The horse stamps and rears. The stark whites of his eyes stand out as bright as the white star on his chest. I leap at his mane and haul myself onto his back. He rears and flashes his hooves and I hang on and watch Mara sprint past Malik and plough headlong into the fray of guards following us. Malik backpedals to me. I bring the horse to him and throw out my arm. He runs, catches hold of my hand, leaps up and slots in place behind me. He winds his arms around my waist, and we go, hooves clattering over the cobblestones. At the last moment, before we veer down a side road, I turn the horse and we look back. A crowd, led by Rodolfo, surrounds Mara. I see the bright flash of her fighting sticks. I swear she looks at us then. Just a glance. And then I see a blade punched into her.

Mara drops to the ground. She’s gone.

I grit my teeth and pull the horse around. “Are you holding on?” I shout.

Malik yells something back, snatched by the wind.

We ride.

53

I don’t read the road signs, or panic about which direction to go next. I know the way. It’s in me. The horse is a muscular thoroughbred and smooth-gaited and he too seems to know our destination: the rubbish dumps outside the city and the ships that rise from there to the pyramid above. I’m up out of the stirrups and leaning forward and Malik grips my waist and my hips and I feel wild. On our left, we’re flanked by a swollen, swift-flowing Seine. We bolt down the road, swerving wide-eyed cart drivers and pedestrians.

“Whoa! Slow down!” Malik shouts behind me.

No chance.

We fly at full tilt, white-knuckled, hair thrown back by the wind. I use my body weight and my knees and jabbing heels to keep the horse quick and on course. A glance over my shoulder confirms no one is following.

But for how long?

I think about her. Akuji. Mara.

Her parents were killed by the Collective. By Mother. It doesn’t matter how. It doesn’t matter what they did to deserve their fate. What matters is how it forged the ones left behind. I think about what it must take, having one goal in mind and keeping it secret—holding it close—for so long. Vengeance. Spending years deep undercover, not speaking, plotting your revenge, waiting for the right moment. And then, when it comes, being unable to follow it through to the end. Why?

Perhaps because the people she spent her days with changed her, made her something else.

We race up a rutted road, worn by years of traffic. Ahead, I see a line of twisted trees and, beyond that, a mountain of steaming waste and, descending from the sky, a fat-bottomed airship with a name etched in black on the underside.

SHINIGAMI