Paul curses in pain and shoves me back so hard I fall to the ground. Theo runs toward us, yelling, “What are you—”
What happens next is so fast that everything blurs together.
The sounds all seem to roar at once: swearing, screaming, gunfire. The few concrete images I see have no order, no sense, not even motion, as if they were a series of photographs flung in front of me.
Paul, swinging his gun toward us.
Theo throwing his arms wide to try to defend me.
Flashes of fire at the muzzle of Paul’s gun.
Blood and bone spraying outward.
Theo falling.
My own hands reaching for Theo as I sink down beside him.
And one terrible moment when my eyes meet Paul’s, and I see no regret. No remorse.
Paul says, “You don’t know me.” And then he runs away, disappearing into the dark.
The first thing I think is stupid, the product of shock: This is real. It’s all real.
Then I hear Theo groan, and I pull myself together.
“Are you okay?” I roll Theo over, knowing he’s not. At first I’m relieved, because he’s conscious and his shirt is only flecked with blood. Then I see his legs. “Oh, my God.”
“Jesus.” Theo can hardly get the word out; he’s trying not to cry, or scream.
From the thighs down his legs look like something from a butcher shop: exposed, broken bone, and flesh torn into ribbons. Shards of white jutting from the gory mess must be what’s left of his kneecaps.
There’s so much blood. It oozes down the wall where it spattered; it drips from my hair, my ear. It pools on the asphalt beneath us, black rather than red in the twilight darkness, and shining as each puddle enlarges. Theo could hemorrhage to death within minutes.
“Hang on.” I undo his belt and pull it free of the loops, so I can wrap it around one leg as a tourniquet. I need to do the other one too. As loud as I can, I scream, “Somebody help!”
“Phone.” By now Theo’s voice is hardly a whisper, but that’s enough. I fumble in his back pocket and pull out his cell phone. Thank God it lets me call 911 without the security code.
The next few minutes aren’t much clearer. Theo’s able to give me the address of our location. Emergency crews were standing by during the police raid, so EMTs get to us within moments. By then Theo’s skin has turned white and his breathing is shallow, but he can still talk. I can tell by the way the EMTs act that they expect him to live.
But they don’t have to tell me that he might lose his legs.
Paul shot without hesitating. Without blinking. He savagely destroyed a stranger’s legs for no reason, and ran away without even looking back.
All that time I was held captive, I thought he wouldn’t hurt me, but I had no idea who I was really dealing with.
I want to think the splinter of my Paul’s soul within him would have made a difference—but this Paul is still Paul. They are more alike than unalike.
If we all have one essential self that remains constant through all the worlds, then the evil in this man exists within my Paul, too. Even within the splinters of his soul I’ve already rescued.
The Firebirds feel heavy around my neck.
As soon as Theo is settled on a stretcher, the paramedics hook him up to a saline IV. Numbly, I watch the needle enter his skin. While they tape the plastic tubing in place, I lean over Theo. He whispers, “Did you get the splinter?”
Even after this, Theo is still thinking about Paul’s rescue. “Yeah. I got him.” He nods, then grimaces in pain. I can’t bear to watch him go through this anymore. “You need to go on ahead, okay? You’ll have the coordinates. Now get out of here.”
“What?” His voice sounds hoarse, drowsy. “I can’t just—it’s my fault this Theo’s screwed up—I have to—”
“Listen to me.” I’m not sure he’s going to stay fully conscious much longer, especially if the medics have injected any morphine. My hands shake as I manipulate my Firebird to get the proof of his sabotage, unlock the next coordinates, and share that data with Theo’s Firebird, giving him the info he needs to complete this mission. “What’s done is done. I feel like shit about it too, okay? But we can’t help him. You have to take care of yourself now. People in this dimension shouldn’t perceive the Firebirds right away, but at the hospital, they might. Then they’ll take them off you, and who knows when you’ll get them back again—”
“I get it,” he says. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“Can’t what? We’ve done it. Everything—everything Conley wanted. So we can—”
He can’t finish the sentence, because he was going to say, rescue the last splinter of Paul.
But Theo doesn’t need me for that.
If he goes to Conley now, reports what we’ve done (fudging what happened in the Warverse)—then Conley will give him the coordinates to reach the final dimension where Paul is hidden. Theo will receive the potential cure for Nightthief. Even if Conley is angry that Theo came along with me, he won’t renege on the deal if he thinks I did my part. Everything will be taken care of.
“I can’t look at Paul right now. I can’t be near him. Not yet.” What I need now is a chance to think about what I’ve learned, and what it means. “I’m going someplace Paul can’t be, where he can never follow.”
“Marguerite—” Theo breaks off, like he’s on the verge of passing out. So I put his free hand on his Firebird for him.
“Go to Conley,” I murmur, as the paramedics open the ambulance doors. I brush a lock of hair from his forehead, then take off Paul’s Firebird and put it around Theo’s neck. I whisper, “Take Paul with you. Don’t worry about me. I’m traveling to a safe place. And I promise—I won’t be that far behind.”
I take my Firebird in my hands. I remember Russia, a thousand images all laced with whirling snow. And I fling myself out of this terrible world.
19
I OPEN MY EYES AND SEE AN ORNATELY DECORATED CEILING: cherubs and nymphs painted around embossed gilded medallions, all of it encircling a sumptuous chandelier. As I stir, I realize I’m lying in a bed—one as richly carved as the decorations above me, and topped with an embroidered silk coverlet. Once again, I am Margarita, Grand Duchess of all the Russias, supposedly the daughter of Tsar Alexander V.
I sit up, then grimace as I realize how exhausted I am; apparently this Marguerite hasn’t slept well, if at all. But what strikes me most powerfully is that I don’t know this room at all. It’s not so surprising, perhaps—when I was in this universe before, the royal family never left the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. The Romanovs have many other palaces, so perhaps this is one of those.
Still, it feels . . . off, somehow.
My eyes widen as I remember—in this world, the tsar wanted to marry me off to the Prince of Wales, heir to the English throne. Oh, shit, is this Buckingham Palace? But there’s no one in the bed with me, and when I look down at my left hand, there’s no ring.
A memory of Lieutenant Markov comes to me so vividly that it’s as if I’m back in the Winter Palace. He is my personal guard, standing at the door, and he is speaking about my anticipated betrothal to the heir to the English throne—and saying so much more than the mere words would suggest.