Golden Read online

  The boys exchanged uneasy glances as they swiftly carried out Shakes’s orders.

  Liannan caught Shakes’s pleading look and moved quickly toward Nat. “Hey,” she said softly. “There’s nothing you can do for him anymore. And we need your help if we’re going to get out of here alive.”

  Nat said nothing. Ashes in her mouth. Numb. Spent.

  “Wes would want that, Nat. Don’t make his sacrifice meaningless. He needs you to be strong. He wants you to live.”

  Nat ignored her. She ignored them all. They’d all given up on Wes, but she wasn’t going to. He couldn’t be dead; he couldn’t leave her, not now. Not so soon after they’d found each other again.

  She pressed harder against his chest, willing his heart to beat. Willing him to make his way back to her side.

  She could live without drakonsight, without drakonlimb, without drakonwing. But she could not live if Wes did not.

  The deck vibrated underneath her as the boat’s engines sputtered to life—and then died just as quickly. Shakes cursed. “What the ice is going on back there?”

  “Pipes are frozen solid,” yelled Farouk from below. “And we can’t get a fire started in the coal bin!” The ship had been retrofitted with a steam engine when its owners hadn’t been able to fix its electric one.

  “Nat, come on,” cried Liannan, running toward the stern of the ferry. “Help me conjure a flame!”

  Nat was made of drakonfire, but she remained still. She was sure that without her drakon, there was no fire left in her. She was unable to move, unable to breathe, as Wes’s heart remained silent underneath her palm.

  His heart had stopped and now hers was shattered.

  She was no use to anyone. She couldn’t keep him alive—she had no drakon, no fire, no power of her own. She was nothing; she was nobody.

  Dimly, she heard the RSA forces swarming around the burning city, recapturing the marked who were once prisoners in the White Temple, the very people Wes and his crew had just set free. Rounding them up one by one.

  It was all for nothing.

  A gunshot cracked in the distance, and Nat jumped. She turned to see—and from afar, she saw a body fall to the ground with a hard thump.

  No. They weren’t rounding up the prisoners.

  They were executing them.

  2

  AM I DEAD?

  Why can’t I move? What’s happening? What’s wrong with me?

  It took a while for Wes to figure out he had collapsed. Part of him was confused, because for a moment he was still standing, and he wondered if it was because kissing Nat was too much like a dream.

  A beautiful, perfect dream.

  To Wes, it wasn’t quite real, as if he were unable to accept that they were together now, after everything they’d endured to get here.

  They’d been kissing on the deck of the ferryboat. Nat’s lips were open and soft against his. As he held her in his arms he marveled at her many improbabilities—so small and fierce, so much fury and strength in one person. He was looking forward to their life together, thinking about what they would do when they returned to New Vegas.

  I don’t deserve this. Her. Wes was so happy his head hurt.

  Maybe that was the reason why everything looked pixelated and he felt as if he couldn’t breathe.

  Which he couldn’t.

  And all of a sudden, his knees gave way and he was falling.

  Pull it together, man, it’s just a kiss, he scolded himself. And look what you’ve done, you’ve scared Nat.

  The last thing he remembered seeing was Nat’s face, her eyes wide with shock, the ghostly pallor on her cheeks, her mouth open in surprise. He knew something had happened, and that it had something to do with him, even if he wasn’t sure what.

  “Wes,” she called out. “Wes, no—”

  I’m here, he tried to tell her.

  She looked like she thought he was dying . . . and he wanted to say, don’t worry, I’m fine, so that he could make her laugh again. Maybe kiss her again . . .

  Then the convulsions began, and he tasted blood, it was coming out of his nose, his mouth, his eyes, he was bleeding . . . and everything went black . . . Now what . . . what was that? That hurt. A hard hit to this chest. Another one.

  Ow.

  Shakes. Pounding on him.

  Ow.

  Was that really necessary?

  Tell him to stop, thought Wes. I should tell him to stop.

