“Then don’t kill,” I grind out. “But remember that he did. My people—and your own. They follow him now, and they’ll kill us for their new king.”
I point one bruised finger back at the street, to the banners bearing Maven’s face. Maven, who sacrificed Silvers to the Scarlet Guard, to turn rebels into terrorists and destroy his own enemies in a single swoop. Maven, who murdered everyone at court who truly knew me. Lucas and Lady Blonos and my maids, all dead because I was different. Maven, who helped kill his own father, who tried to execute his brother. Maven, who must be destroyed.
A small part of me fears that Cal will walk away. He could disappear into the city, to find whatever peace still lingers in his heart. But he won’t. His anger, while buried deep, is stronger than his own reason. He will have vengeance, just as I will have mine. Even if it costs us everything we hold dear.
“This way.” His voice echoes. We have no more time for whispers.
As we round the back corner of the Security Center, my senses reach out, focusing on the security cameras dotting the walls. With a smile, I push against them, shorting out their wiring. One by one, they fall to my wave.
The back door is just as impressively made as the front, albeit smaller. A wide step like a porch, a door grated with curving steel, and only four armed guards. Their rifles are polished to a high sheen, but heavy in their hands. New recruits. I note the colored bands on their arms, denoting their houses and abilities. One has no band at all—a lower-class Silver, with no great family, and weaker abilities than the others. The rest are a banshee of House Marinos, a Gliacon shiver, and a Greco strongarm. To my delight, I see no white and black of House Eagrie. No eyes to glimpse the immediate future, to know what we’re about to do.
They see us coming, and don’t bother to straighten up. Reds are nothing to worry about, not for Silver officers. How wrong they are.
Only when we stop before the steps of the rear door do they notice us. The banshee, little more than a boy with slanted eyes and high cheekbones, spits at our feet.
“Keep moving, Red rats.” His voice has a painful, razor edge to it.
Of course, we don’t listen. “I would like to lodge a complaint,” I say, my voice high and clear, though I keep my face angled to the ground. Heat rises next to me, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Cal’s fists clench.
The officers break out in hearty guffaws, exchanging grotesque smiles. The banshee even takes a few steps forward, until he stands over me. “Security doesn’t listen to the likes of you. Take it up with the Red Watch.” They break out in peals of laughter again. The banshee’s hurt my tender ears. “I think they’re still hanging around”—more disgusting laughs—“in Stark Garden.”
Next to me, Farley’s hands curl into her jacket, to feel the knife she keeps tucked close. I glare at her, hoping to stop her from stabbing someone before the right moment.
The steel Center door opens, allowing a guard to step out onto the entryway. He mutters to one of the other officers, and I catch the words broken and camera. But the officer only shrugs, darting to look at the many security cameras dotting the wall above us. He doesn’t see anything wrong with them, not that he could.
“Be gone with you,” the banshee continues, waving a hand like we’re dogs to be dismissed. When we don’t move, his eyes narrow into thin, black slits. “Or shall I arrest you all for trespassing?”
He expects us to scurry off. Arrest is as good as execution these days. But we hold our ground. If the banshee wasn’t such a cruel idiot, I would feel sorry for him.
“You can try,” I say, reaching for my hood.
The shawl falls around my shoulders, flapping like gray wings before crumpling at my feet. It feels good to turn up my gaze, and watch cold recognition draw fear across the banshee’s face.
I am not remarkable looking. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin. Bruised, bone weary, small, and hungry. Red blood and a red temper. I should not frighten anyone, but the banshee is certainly afraid of me. He knows what power hums beneath my bruises. He knows the lightning girl.
He stumbles, one foot catching on the steps, and falls backward, mouth opening and closing as he summons the strength to scream.
“It’s—it’s her,” the shiver behind him stammers, pointing one shaking finger. It quickly turns to ice. I can’t help but smile pointedly, and sparks ball in my hands. Their shocking hiss is a comfort like no other.
Cal compounds the dramatics. He rips away his disguise in a single, smooth motion, revealing the prince they were raised to follow, then told to fear. His bracelet crackles and flame spreads along his shawl, turning it into a blistering, burning flag.
“The prince!” the strongarm gasps. He looks starry-eyed, reluctant to act. After all, until a few days ago, they saw Cal as a legend, not a monster.
The banshee recovers first, reaching for his gun. “Arrest them! Arrest them!” He shrieks, and we duck as one, dodging his sonic blow. It shatters the windows behind us.
Shock makes the officers slow and stupid. The strongarm doesn’t dare come close, and fumbles for his holstered pistols, struggling against his own rushing adrenaline. One of them, the officer standing in the open door, has the good sense to run into the safety of the Center. The four remaining are easily dealt with. The banshee doesn’t get the chance for another scream, catching an electric bolt instead. The shocks dig into his neck and chest before finding home in his brain. For a split second, I can feel his veins and nerves, splayed like branches in flesh. He drops where he stands, falling into a deep, dark sleep.