Eli reached to grab her, but that blue-white light flashed up between them, forcing his hand away. Rebuffing him, but not her. Marcella stepped into the circle of his arms, and brought her fingers to his cheek.

“You really should have run with the rest of them,” she said, hand flaring red.

Pain lashed across Eli’s face, a wave of agony as his skin dissolved, exposing teeth, jaw. But even as the rot spread, he could feel it reversing, the muscle and skin healing. The amusement melted from Marcella’s eyes and mouth, replaced by surprise, shock.

“Why would I run?” said Eli, his cheek knitting back together. “I’m

here to kill you.”

Marcella pulled back, suddenly uncertain.

He had missed that—the expression on their faces before they died.

The way the scales trembled and shook before they fell into balance. As if the EO knew—that they were wrong, that their lives—what they took for lives—were stolen. That it was time to let go.

A gunshot went off nearby, and then another, and seconds later the air above flared blue and white, crackling with energy. Victor stood, head craned, and when Eli followed his gaze, he saw Jonathan at the heart of the storm. Victor spread his hands, and the air surged, the EO

above swallowed from sight.

The surprise on Marcella’s face cracked, showed fear.

Eli had a theory. He decided to test it.

With Jonathan preoccupied, Eli reached out and wrapped a hand around Marcella’s throat.

There was no light around her this time, no forcefield shock, only soft white skin under his fingers.

Marcella’s hands flew up, digging into Eli’s arms, the sleeves of his suit quickly crumbling. The skin beneath peeled back, then healed, then peeled away again.

But Eli didn’t let go.

Across the gallery, Stell and his soldiers were trying to clear the panicked crowd, while on the other side of the statue Victor continued to unleash his own power on Jonathan, as if the other EO were only a circuit, something to overload and interrupt.

To think that, in a way, the two of them were working together again. Like old times—or like they could have been, perhaps.

It was almost poetic, thought Eli, just before he saw an EON soldier appear behind Victor.

“No!” shouted Eli.

But either no one heard him, or they didn’t care. The soldier reached Victor and wrapped an arm around his throat, hauling him backward and breaking his focus.

The blue-white light of Jonathan’s forcefield vanished, and then reappeared an instant later, this time protectively thrown around Marcella.

There was a noise—like thunder—a violent crack—and then Eli was thrown backward. Pain tore through his back as he struck the nearest pillar, hitting several feet off the ground. But Eli didn’t fall. He looked down and saw one of the sconce’s metal limbs jutting from his chest.