Reckoning, p.28
Reckoning, page 28
Another dove, wings outstretched, and I met him head-on—slamming his skull into the wall until it cracked like brittle glass. I felt the kids’ eyes on me, saw the horror on their faces, but I couldn’t stop. Monsters needed killing, and if I had to wear that mask for them, so be it.
“Keep moving!” I shouted again, blood dripping from my hands, smoke burning my lungs.
The halls roared with alarms, but Everly’s Runes glowed brighter, holding the line. She glanced at me once—eyes fierce, unyielding—and I swore I saw something holy burn through her then. My angel, fighting fire with fire.
I shoved a bride out of the way of a falling angel’s blade, taking the cut across my side instead. Pain ripped through me, but I gutted the bastard before he could rise again.
“Walton!” Everly called, voice sharp with urgency. “We can’t hold them forever!”
“I don’t need forever,” I snapped, pulling another knife from my belt and driving it into the chest of a charging guard. “I just need enough to get you all out.”
The group stumbled forward, pressed tight together, their eyes wide with terror and hope tangled into one. And behind them, I carved a trail of blood and ash, every kill another promise whispered through my teeth.
Not one of you touches her. Not one of you touches them.
The halls were a storm of fire, light, and steel—but we moved, step by bloody step, closer to freedom.
The wail of the alarms followed us like a curse, red lights spinning across the steel as we reached the last gate—the same override hatch Everly had first cracked open to get us inside. My lungs burned, my side was bleeding hot under my shirt, but I didn’t let it slow me. Not now.
Everly was already at the panel, her fingers flying over the sequence she remembered from childhood. Her voice trembled as she called over her shoulder, “Just a few more seconds—keep them back!”
“Seconds are all I need,” I growled. Silence snarled beside me, her hackles high, the shadows stretching with her fury.
The override hissed, gears groaning, and then the gate yawned open. But outside wasn’t freedom—it was fire. Gunfire cracked through the night, muzzle flashes strobing against the treeline. Purifier reinforcements had come, their white robes glowing like phantoms in the chaos. Smoke rolled through the air, thick with gunpowder and ash, and the bastards were already closing the perimeter.
“Go!” I barked at the girls, shoving one forward as Everly caught her hand. “Into the trees—now!”
Everly’s voice rose above the clamor, steady and strong: “Stay together, don’t stop! Keep moving!” She guided them, herding them like lambs toward the shadows of the forest beyond the firelight.
I turned to meet the last line. My blade was already wet, my veins thrumming with rage. The first Purifier came at me swinging a Rune-etched halberd, its head blazing white. I caught the shaft on my forearm, let it scorch the flesh, then ripped it free and split his face open with the butt. Silence lunged past, her jaws locking around another’s throat, dragging him down into the dirt as his rifle went off wild.
Bullets tore the ground at my feet. I dove, rolled, came up swinging. My blade sank under a ribcage, twisting until light burst from the wound like a dying star. Another tried to flank me, but I grabbed his robe, yanked him close, and slammed his skull into the gate frame until his body sagged limp.
Everly shouted my name, her voice breaking through the roar. I turned just in time to see a Purifier raise his rifle toward her back. Rage tore out of me like wildfire—I hurled my blade end-over-end, the steel sinking dead center into his chest. He dropped where he stood, rifle clattering useless to the ground.
The night exploded with the sound of Silence’s growl, my blade ripping free, the last of them falling in the dirt. The field went quiet but for the crackle of fire and the ragged sound of my breathing. My hands shook, blood dripping from my knuckles, but none of them stood. Not one.
I stumbled toward the treeline, toward the shadow where Everly waited, arms wrapped around the youngest girl, her face pale but unbroken. She looked at me—saw the blood, the ruin, the beast I’d unleashed—and didn’t flinch. She just reached out her free hand.
I took it. Pulled her into my side. Together we pushed into the forest, the children clustered around us; the alarms fading behind like a ghost we’d finally outrun.
The night swallowed us whole. The Bunker shrieked in the distance, a wound we’d torn wide open—but for the first time in too long, we were heading toward freedom. And I swore to myself, to the stars hidden beyond the smoke, I ain’t stoppin’. Not ‘til every last one of these cages burns.
