Page 167 of Children of Blood and Bone

“Zél—”

Her eyes flash something feral. Her trembling intensifies.

When I move toward her, she crawls back. Shattered. Broken.

I stop and put my hands up. My chest aches at the sight. There’s no sign of the warrior I know. The fighter who spit in Father’s face. I don’t see Zél at all.

Only the shell Father left behind.

“You’re safe,” I whisper. “No one can hurt you here.”

But her eyes fill with tears. “I can’t feel it,” she cries. “I can’t feel anything.”

“Feel what?”

I move toward her, but she shakes her head and pushes herself back through the reeds with her feet.

“It’s gone.” She says the same words again. “Gone.”

She curls into the reeds, writhing with the pain she can’t escape.

Duty before self.

I dig my fingers into the dirt.

Father’s voice rings loud in my head.Duty above all else.

Kwame’s flames come back to life behind my eyes, blazing through everything in their path. My duty is to prevent that.

My duty has to be keeping Orïsha alive.

But the creed rings hollow, carving a hole inside me like the knife that carved through Zélie’s back.

Duty isn’t enough when it means destroying the girl I love.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

AMARI

THIS WILL WORK.

By the skies, this has to work.

I hold on to this flickering hope as Tzain and I slip down the alleys between the rusted structures of Gombe, blending into the shadows and darkness.

A city of iron and foundry, Gombe’s factories run late into the night. Erected by Welders before the Raid, metal structures rise and bend in impossible shapes.

Unlike the tiers dividing the classes of Lagos, Gombe is split into four quadrants, partitioning residential life from its iron exports. Through the dust-covered windows divîners work, forging Orïshan goods for the next day.

“Wait.” Tzain holds me back as a patrol of armored guards clunk by. “Okay,” he whispers when they pass, but his voice lacks its usual determination.This will work, I repeat in my head, wishing I could convince Tzain as well.When this is over, Zélie will be alright.

With time, the streets of cluttered, cramped mills transform into the towering iron domes of the downtown district. As bells ring, released workers swarm us, each covered in dust and ferrous metal burns. We follow the swell toward the music and drums pumping into the night.As the aroma of liquor replaces the stench of smoke, a cluster of bars appears, each nestled under a small, rusted dome.

“Will he be here?” I ask as we walk up to a particularly shoddy structure that hums quieter than the rest.

“It’s the best place to look. When I was in Gombe last year for the Orïshan Games, Kenyon and his team took me here every night.”

“Good.” I muster a smile for Tzain’s sake. “That’s all we need.”

---