and clutching his neck, until he stopped. Falling still. And silent.
Angelina blinked, staring back at me, and I wanted to rush to her. To take her in my arms and whisper assurances that everything would be fine. That I was going to make everything okay.
The other man, the one with the knife, moved then, lunging
toward her, while the other man stood watching, dumbfounded . . .
but no less guilty. No less willing to murder. I took them both at once, ignoring their gasps as I tightened my fists, focusing with my mind. Electricity filled my body, coursing through me until every nerve sang. I held them all like that—all four of them—in my invisible grasp, suffocating them.
Watching them die.
Saving my sister with power I’d stolen from Sabara.
“Angelina,” I rasped, not moving from where I stood, not releasing any of them. . . . Even when the footsteps were right at my back.
Even when I heard Brook gasp, “Charlie? What are you doing? What have you done?”
I looked down then, at the men who littered the floor at my sister’s feet. None of them moved. None of them breathed—they were all dead. And I was the one who’d killed them.
I turned to Brooklynn, and saw that she wasn’t alone. With her were Aron and Niko and Zafir. Max was there too. All of them staring back at me with the same wary expressions, and I couldn’t blame them. I knew what they were looking at: a murderer.
“I told you she was in here,” I said to Zafir. “I told you Sabara wasn’t dead.”
But it didn’t matter, I told myself. Nothing else mattered except that Angelina was safe.
I spun around again, my eyes raking over the little girl in the bloodied nightgown. She just stood there, looking as dazed as the others. “Angelina,” I whispered again, taking a step closer to her.
She ran then . . . but not to me.
She veered as far from me as she could in the confined space of the hallway, running to Brooklynn instead. She wrapped her arms around my best friend’s waist, refusing to even glance my way.
Max stepped forward then. Max, who I was sure hated me after seeing Niko’s lips on mine. Max, who I had to find a way to explain things to, to make things right again. He reached for my hands, first one and then the other. I allowed a moment of hope to swell in my chest as relief flooded through me, and then I realized what he was really doing. That I’d still been holding them outstretched, like the weapons they’d become. He pushed my arms down, his eyes finding mine and searching them.
I blinked back tears that stung, not wanting him to see how ravaged I felt inside. “I’m still here too,” I offered, hoping he’d believe me. Hoping that might be enough.
His fingers closed over mine, even though they didn’t lace through them. “I know.” But it didn’t sound like an assurance, just a simple statement. He knew. Like he knew the sky was blue or the grass was green.
He pulled me then, trying to draw me away from the ghastly scene on the floor before us. But before I’d taken a single step, I froze. “Wait,” I said, breaking away from him.
I crept closer to the man with the handgun, the man whose dead gaze stared blankly at the ceiling now. I dropped down, kneeling beside his body. Max was there too, hovering right above my shoulder. “What is it?” he asked.
I frowned as I reached for the slip of red material sticking out from the man’s front pocket. I unfolded it, smoothing the edges down until I was looking at a square of fabric.
I glanced to his cohorts, each lying equally motionless. Another of the men had a similar square tied around his upper arm, and the third had one stuffed in his back pocket.
I searched Jonas too, digging through his pockets and sliding my hand inside the front of his shirt, feeling his lifeless chest beneath my fingertips. He didn’t have the same red fabric the others did, not that I could find.
That same simple fabric. Plain, yet familiar.
Red bandanas.
My stomach dropped as I remembered where I’d seen a bandana like them before. “Sebastian,” I breathed, looking from Max to Zafir, from Brook to Aron. “It was Sebastian. He must’ve overheard us, maybe while he was readying the horses. He must’ve told them where to find us.”
Brook turned away, holding Angelina even closer, and I wondered if it was hard for her to see her father like this. I wondered if, even after everything, she blamed me for killing him.
“Let me see that,” Max said, reaching for the fabric I clutched. He ran his finger along the edges, where there was a darker red ink—a pattern, some sort of leaves or ivy. He looked up at me. “Did you hear them say anything?” he asked.
I glanced uncomfortably at Angelina, and I answered quietly, “They said to stop toying with the girl and finish it.”
He stepped closer, gripping my hands in his. “But how did they say it, Charlie? What language did they speak?”
“I—I don’t know,” I answered, shaking my head. “I’d never heard it before. Why? What do you know?”
He turned to Zafir, lifting the square of fabric. “This is Queen Elena’s insignia—the crimson laurel. It’s the basis for her country’s flag. These men were Astonian, and Sebastian must be too if he’s working with them.”