Page 46

In any case, this day has screwed us all over. And coming here, for me, was meant to be about taking back control. To turn heel and walk back into the rain empty handed simply is not an option.

“You have information, though,” Fred says. “Information that could help us. We could. . . beat the trials. Strategise for them.”

Meléti blinks, one eye at a time.

Fred says, more firmly, “You hoard this information. We need it.”

Meléti considers her for a long time. “It is not for you to have. You are not initiated. You will leave.”

“What?” Leo laughs. I think something in him has snapped, because he runs his hands over his face. I see in him more of what I sometimes catch a spark of; the unsettled, angry part of him. The fear, the rage. “You are something out of myth. Something made by the hands of Daedalus. A legend. And like out of some nightmare, you and your kin come into our world and wreak havoc. You are sitting on information. Sitting on it.” He barrels over. He grabs the automation by the neck.

“Leo,” I say, more calmly than I feel. “Leo, darling, stand down.”

Leo does, almost immediately, to which Bellamy snorts. “Fucking dog.”

And Leo is so overwhelmed and so close to breaking, I watch him lunge at Bellamy and tackle him to the ground.

“Stop it!” Victoria shouts.

Now I see Leo truly; every tightly wound part of him, everything he carefully packed away. Leo Shaw is furious and angry and wild. He has been raised amongst monsters and he will do whatever is necessary to win. I should be scared; I’m not. I think I want him more than ever, if just for the impersonality of it—the roughness, the near-violence. He is angry at the world, and I am angry at myself, and when there’s no room for softness, it means I won’t lose myself to emotion. Cursing, I loop my arms under Leo’s armpits. I heave, and I’m acutely aware of how bloody weak I am, because the man is built and I am not.

“Leo,” I say, straining. “Leo, you’re angry. Stop it. Stop. Work with me here. I need you.”

And Leo stands and spits over his shoulder, decoupling from my touch without another word.

Whatever he’s marinating in, I leave him to it.

Calmly, as if nothing just happened, Meléti says, again, “You are not initiated. You will leave.”

“No,” I tell it.

The automaton’s head snaps towards me. I see in its void-like eyes a shimmer of something. In a human, I might have called it annoyance. But this thing is something else. God, my hands are shaking.

I reach into my pocket and light a cigarette. My packet is damp, from kneeling in the rain to kill a man—Gods, Cass, don’t think about that!—but the cig still takes a light. I inhale deep. The nicotine hits my system and the anxiety pops inside me like an overcooked pea.

When I’m calm again, I realise no one has moved or spoken for that entire stretch of time. So I fill it.

“Thaddeus Jones. Hunter. You knew him.”

A whirring buzz of cogs turning in the automaton’s mind. “Yes.”

“He is dead now.”

“I am very sorry to hear that.”

Dull, bland, no emotion. It makes me furious to hear it from this thing’s mouth.

Don’t rise to it. Just keep speaking.

“He was my brother, you see. And he told me of a Meléti. He said: Meléti will help, for a price.”

There is no response. I let the question sizzle in the air between us, and take another drag of the cigarette. Then when there’s still no answer I ask, “What is your price, Meléti?”

“Weapons are not permitted in the library,” Meléti says.

Fuck that, all sense in me says—but the automaton repeats the phrase incessantly, so I fold, and take out the bullets and skid the pistol out the door.

“Thank you, Cassius Jones,” it says. I flinch at hearing my name. Then it spins to Fred. “Winifred Lin, weapons are not permitted in the library.”