The Destiny (Blood and Destiny Book 4) (23 page)

Silence surrounded the stairwell where
Larissa found herself. There were noises, but her mind blocked them out with a
deafening numbness. She’d pounded on the door uselessly until the heat from the
other side hurt her fists. She stared at the fine grain of the wood, silent
tears pouring from her eyes. For all her efforts, all her healing abilities and
ideology, there was nothing she could do to help Cid, or even Imago.

Her veins still pulsed
with the boost of
Anthonium
flowing through her body. She had no idea
why Covelle had done that, but there was no way of finding out the answer now.
Of all the tears running down her face, not a single one mourned her father.

She sat upon a step for
a time, staring at the door, as if some miracle could still occur and Cid would
walk through it, brushing ash off his arms and swearing complaints at the burns
on his skin. She almost laughed at the thought of it, so vivid. She fantasised turning
the clock back, to pick just one moment in the last few days and make a small
adjustment which would lead to a different outcome. She should have asked him
to stay behind. She should have told him to remain with Elena in Eptora. She
should have done so many things differently which would have spared him such a
horrific death.

Her shoulders shook as
she sobbed. Lines of silver-tinted blood ran down her arm where her nails
clutched too deeply to her skin.

Something behind her smashed—the
sound of wood splitting followed by a loud, dull thud. More loud thuds drew her
gaze from the door, and she arose just in time to dodge a cannonball as it
rolled down the steps toward her. The black ball came to a stop thumping
against the door, and the cacophony of noise suddenly burst into her awareness.
She took in a heavy breath and placed her hands flat against the door, ignoring
the burning heat scorching her skin. She hung her head low and said a silent
prayer for Cid’s soul. If the gods existed at all, they owed him an eternity of
happiness.

Through the stream of
tears running freely down her face, she turned and headed towards the stairs,
determined to finish what they’d started. There was at least one last foe to
destroy.

It was as though
someone had added lead weights to her boots; every step seemed harder than the
last, and although she emerged into a brightened hallway, the path ahead looked
darker.

The narrow corridor had
rooms leading off to either side. A large hole had ripped through one of the
walls, but it was at ceiling height, so she couldn’t see through to the outside
world. She pulled the pistol from her pocket and pressed her back to the wall
as she stalked down the corridor, peeking her head around each doorway to check
inside. She passed a few storage rooms filled with boxes and devoid of life.
The next room led to the kitchens. Huge ovens occupied the back wall; a large
island in the center of the room had chopping boards and knives lying
haphazardly across it. Half-chopped vegetables lay abandoned, and a pot on the
stove bubbled furiously with no one around to tend to it. She presumed the
staff had abandoned their posts due to the battle going on outside. It made
sense, she supposed—no point making soup when you’re just as likely to end up
with a cannonball in the pot.

There were no clues as
to which way Holt might have gone, although she wasn’t entirely shocked—he
wasn’t the sort to leave a trail. She’d assumed her aching heart couldn’t feel
any worse, but the thought of Holt leaving because she had been too consumed by
the discovery of the Machine made her chest ache even more. She wondered if her
heart were bleeding.

After wandering to the
end of the corridor and finding almost every room abandoned, she started to
lose what little hope she had left. With no idea how to navigate through the
palace, or where to find the President, her short burst of determination
quickly gave way to the returning despair which sat in the pit of her stomach. A
door banged shut somewhere up ahead, and a pair of soldiers marched from one
side of the hall to the other, not stopping to look in her direction. Common
sense told her she should have felt worried at seeing them, or excited, or
something
.
Instead, she had barely any reaction to their presence.

When she reached the
doorway where the two soldiers disappeared, she found a large stairwell leading
up. The palace appeared to come into its own here, with ornate cornicing around
the ceiling and delicate carvings in the dark wood bannisters. Two tall windows
looked out to the sprawling city; one had been smashed, and shards of glass
hung from the frame, shattered remains coating the steps. She glanced out of
the gap as another thump and rumble of gunfire echoed from somewhere nearby.
Wherever the people attacking the palace were now, they did not seem to be on this
side, for the view of the city below looked normal despite the holes poked in
the walls.

She stalked up the
steps, following on the heels of the two soldiers, who seemed in no particular
hurry to get where they were going in spite of the obvious attack outside.

The next floor had
wider hallways and more opulently decorated door trims. She slunk along the
hall, ducking into alcoves as she went, coming too close to being seen once or
twice when one of the soldiers cast a wary glance over his shoulder. For a
brief moment, she wondered if the
Anthonium
shot had rendered her
invisible until she thought of Cid. No, he had seen her quite clearly. He
wouldn’t have shut himself in the room below in order to keep her out if she
were invisible. A painful ache tugged on her gut. How could she live in the
knowledge that her best friend had sacrificed himself for her?

Her head thumped
against the frame of the doorway in which she stood. The soldiers passed from
view, their route no longer part of her agenda as despair flowed over her like
a wave. No matter how loudly the voice in her head kept shouting to carry on,
her legs could go no further.

She stumbled into the
room, reaching out for the nearest object to fall upon, her vision tainted by
more tears and a dark ring threatening to close in and swallow her whole. Her
hands found something solid—a table edge? It didn’t matter as she stared down, barely
balancing on wobbly legs.

A boom erupted
somewhere nearby, followed by the sound of shattering glass. Something trickled
over her right arm and shoulder, as though raindrops fell on her flesh. She
passed no more than a cursory glance at her arm; streaks of blood ran down
where shards of glass had lodged into her skin. Slowly, she lifted her head to
see the outline of an enormous pirate airship sailing directly past the window.
Her mouth popped open as the cannon muzzle drew into line with her head.
Something bumped into her from the side, sending her crashing to the ground.

