Harlequin groaned, opening his eyes but managing little more than slits. He tried to raise his head and failed, dropping back in the dirt.
Swift rotated his foot, tearing away skin. “Open your fucking eyes! Look at me!”
Harlequin managed to open a single blue eye, but there was no recognition there.
But Swift only went on. “It’s me. Remember? You killed my girlfriend and my child. I killed myself trying to fucking earn somebody. When I was about ready to give up, I met Shai. So you killed her. Do you like me now? I’m a fucking product of your goddamned system.”
He spoke so quickly that drool escaped from the corner of his mouth, his words running together, scarcely understandable as his voice rose. “But here’s the best part. You lose. I’ve got you, and I’m going to kill you so slowly and horribly that before I’m done, you’ll spit on your precious laws just for a momentary break in your suffering. You fucking son of a bitch, I am going to kill you. I am going to kill you. I am going to kill you.”
Britton paused, stunned by the depth of Swift’s hatred. He could feel Swift’s current gathering like a tidal wave, a well of potential energy bubbling beneath his skin. He must have been burning with it. Would he go nova? Harlequin seemed to feel it, too, and began to thrash weakly back and forth under the pressure of his heel. The Goblins had returned to the plaza and stood staring frankly at him, waiting for his next move.
Britton had no love for Harlequin, but he felt Fitzy’s blood still warm on him. The sensation made him feel ill, weak. Harlequin was a bastard, but he was not Fitzy. Britton opened his mouth to say something but stopped. Swift’s scarred face and insane rambling made him terrifying. If Britton spoke, he might divert some of that insensate rage onto himself. He didn’t know what Swift would do.
Downer had no such compunction. She shrieked and shook free of her captors, racing to Harlequin, her hands outstretched. “Don’t you hurt him!” she screamed. “Don’t you hurt him!”
Swift’s eyes never left the Aeromancer, who had recovered enough to prop himself onto his elbows, his head bending back under the weight of Swift’s boot. Swift merely stuck out one hand, pointing at Downer.
A bolt of lightning sprang from his hand, catching her full in the chest. The Elementalist flipped over backward, her screams abruptly becoming a choking croak. She slid in the mud, the stench of cooked meat rising from her.
“No!” Britton cried, interdicting Swift’s magical current. The strength of it nearly overwhelmed him, and it took him several seconds to properly Suppress Swift.
Downer writhed on the ground, alive but hurt badly. Truelove rushed to her side, cradling her in his arms.
Swift felt the Suppression take hold and whipped his head toward Britton, snarling. He bent, in one fluid motion, grabbing Harlequin’s throat with one hand and yanking his pistol from its drop holster with the other. He stood again, the pistol barrel hovering rock steady over the Aeromancer’s face.
“I don’t need magic to do this,” he said. His finger tensed on the trigger.
“Don’t!” Therese raced between them, hooking an arm under Harlequin’s armpit and hauling him upright. Harlequin Drew magic to him, but Britton met his eyes and shook his head. “You do, and you’re dead, pal.”
Harlequin didn’t release the magic, but neither did he Bind it to anything.
Swift didn’t move, pointing the gun doggedly over Therese’s shoulder. “Get out of the way,” he said. “You saved our lives, and I don’t want to shoot you, but he’s not getting away.”
Therese only stood, shaking her head silently.
Britton looked down at Fitzy’s gore splashed across him and felt sick with himself. Rage had overcome him, and he had murdered the chief warrant officer. Therese wouldn’t permit that. Not when a man was too weak to defend himself. She was better than that.
“No, Swift,” Therese said. “We’re letting him go.”
She gestured at the few remaining soldiers, hemmed in by Goblin spears and staring wide-eyed at the confrontation. “We’re letting all of them go.”
Swift’s voice was flat, the rage gone stale. “I’m not kidding. Get the fuck out of the way.”
“We came here to escape,” Therese said. “We’ve done that. Killing more people won’t accomplish anything.”
Britton spoke up, hoping the words would shrug off some of the shame he felt. “That’s what Selfers do. We’re not Selfers, Swift. We’re not the SOC. We’re the real good guys, and it’s high time we started acting like it. I’m through with magic as a bludgeon. It stops here. He goes free, back where he came from. They all do.”
He met Marty’s eyes as he said it. He knew he couldn’t speak for the Mattab On Sorrah, but he also knew he couldn’t permit them to kill captured prisoners, no matter how angry they were over the attack on their village. “All water baby, right?”
But Marty only nodded, speaking quickly in his own language. There was a chorus of angry cries from the assembled Goblins, with a few of the white-painted sorcerers stepping forward, flapping their hands at him, but Marty silenced them with a few barked words, his command presence back again.
“All water baby,” he said. “Always help.”
“We’ve all lost something,” Therese said to Swift. “Killing him won’t bring anyone back to life.”
The pistol didn’t waver. Swift’s face was inscrutable, his voice a tired croak. “You’re going to have to kill me if you want him to live.”
Therese paused, shook her head, then stepped away from Harlequin, spreading her arms and moving to stand beside Britton. “I’ve had it with killing,” she said. “You do what you have to, Swift, but you can’t fight the whole world, not forever. Sooner or later, you have to accept things as they are, stop bitching, and start the hard work of changing stuff.”
Swift’s lip curled, he pressed the gun forward, and Britton tensed for the ringing shot, for Harlequin’s body to jerk and slump. He closed his eyes and sighed.
Silence.
When Britton opened his eyes Swift had lowered the gun. His eyes were on his feet. Two drops tapped on his boot tips.
“Fuck,” was all he managed to say, barely a whisper.
“Don’t think I don’t appreciate the gesture,” Harlequin slurred through split lips. “But it’s not my call. I’ll be back, Oscar, for you and your friends. This won’t change anything. I’ll come for you.”
Britton crossed to Swift and took the pistol from his hands. Swift gave it up willingly, his grip limp and spent. His eyes remained fixed on his feet.
Britton swallowed. Felt his gorge rise.
Because there was one more killing that had to be done if they were ever to be safe.
Britton turned, dropping Swift’s Suppression to open a gate directly before the chair where Billy sat, his mother’s elephantine arms pale around his neck. His vacant blue eyes widened, his mouth working in shock at the sight of a gate not of his own making. He whipped his head from side to side, pulling one of the leads loose. His mother fumbled to reconnect it, her cat’s-eye framed glasses going askew. Harlequin stiffened, but he lacked the strength to do anything.
“I’m sorry, Billy,” Britton said. “It’s the only way.” He made his single shot count, putting the bullet squarely between the Portamancer’s eyes. His head snapped back, coating his mother’s floral print dress with gray matter. Britton shut the gate before her screams could reach him.
He dropped the pistol as if it were diseased. “No,” he said to Harlequin, when he could finally bring himself to speak. “I don’t think you’re coming for anybody. Not anymore.”
Therese approached Swift, placing a hand on his burned face, the magic flowing out and smoothing the skin into shiny pink patches. “It’s okay,” Therese whispered. “It’s going to be okay.”
“How can it ever be okay?” Swift whispered.
Therese was silent, as was Britton.
Britton pictured a trip to Washington, DC, he had made in high school. He snapped the gate open, the image of his memories playing true. The front lawn of the White House was clearly visible through the shimmering surface of the portal. Crowds of onlookers gawked and pointed from beyond the iron fence.
“Off you go,” he said to Harlequin, shoving him toward it. The Goblins followed suit, prodding the remaining assaulters forward at spearpoint. “Maybe you can explain to them what you’ve been up to. I’ll be watching the newspapers for your quote. Best of luck with that.”
