Page 250 of Lana Pecherczyk
His butterfly knife.
“I thought you were being dramatic,” Blake whispered, tears blurring her vision as she looked at River. “When you said those things about crows being different. About them being obsessive to the point of?—”
She couldn’t finish. Couldn’t voice what they all now understood.
“What?” Trix asked from behind them. “What do you mean?”
But Blake couldn’t answer. Could only stare at the reason why River had been so afraid when they’d met.
River’s hand closed over hers, his grip steady despite the storm of emotion raging through their bond. He was trying to comfort her, but Blake sensed the depth of his devastation. She squeezed back, letting him know without words that she wasn’t going anywhere.
He knelt beside the pile, his hands hovering over the weapon as if afraid to touch it. Blake could see his shoulders trembling, could feel through their bond the way his heart was fracturing. First, Ash chose to remain with his mother. Now, Cloud had abandoned everything that once defined him.
River’s fingers traced the knife’s handle. Blue glyphs pulsed to life, revealing the weapon’s name in a faint blue glow—a single word that seemed to mock everything Cloud had been, everything he’d chosen to leave behind.
Vengeance.
Epilogue
Nero stood in his tower’s greenhouse, breathing rot and withering dreams. Decay crept across every surface. Plants that had once thrived now hung like corpses from their supports, their leaves brown and brittle. The stench of failure permeated the air, mingling with the sharp tang of chemicals and the persistent drip of something foul from the glass-domed ceiling above.
Yet amid the death, old-world technology hummed with stubborn life.
An ancient computer dominated the far wall. It was fortunate that he’d ordered the Tinker to revive it before she defected. Some parts were new, some were old, but somehow, it was functioning.
This. This right here was how he knew his plan was inevitable.
According to physics, this piece of equipment should be dead. But he’d cheated nature. He’d beat it. He’d replaced its rusted parts with new ones, and now the world’s death rattle was prolonged.
Steam hissed from pressure valves. Gears clicked in measured rhythm. The old box screen flickered with static, casting shifting shadows across his face.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Pandora sat motionless in the chair he’d positioned before the terminal. Copper cables snaked from the back of her neck to the machine’s neural interface. Her dark hair fell across her shoulders, a little melted but otherwise pristine despite everything she’d endured. More of the Tinker’s work was visible beneath her torn clothing and pulsed with soft blue light.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Her clockwork heart beat steadily, but something in the rhythm felt wrong. Off-kilter, like a gear with worn teeth.
Nero’s fingers hovered over the activation switches. Five years of work to get her functional again. Five years of rationing Guardian mana and salvaging parts while his people starved in the city. All for this moment.
He could simply wake her. Ask for her report.
But paranoia crawled beneath his skin like insects. The Tinker had been thorough, brilliant, and utterly untrustworthy. The Tinker didn’t know what she was working on at the time. She didn’t know all those little projects he’d given her were ultimately for Pandora’s resurrection from the basement.
Still, what if she’d left surprises in Pandora’s programming? What if his queen’s memories had been tampered with?
Better to see the truth through her eyes. Raw. Unfiltered.
Nero threw the final switch.
The screen erupted in brilliant light, then settled into grainy focus. Through Pandora’s visual sensors, he watched her mission unfold in real time.
The Great Murder heaved with life around her. Stolen plumage adorned her shoulders as she moved between market stalls, mimicking the peculiar gait of crow shifters. Her internalchronometer marked each second, each heartbeat, each breath that brought her closer to her objective.
The footage jumped, skipped frames. Nero cursed and slammed his fist against the monitor’s side. Ancient circuits clashed with new in a protest that ended in sparks, but the image stabilized.
A crow female blocked Pandora’s path, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Your feathers. They’re not yours.”