  He’d just slipped, he was fine, he’d been kissing Nat and been overwhelmed by happiness, and maybe he’d lost his footing and he’d hit his head on the deck or something . . . no big deal because he was fine . . .

  He was fine!

  So why couldn’t he move his hands? Why couldn’t he speak? And for that matter, why couldn’t he open his eyes? And he was so cold . . . cold . . . and where was Nat? He couldn’t feel her anymore . . . he couldn’t feel anything . . . and he was cold and it was dark and he couldn’t breathe! He really couldn’t breathe!

  What the freeze . . .

  Oh man . . . Shakes was right to be alarmed . . . he was dying.

  Godfreezeit . . . he was freezing dying . . . motherfreezer . . .

  Nat . . . Nat . . . where are you . . .

  Wes was in the dark for he didn’t know how long. Then he heard a soft voice in his ear. It sounded familiar, although he couldn’t place it. The voice tickled his consciousness, as soft as tendrils and as sweet as nectar, but imbued with a metallic cold.

  You remember me, it said, replying to his thoughts as if it had heard him, and maybe it had.

  Wes couldn’t be certain, not of anything. Not now.

  We met once before when you were a child. I visited you and your sister.

  He stiffened.

  Yes, I see, you remember now.

  Wes would never forget that visit. He knew that voice. It was the same voice he’d heard the night he lost his twin.

  Wes often dreamed of the night of the fire, the night Eliza had been stolen from her home. He dreamed of the meal his mother had cooked, a rare treat—a few cuts of meat and lumps of carrots and potatoes, cooked so long that it all had fallen into soft, warm strings in their bowls. They had eaten together as a family for once, as if they’d known it was the last time. He remembered his father flicking through the nets with his handheld before shooing them off to bed. The twins had shared a room, and in his dreams of that night Wes could still feel the heat from the flames that had engulfed the small chamber, licking the ceiling, curtains, and bedcovers. He remembered his terror and his confusion, and he remembered Eliza smiling.

  He had never understood why.

  He hadn’t seen Eliza again until today. He had been searching for her his entire life, for only he understood the power that twisted inside her, and how easily it could be corrupted—as it was inside him as well.

  The two of them were opposite sides of the same coin: Eliza, with her ability to absorb magic, and Wes, with his ability to block it. Magic had devoured her soul and turned it dark, but Wes was immune to its workings. He was a repellant, an antidote. He remained unaffected when she could not help but be devoured. He felt sorry for her, and she for him—unlike almost every other brother and sister they knew, who lived in a state of endless rivalry.

  Not Eliza and Wes. Neither sibling wanted anything the other could do or have.

  “I am the one you are looking for,” the child Eliza had told the White Lady who stood in the middle of the fire that night, solemn and unafraid.

  “So be it,” the lady had said, and took Eliza by the hand.

  I was wrong, the lady said now. Her voice echoed through Wes’s frozen body and fallen mind.

  I was mistaken. I was deceived.

  Wes tried to open his eyes and see her for what she was, but he still could not move.

  It doe
s not matter. It is too late, Wes said to the lady. He thought the words so fiercely he was surprised he could not speak them.

  She did not answer.

  He tried again. I am dying. It is too late.

  Again, she remained silent.

  Wes felt like shouting now. Too late for me. Too late for me and Nat. Too late, he thought, his bitterness and disappointment as sharp as the happiness that had preceded it. Leave me alone, he told the lady in white. Leave me to die in peace.

  The lady still did not reply.

  Instead, another voice called to him from a great distance, a whisper that filled the cold darkness with unexpected heat, nourishing him like a warm broth, preventing him from falling deeper into the dark.

  “Don’t leave me!”

  Was it just his imagination, or could he really sense a heart beating against his, soft hair falling on his face?

  Nat. He wasn’t dreaming this time. He was still alive, and Nat was cradling him in her arms.

