“You’re a monster, Kovit,” Patchaya said evenly. “I’d hoped, I’d really hoped, that you wouldn’t end up one. That you’d be able to maintain control, that you wouldn’t give in to your violent urges and become a serial killer like every other zannie.”

“I’m not a serial killer,” Kovit said, voice soft. “I haven’t lost control. I’m still me. Just . . . just a little darker.”

Patchaya’s laugh was bitter and sharp. “Kovit, you’re deluded if you think you’re in control. Do you think control means you pick who you hurt? Because that’s not control. Control is when you don’t hurt anyone, when you resist the violence within. Control isn’t just picking your victim.”

Kovit was quiet. After a long moment, he looked down at the gun in Patchaya’s hand and whispered, “Are you going to kill me?”

Patchaya laughed, wet and broken, her fingers tight on her gun. “I came here to stop you. To avenge Bran, to put an end to this.”

Kovit swallowed. “Pat—”

“Shut up.”

They stood there for a heartbeat, then two, completely silent, Patchaya’s chest heaving as she steadied herself, gun high, and Kovit stared at her with dark eyes.

Finally, Patchaya lowered her gun and turned away, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Don’t talk to me, now or ever again. As far as I’m concerned, my brother died ten years ago.”

Then she spun around and left, slamming the door behind her.

Kovit stared after her, before slowly falling to his knees on the old carpeting.

Nita’s muscles loosened. It was okay. Patchaya hadn’t been able to go through with it. Her mother’s plan had failed. Kovit was all right.

Nita’s mother clicked her tongue, jerking Nita’s attention away from the screen. “Well, that’s annoying.” She sighed heavily. “But as they say, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”

Then she raised her own gun and shot through the paper-thin wall into the room next door.

Thirty-Seven

KOVIT HAD BEEN SHOT BEFORE. When they’d both been trapped in a cage together in Death Market, they’d tried to escape their captors, a fight had ensued, and a stray bullet had caught Kovit in the side. Nita had stitched it up, he took antibiotics, and he recovered.

But a stray bullet is not the same as a bullet shot by her mother aiming to kill.

It didn’t matter that it was through the wall, or that they were watching through a TV screen. Her mother had practice and aim, and Kovit went down in a spray of blood.

Nita tried to scream, but she was paralyzed, and all that came out was a terrible, broken croak.

Her mother nodded approvingly as Kovit choked onscreen, his body sprawled across the floor, blood seeping out and pooling around him.