𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹 | 𝑘.𝑏.

39

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T I D E M A K E R S
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SO WHERE WERE THE GUARDS? Jesper had expected them to rush into the courtyard as soon as he and Wylan triggered Black Protocol. His blood was alive, his rifle was at his shoulder, the world made sense again; he was ready for a fight.

"I've got it!" Wylan called from behind him.

Jesper hated to give up the high ground before they knew what they were up against, but they were short on time, and they needed to get to the roof. "All right, let's go."

They raced down the stairs. As they were about to burst from the gatehouse archway, six guards came running into the courtyard. Jesper stopped short and held out his arm.

"Turn back," he said to Wylan.

But Wylan was pointing across the courtyard. "Look."

The guards weren't moving toward the gatehouse; all their attention was focused on a man in olive drab clothing standing by one of the stone slabs. That uniform...

A woman walked through the wall, a figure of shimmering mist that solidified beside the stranger. She wore the same olive drab.

"Tidemakers," Wylan said.

Jesper's blood ran cold. No. "The Shu," he reasoned instead.

The guards opened fire, and the Tidemakers vanished, then reappeared behind the soldiers and lifted their arms.

The guards screamed and dropped their weapons. A red haze formed around them. The haze grew denser as the guards shrieked, their flesh seeming to shrink against their bones.

"It's their blood," Jesper said, bile rising in his throat. "All Saints, the Tidemakers are draining their blood." They were being squeezed dry.

The blood formed floating pools in the vague shapes of men, slick shadows that hovered in the air, the wet red of garnets. Feta's Rusalye act. The pools splashed to the ground at the same time as the guards collapsed, flaccid skin hanging from their desiccated bodies in grotesque folds.

"Back up the stairs," whispered Jesper, although he wasn't certain if he'd spoken at all. His blood was roaring in his ears. "We need to get out of here."

But it was too late. The female Tidemaker disappeared. In the next breath, she was on the stairs. She balanced her weight on the banisters with her hands and planted her boots against Wylan's chest, kicking him backwards into Jesper. They tumbled onto the black stone of the courtyard.

The rifle was jerked from Jesper's arms and tossed aside with a clatter. He tried to stand, but the Tidemaker cuffed him on the back of his head. Then he was lying next to Wylan as the Tidemakers towered above them. They lifted their hands, ready to conduct Jesper's blood into their symphony.

Just like Feta.

"Jesper," Wylan gasped. "Metal. Fabrikate." And then he started to scream.

In a flash, Jesper understood. This was a fight he couldn't win with a gun. There was no time to think, no time to doubt. Like calls to like.

He ignored the pain tearing over his skin and focused all his attention on the bits of metal clinging to his clothes, the shavings and tiny particles from the severed link in the gate chain. He wasn't a good Fabrikator, but they didn't expect him to be a Fabrikator at all.

Jesper summoned Feta's easy command, as though it was only natural for the world to listen to him; summoned Nina's steadfast faith, in herself, in her power, as though there was never any doubt he was capable of this.

He thrust his hands forward, and the bits of metal flew from his uniform, a gleaming cloud that hung in the air for the briefest second then shot toward the Tidemakers.

The female Tidemaker screamed as the metal burrowed into her flesh, and she tried to turn to glittering mist. The other Tidemaker did the same, features liquefying, but then solidifying once more, his face gray, speckled with bits of metal. Jesper didn't relent. He drove the metal home, into their organs, questing deeper. He could feel them attempting to manipulate the particles of metal. If the problem had been a bullet or a blade, they might have succeeded, but the shavings of steel were too many and too small.

The woman clutched her stomach and fell to her knees. The man screamed, coughing up clotted black specks of metal and blood.

"Help me," the woman sobbed. Her edges blurred, her body vibrating as she struggled to fade to mist.

Was this the glory Feta talked about, the belonging?

Jesper dropped his hands. He and Wylan scooted away from the writhing bodies of the Tidemakers.

Would Feta die just like this?

He couldn't stop seeing Feta in place of the dying Tidemakers in front of him. Jesper had only wanted to survive. He thought again of the banner on the wall, all those strips of red, blue, and purple.

Wylan tugged at his arm. His face looked slightly transparent, the veins too close to the surface. "Jesper, we have to go."

How am I gonna tell her?

Jesper nodded slowly.

I'm so sorry, Feta.

"Now."

Jesper made his feet move, made himself follow Wylan, scale the rope to the roof. He felt woozy and lightheaded. The others were depending on him, he knew that. He had to keep going. But he felt like he'd left some part of himself in the courtyard below, something he hadn't even known mattered, intangible as mist.