An explosion followed;
the piercing boom rocked the floor beneath, and another spray of glass pelted
her skin. A body pinned her down, pressing her chest to the floor. Her first
instinct was to fight, but a familiar voice commanded her to stay down. The
explosions and shuddering continued, the cacophony so loud it left a
high-pitched ringing noise whirring through her head when the airship finally
passed by, launching cannonballs elsewhere for a change.

When the ringing
subsided and the weight shifted from her back, Larissa rolled onto her side.
She was covered in dust and rubble, her skin dotted with cuts and bruises which
healed in an instant. The shards of glass which had embedded into her skin had
all popped out, and besides the dust, she looked unharmed. Holt, on the other
hand, looked as though he had fought an entire war by himself. His face was
bruised, the beginnings of a black eye surrounding his socket. He scooted
backwards slightly, drawing his body away from the door leading to the
corridor, tucking himself out of sight.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“What?” Larissa’s
entire head pounded as though she were in the middle of waking up from some
horrific nightmare.

“I shouldn’t have left
you. I was coming back to find you.”

“Did you kill the
President?” she interrupted. More than anything, she hoped he’d say
yes
,
leaving them free to leave or at least attempt an escape.

“No. I have been unable
to locate him. You are distressed because I left you?” he asked, seeming
genuinely concerned.

“Distressed?”

“I heard you sobbing from
the other end of the hallway.”

“Oh. No. I’m distressed
because…” She groaned and sank her head into her hands, drawing her knees up to
rest her elbows upon.

“Because?”

“Cid is dead.”

A sudden and prominent
silence descended. Even the wind that had been whipping through the holes torn
in the walls seemed to die down. Whether out of ominous divination or simple
respect, she didn’t know, but it certainly seemed pertinent. A silent moment
passed by. Some more pieces of plaster cascaded from the ceiling, covering her
boots.

“Imago too. And my
father,” she finished, the last word quiet, even in the silence.

She heard a noise, Holt
shifting across the floor toward her. Something wrapped around her shoulder—an
arm. Strong and determined in his approach, he held her, not saying a word as
she buried her face in his chest and wept.

“Someone once told me
this was a noble cause,” Holt said eventually as her sobbing subsided.

“Someone must have been
wrong,” she said, knowing full well that she had been the one to say those
words.

“I think she was
right,” Holt said.

She sat back and looked
him in the eye as her shuddering breaths steadied. “This isn’t the time to
mock.”

“I’m not mocking. This
is a noble cause. Cid died a noble death fighting for it. Whether it was worth the
price remains to be seen. You’ve come this far, Miss Markus. It would be
disingenuous to his memory to give up now.”

As if he had just
rubbed her mind with a soothing balm, she felt a weight lift from her
shoulders. The ache of loss still remained, and her heart still longed to
change time itself. Sadly, there was neither magical element nor mystical
illusion she knew of to achieve such a miracle.

Larissa stood,
surveying the damage to the room. It looked like some form of private office—at
least, what remained of it looked office-like. Large, open doorways on either
side led to balconies. The entire wall of the office had caved in on itself
after being pelted with cannon fire, and the expended balls lay lodged in the
far wall and buried in former pieces of furniture. The large, ornate desk in
the middle of the room had protected them both from the worst of the attack.

Larissa looked out at the skies. Pirate airships
launching projectiles at their pursuers.

“Vries,” Holt said as he came to stand by her side.

“You think?” She could see some of the ships battling the
pirates were Sky Force vessels.

“I suspect he would have regrouped at the coast. I
didn’t think he would bring the entire fleet inland on his own initiative, though.”

“Perhaps he’s acting on orders?”

“Orders from whom? The President would not have been
aware of the attack.”

Larissa scanned the city scene. Several buildings
appeared to be burning, and small skirmishes had broken out in the streets
below.

Holt chuckled slightly in her ear.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

He pointed in the direction of the fort. A group of
soldiers were systematically charging through the city streets, fighting off
groups of men who dared to raise arms against them. In the melee, Larissa could
just about see Kerrigan leading the charge.

A chuckle of her own escaped her lips. “Are you still
upset I prevented you from killing him?” she asked.

“He has proven useful,” Holt said.

“Well, as long as they’re keeping Covelle’s people
busy, I’m not going to argue. We’ll worry about whether Kerrigan and Vries
fight for the President or for our murky side of justice later,” Larissa said.
“Let’s finish this.”

She turned on her heels, newly intent on finding and
assassinating the President.

A large pop echoed around the room.

Larissa jumped as she spotted a man standing in the
doorway, glaring directly at her. He was short and plain-looking with a bald
head. Time seemed to slow as she stood staring at him, her head wobbling with a
sickening waver. Holt’s mouth was open; he appeared to be shouting something,
but she couldn’t hear or see why. Slowly, her mind meshed the pieces together.
The man in the doorway had the President’s face. The gun in his hand aimed
directly at her. Her chest hurt.

Holt ran from her side, launching at speed, though it
seemed to happen in slow motion. He barrelled into the man in the doorway,
leaping across his back and wrapped his arm around his neck. The two men
toppled to the ground, and Holt braced his legs on either side of the President’s
hunched body as he squeezed his throat, choking the life from the man’s eyes.

Larissa watched with an oddly detached interest. Her
chest hurt.

A sickening crunch sounded as Holt finally snapped the
President’s neck, and Holt ran once again directly toward Larissa.

She fell to her knees as the battle outside continued.
Two soldiers appeared in the corridor. They passed uneasy glances at each other
and at the dead President, although neither seemed willing to fight as they
both backed away slowly.