DEV1AT3 (DEVIATE). Jay Kristoff
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at the feeling of a grift done right. Maybe she was imagining it, maybe it was just the relief, but those meds were making her feel better already. The night was bright and her pockets were full and she was starting to think they were free and clear.
Until they passed by the Brotherhood’s stage at the other end of the square again.
She tried not to look. Tried not to notice the two figures nailed up on those Xs. The way the Brotherhood had patched up the bullet wound in the girl’s chest so she wouldn’t bleed out before she’d suffered. The way a dozen Brotherhood thugs were slouching on the steps in front of those hanging bodies, laughing and jawing as if nothing were amiss. As if they’d not nailed up two kids to suffocate under their own weight beneath tomorrow’s sun.
The dead don’t fight another day, she reminded herself.
Just because they’re like you, doesn’t make them crew.
She missed Evie, she realized.
She missed Ezekiel and Cricket and the feeling she was wrapped up in a story much bigger than herself. It was easier back then, just being the sidekick. Dragged along for the ride, expected to contribute nothing more than the occasional quip and maybe a shoulder to cry on.
Her shoulders weren’t strong enough for anything else, after all.
She wasn’t big enough to do this on her own.
Was she?
“Stop,” she whispered.
Hunter reached inside her cloak, instantly alert, scanning the night around them for danger. “Trouble?”
“Not yet,” she sighed.
Lemon looked to the stage behind them, those kids strung up to die.
“But I think I’m about to make some.”
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