  Lovely Natasha Kestal. That’s how he thought of her, even now. Even in this state. My Nat. Her warmth held back the darkness, keeping him on the edge of the light, the only thing that kept him upright.

  I’m coming. He struggled to regain control of his senses, to follow her back toward the light. But the dark was so heavy, and he realized that Nat herself was struggling under the weight of it—and that if she continued trying, it would crush her. She couldn’t keep his death away much longer, not without risking her own life. It was a miracle, and a testament to her strength, that she had held it off this long.

  No, Nat. Stop. Wes wouldn’t let her chance it. He couldn’t let her. He wanted to tell her it was all right. She could let go.

  Let go, Nat. He could die in her arms fulfilled.

  She would live and that was all that mattered. She would grieve, but she would survive. Nat would keep living, and the thought gave him peace. Wes had died once before and he was not afraid. He was tired. He wanted to rest, to remain in the darkness and fade.

  “Stay,” said Nat again.

  I can’t.

  Her warmth was fading and her strength would not keep the cold and dark out much longer without hurting her.

  “Don’t leave me.” There were tears in her voice now, and it killed him.

  But I have to.

  She would only hurt herself trying to save him. It was better this way.

  And so he did what she could not; he let go of her and fell—plunging deep into the darkness. He felt himself sinking away, deeper and deeper into shadow and cold. Nat’s voice grew distant, her sobs quiet. A great nothingness on all sides, from all directions, enveloped him.

  He felt his mind grow still, until he himself was like the silence . . .

  But as he fell back through the darkness, he heard the sudden sound of a tank rumbling loudly, as if coming from the bottom of the ocean. The louder it grew, the more noise it seemed to bring with it—his friends screaming, Shakes yelling, Liannan giving orders.

  Now he could almost feel Nat’s arms tense around him.

  One last attempt. The world would not give up on him so easily.

  So he did what he had to—he struggled to force them all away. Every friend, every memory, every desire. Every thread was a threat. Every connection that bound them together was a wick to another stick of dynamite. He would not drag his friends down into the shadow worlds with him. Would not let them drown, when they had to fight.

  It’s not safe. Not even now. You have to let go—all of you.

  He pushed them away until they were fading, fading, and the darkness welcomed him once again into its infinite embrace—greedy and voracious—as if to make up for lost time. He fell faster and deeper this time, and he scrambled for footing, but there was nothing but air. He felt his heart slow.

  There.

  Once again, it was hard to breathe.

  Now.

  Everything felt cold again. His fingers were numb, his legs frozen. I’m going to have to find a better line of work when this is all over. He wished he could laugh at his own joke, but the cold held his lips closed.

  He couldn’t hear Shakes anymore, couldn’t feel Nat’s heartbeat against his, and one by one Wes let go of everything—his memories, his thoughts—until he didn’t know where he was, or who he was anymore, or even the name of the girl he loved more than life.

  He no longer knew or cared.

  It was over, and if he could, he would have mourned what he had never had.

  3

  “WELL, ISN’T THAT A PRETTY SIGHT,” a voice drawled. “Not.”

  Avo Hubik, the slaver who was once again drafted into the military high command, was wearing a foolish, triumphant grin on his face as he preened from the top of the hulking white tank on the shore across from their boat.

  The cannon of his tank was aimed right at their hull.

  Nat looked up, her face streaked with tears, as Wes remained still as death in her lap. He was gone. She knew she had to accept it, had to live with it. She also knew her friends had needed her, and she had failed them. She hadn’t helped them escape, and she had to live with that, too. She was the reason Avo’s cannon was pointed at them now.

  The boat rocked slowly in place, stranded, caught. New Kandy, the city of the White Temple, burned in the distance, as tourists scattered and prisoners fled from the pursuit of the RSA’s relentless automatic weaponry. Not that there was any point to fleeing, Nat knew. The rat-a-tat-tats echoed through the streets, and even the water rippled from the explosions.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Avo said to Shakes, who’d reached for his gun. “I could blast you all to hell from where I’m standing. So let’s behave. You can make this much more pleasant for yourselves. Come out with your hands up. Throw down your weapons. No funny business, now.”

