Page 122 of We Are the Match
The doctor is only one floor away, and he can see to Paris’s injuries. We need to—
“We need to gonow,” Paris says. “Before it is too late.”
But it is already too late.
Perhaps it has always been.
Because there, below me in the ballroom, the queen has returned home. Lena, flanked by Altea and Frona and Hana. Mama’s face is furious, her weapon on her shoulder.
Like Paris, I can smell it before it fires—not just gunpowder. Acrid and sweet, sharp and brutal. Solidox and sugar, the weapon of a bomb-maker. The tidying of a loose end.
I am moving before I can call it out; I am moving on instinct and instinct alone; I am faster than any god who has walked these islands.
I am hurtling straight into Paris of the island, Paris of Troy,myParis, my body colliding with hers,coveringhers, as my mother’s final weapon finds its mark.
Chapter 47
Paris
The blast hits Helen.
That is the cruelty of it.
A weapon meant for me—Lena’s weapon. But it does not matter now. It will never matter.
Because Helen is slumped over me, and she is bleeding, and burned from the flames and—
“Paris.”
She smiles up at me, wearily. So wearily. “Paris,” she says. “Listen to me, my love.”
“No,” I say, because the sound of her voice isgoodbye, and I had only snatches of time with her, rooftop gardens and warehouses crumbling and one perfect, perfect night. “No, Helen.”
“Move,” she tells me, and then she coughs, and there is blood spilling over her lips and down her chin. “They will fire again. Unless you go and finish them.”
The tears are hot on my face, and I pull her close to me, cradle her against me as she cradled Tommy. “Helen.” I am begging, I am begging, but she just shakes her head.
She coughs again, weakly this time, but her eyes are bright. “Paris of the gods,” she says. “Will you let me watch?”
More blood is running down her jaw now.
And something settles within me.
“After everything,” Helen says, holding out her hand to me. “I want to see you finish what we began.”
There is something gold in her hand. Something round and smooth and beautiful.
The weapon of a queen.
Helen
The queens do not deserve a warning. Not even my mother.
When Paris rises, pulling me with her, I see their faces. Their waiting weapons.
I descend.
There is silence, and beside the glittering, living souls who are here to rule stand the dead.
