“You’re safe,” Iris whispered to herself, as if speaking the words aloud would make them real. But she didn’t believe her own voice.
She didn’t believe her words anymore.
* * *
In the moments leading up to the explosion, Iris had thought Dacre’s speech conceited, overwrought, and silver-tongued. She didn’t trust a single word he spoke—she saw through him like he was glass—but when she had glanced at the people around her … their expressions were awed and intent. She saw that they were being drawn in by his appeal for Oath.
There will be no bloodshed. There will be no need for death.
I am here to heal your old wounds and restore this city to glory.
She wondered if this was the beginning of the end. If Oath was about to bow in feverish surrender. She wondered what her life would be like beneath Dacre’s rule.
That was when she heard the strange clicking.
Iris didn’t know what it was initially, but her body went rigid when she remembered being in the trenches with Roman. How the grenade had made a similar sound before it exploded. The tall man at her side also seemed to know what the clicks meant. He drew a sharp breath and stepped forward, directly in front of her, like he was about to storm the stage.
There was no time as an explosion rocked the courtyard.
A blinding light, the crack of wood, the weight of thunder. The sting of hail and the whistle of metal in the air. The melting of gravity and the splinter of bones. The taste of blood and smoke and the ring of death.
Iris didn’t remember being blown off her feet. But when she could blink the grit from her eyes, she realized the man in front of her had taken the brunt of the blast. The man whose name she didn’t even know had died as a shield for her, whether he had intended to or not. He was now draped across her legs, punctured by pieces of wood, bleeding onto her dress. He was dead, and she had to wrench herself free from his weight, her lungs heaving as she realized what had just happened.
She rose on shaky legs.
Through the smoke, she could see some people coughing and crawling along the ground, but most of those around her were dead. Gripping the front of her dress, Iris looked up.
She met Dacre’s fiery stare. He stood hale and whole amid the wreckage, blood dripping from his face, his clothes hanging from his powerful body in tatters.
When he stepped forward, she scrambled backward, tripping over bodies and hitting the ground with a jar.
Run.
It was the only crystal-clear thought she had.
Run.
As gunshots broke through the haze, Iris lunged to her feet and ran.
* * *
It was strange how she couldn’t get herself to rise now.
Iris lay on the floor of the museum’s foyer, her cheek pressed to the marble. The last time she had been here, she had been stealing the First Alouette with Attie and Sarah. A night that felt like centuries ago.
She retraced that memory, hoping it would calm her heart. But it reminded Iris that the museum always had a guard patrolling at night. She wasn’t alone here, and she didn’t want to be caught.
With a groan, she pushed herself to her knees, then to her feet. Now that her adrenaline had ebbed, she could feel a hot pulse in the arch of her right foot. She examined it to see a few shards of glass embedded in her skin.
She had bled onto the floor but had nothing to wipe it clean.
“Later,” she told herself, hobbling down the hallway.
Only a few bulbs were on, emitting faint light. Most of the museum was draped in shadows, quiet and cold as if underwater, and Iris was almost to the room where the Alouette had once been displayed when she heard the echo of a door closing.
She froze, listening.
Someone was walking down the other corridor, in the direction of the foyer.
It had to be the night guard, and Iris darted into the one of the back rooms, falling on her hands and knees to crawl behind a statue. She pulled her legs tight against her chest. Her breaths were labored, her foot throbbing in tandem with her frantic heartbeat.
She closed her eyes as the bootsteps drew closer.
She was so tired; she had no more strength to dodge another foe. To run from room to room like quarry, seeking a place to hide.
Iris closed her eyes and swallowed.
After a few more beats, she could see a beam of light seeping through her eyelids. Tense, she waited. And when the light finally spilled over her, she knew there was no more pretense. No more hiding.
She opened her eyes, squinting up at the guard who stood before her. A middle-aged woman with long hair, dark as night with a few streaks of silver. Her skin was pale but radiant, and her face could have been one that Iris had seen many times before and forgotten save for her eyes. They were a startling shade of green. She was tall and slender beneath her navy guard’s uniform, but she carried no weapon. No gun or baton, only a metal torch, which she politely pointed downward.