  Shakes reluctantly put his gun down. Roark and Brendon did the same. Farouk and Liannan came out from the back, their arms raised.

  This crew knew better than to run.

  Nat simply watched, her grief and her exhaustion rendering her mute.

  “That’s it, that’s it,” said Avo, waving his pistol. “ON YOUR KNEES!”

  One by one they went down, forming a circle around Nat and Wes. She appreciated the gesture, their friends protecting them to the last. Hands behind their heads, they were defiant even in defeat. Liannan’s violet eyes were glittering in anger, but she was too weakened by her imprisonment in the White Temple to be able to act. Brendon and Roark stared straight ahead, unwilling to show fear. Even Farouk was silent for once, instead of anxiously jabbering. Shakes held his head high and proud, his jaw clenched. Take your best shot. That was the message. They might as well have been shouting it at the top of their lungs.

  I should do something, Nat thought dully, but she had no strength left to call up whatever fire was left inside her. Her drakon was stolen. Wes was dead. There was nothing left. Soon, they would all be dead.

  So she sat motionless. Watching as if it were happening to people she didn’t know, didn’t love.

  Avo holstered his gun and jumped nimbly from the top of his tank to the deck of their boat. The former slaver looked the same as the last time they’d seen him, his hair dyed as snowy white as the frozen landscape. He walked casually toward the kneeling prisoners, keeping his gun cocked. He stopped and surveyed the group.

  No one looked back at him.

  “Like a message in a bottle you all came back to me. I’m touched, really,” he said, with a smirk on his face and a hand dramatically fluttering on his heart. “Right here.” He removed a flask from his jacket and took a loud gulp, the rancid stink of iceshine filling the air. “Regular cast of circus freaks, aren’t you.”

  “What up, tool,” he said, as he kicked Shakes with his boot.

  Shakes spat at him but missed.

  Avo shook his head
, bemused. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. And I remember you,” he said, turning to Liannan.

  She glared.

  “You’re the dirtiest-looking sylph I’ve ever seen. What’s the matter? Did they run you through the killing floor? Get your pretty hair mucked up?” Avo grabbed her by her hair and yanked her head back, displaying her white throat.

  “Don’t freezing touch her, you icehole,” growled Shakes.

  In answer, Avo let go of her and slowly raised his hand, making the shape of a gun. He pointed it at Liannan’s head before blowing mock smoke across its tip, replacing the flask in his jacket. “Too bad I missed the killing floor. It would have been fun hunting you down, watching you run—”

  Shakes moved to strike, but Avo twisted and fired first.

  Liannan screamed as Shakes went down, clutching his leg, which was bleeding from the calf.

  “Touchy, touchy.” Avo laughed, using his revolver to slam Liannan in the back so that she fell forward with a cry as she hit the deck.

  Shakes crawled to help, but Avo kicked him away easily as he made his way into the inner circle of the group, where Nat sat holding Wes.

  The slaver loomed over Nat. “Get up,” he ordered.

  She ignored him.

  “Are you deaf, girl? I said get up!”

  Reluctantly, Nat laid Wes gently on the deck and stood to face him. Indeed, Avo Hubik was as sleek and handsome as he had been the last time they’d met on the black waters, when he’d taken the crew captive. Ageless as a vampire, unmarked by war or grime, and the venom in his voice was the same.

  “I think it’s high time I added that lovely skull of yours to my collection,” Avo said, pointing to the glistening white tank idling behind him. Nat couldn’t help but see what he meant. Three shriveled heads were mounted on its grill, their mouths open in a silent scream.

  Nat shuddered.

  Avo grinned. “Plenty of room for more.” He looked down at the sight of Wes’s body. “Haven’t we been here before? But this time, he should stay dead,” Avo said, giving Wes a swift kick in the head.