They don’t hesitate now—not even with Sunan in the line of fire.
As they lift their guns, I lunge for the cover of the stall. The Chakran soldier is not so quick. I hear the bullets thudding into his flesh; he is dead before he hits the ground. His soul stands over his body, as though surprised, but I don’t have time for shock. My hand darts out to draw the symbol of life on the young man’s skin. Air gurgles in his throat as his soul pours back into his flesh.
He arches his back, opening his mouth. Blood is all that comes out. Still, his voice echoes in my head, like Akra’s voice does—part of our new connection. “Let me go,” he whispers in my skull; the same plea Madame had made. But I am not so lenient with Sunan.
“I’ll let you go when the others are dead,” I gasp, short of breath. The wound in my side is starting to throb.
Groaning, Sunan lifts the gun, rising to his feet like a broken marionette. His body jerks and judders as the soldiers fire, but this time he shoots back. The Aquitans cry out as they fall, one, then the other, but the Chakran only stops firing when he runs out of bullets.
My ears ring in the sudden silence. Sunan sags against the wall, his shoulders heaving. Blood covers his chest and runs down his face from the empty socket of his eye. With the uniform, with the haircut, with the shadows of the carriage house, I see my brother instead—the way he looked when he died, and when I’d brought him back.
Remorse stabs through me, sharper than the knife. I have held so tightly to the differences between myself and Le Trépas—the way he makes the dead walk, while I make them live again. But life isn’t always such a gift.
More gunfire rings out, closer to the veranda this time. The Chakran soldier stumbles to the doorway, pulling one of the rifles from the fallen men. Sliding down along the doorframe, he fires. As the gun cracks, cries drift in from outside. But Sunan’s finger is slipping on the trigger, wet with blood; his arm shakes, unable to hold steady. How much longer can he fight? How many soldiers are left?
Then, even louder than the gunfire—the blast of a grenade. My heart clenches in fear, but the carriage house is unaffected . . . at least, so far. Gritting my teeth, I prop myself on one hand. Blood has already soaked through the fabric of my sarong. Crawling to the window, I pull myself up with the sill, easing open the shutter. There is a bright light among the mimosa trees. Not an explosion or a fire, but the soul of my dragon.
“No!” The soldiers must have found her—why had I ordered her to stay? Her spirit makes shadows of the figures like dark wraiths under the trees. Then a pale hand rips the shutter back, revealing another soldier pressed up against the brick exterior of the carriage house. He swears, raising his pistol just as another shot rings out. The soldier crumples to the ground.
I duck back beneath the windowsill, breathing hard, with Sunan’s voice echoing in my head. “Release me.”
“There are still soldiers out there,” I pant.
“They’re dead,” he insists. “Let me go.”
I glance to the window, but looking out seems unwise. Instead, I creep back through the straw toward the doorway where Sunan’s body sits. Peering over his shoulder, I look for movement, seeing nothing.
“I can’t lie to you,” he says, and there is a hitch in his voice. “Please.”
I hesitate, but I don’t want to be a liar either. So I take his hand in mine, and his skin is so slick with blood that the mark of death shows pale in a sea of red. The body sighs as the soul rises. After that, silence. I press my hand to my side and wait.
Why were the soldiers here in the first place? Were they part of Fontaine’s battalion, or working with Le Trépas? I should have asked before Sunan’s soul fled. Still, other spirits cluster, closing in. Flies and mice, birds and a prowling cat. The dragon’s soul stalks brightly across the lawn. Can I draw her back into the blackened bones? I have to, if I’m going to meet Leo at the avion.
I should treat my wound—do something to staunch the blood. Wet warmth trickles down my side. How long until sunrise? I glance to the sky, but I can’t remember which way is east. Thoughts are hard to string together. A breeze through the door moves the haze of gun smoke like a curtain, bringing the incongruous smell of jasmine . . . and Leo’s voice.
“Jetta?” For a moment, I’m sure I’m imagining it. Then I hear him cursing in Chakran and Aquitan. “She’s in the carriage house!”
Frowning, I squint through the soullight and the smoke to see him pelting across the lawn. I scoff a little, incredulous, but the movement hurts. “How many times do I have to tell you?” I say as my eyes slide shut. “It’s not your job to take care of me.”
INCIDENT REPORT REGARDING TEMPLE FOURTEEN
Capitaine Bertrand Audrinne
My men and I arrived yesterday afternoon at our first assigned location: Temple Fourteen, half a kilometer northwest of Nokhor Khat, and dedicated to the deity known as the Keeper of Knowledge. In order to free the locals from the grip of their superstitions, our orders were to destroy any false idols, dismantle the altar, and arrest any monks in the area. However, upon initial inspection, our work seemed to have been done for us.
Further search this morning in the surrounding villages led us to a single monk, identified by the traditional tattoos on his back. We have taken him into custody, and he insists he is the only one left in the area. According to him, the others were killed years ago, not by the armée, but by Le Trépas himself.
Additionally, he