The days bled together after the escape. Smoke still clung to our clothes, ash in our hair, and yet the girls lived. They huddled in clusters around the ragged campfires we scraped together along the forest trail, their eyes wide, hollow, but not empty. Everly knelt among them each night, tending wounds with whatever scraps of cloth we had left, whispering prayers soft enough to ease the tremors in their shoulders. Sometimes I caught the faintest hum of a hymn on her lips, and it steadied the camp more than any fire I could build.
I kept to the shadows, scouting ahead, my blade never far from reach. My hands wouldn’t come clean—blood had gotten into the cracks of my skin, under my nails, like it had claimed me for good. Every time a branch snapped out in the trees, every time Silence stiffened with a growl, I was ready to cut down whatever came near. Rage sat in my chest like a coal that wouldn’t burn out. It was the only reason we were all still breathing.
On the fifth morning, the trees thinned. The air carried the smell of coal smoke, the faint tang of metal, and then the sight of it rose on the horizon: Ironedge. Its walls jutted skyward like jagged black iron teeth, scarred from years of angel fire but unbroken still. The place was no paradise, but it stood. A bastion clinging to survival, hardened against angelic rule.
We approached slow. Silence padded low at my heel, hackles bristling. The girls faltered at the sight of those walls, their legs trembling with exhaustion, but Everly coaxed them onward, murmuring strength into them as if her words alone could hold them up. Maybe they did.
The guards on the wall saw us coming and stiffened. Muskets lifted. Their voices rang out harsh over the parapets, “Stay where you are!”
I stepped forward instinctively, ready to put myself between the rifles and the girls, but the guards’ eyes landed on me first—on the demon-red in my gaze, the blood still smeared into my clothes. Their hesitation was sharp, palpable, like one wrong twitch would see lead rain down on us all.
Before I could growl a warning, Everly moved past me. She stood in the open, hands lifted, her voice carrying clear and fierce across the distance,
“We bring survivors. They need sanctuary.”
For a heartbeat, silence ruled the air. The guards shifted, uneasy. Some spat over the wall at the sight of me, but their eyes kept flicking back to the girls—thin, bruised, clinging to one another. One little hand still latched onto Everly’s.
The tension cracked like ice. The rifles lowered, though not by much. One of the guards called down, voice rough with suspicion and something softer underneath, “Bring ‘em in. But the demon stays leashed.”
Everly clenched her teeth, but I ghosted my hand over hers. Now wasn't the time.
And so we stepped toward Ironedge’s gates, into a place that might offer rest… or another fight waiting to happen.
Because I wasn't letting Everly go in alone.
Chapter 31
Everly
The gates of Ironedge slammed shut behind us, the clang ringing in my bones like a final note of judgment. For a heartbeat, I couldn’t breathe. Then the people came—pouring out from narrow streets and crooked doorways, arms outstretched, hands gentle.
The children were pulled into their care, wrapped in patched blankets, pressed into bowls of steaming broth. The older girls—those poor trembling brides—were guided toward the healer’s hall, where soft voices promised warmth and rest. I should have felt relief watching them carried away from chains into tenderness. Instead, my chest ached like it was splitting apart.
Whispers rippled through the crowd, carried on the dust and smoke.
“That’s her.”
“She freed them.”
“A savior.”
The words wrapped around me like ropes, tightening with every repetition. I wanted to sink into the ground, to vanish. Their eyes burned hotter than fire, staring at me not as a woman, not as Everly—but as something I couldn’t possibly be. A savior.
My knees almost buckled under the weight of it. I thought I would feel pride. Instead, I felt chained. Chained to their expectations, their hope, their belief that I was more than just a broken woman clinging to faith.
I pressed my hands together, fingers trembling against one another. “It wasn’t me,” I whispered under my breath. “It was God. This was His victory.”
But no one heard me. Or maybe they didn’t want to. To them, I wasn’t just Everly anymore—I was a symbol. And symbols couldn’t break, couldn’t weep, couldn’t doubt.
Yet all I wanted in that moment was to crawl into Walton’s arms, bury my face against his chest, and let myself be small again. Not a savior. Not a saint. Just a woman who had been scared and scarred and carried out of hell by love and fire.
But as their eyes clung to me, I knew I wouldn’t be given that choice. Not here. Not now.
The common hall was too warm, too loud, too full. Walton’s hand was heavy on the small of my back as he guided me inside, his presence steadying in a way that only made me feel shakier. The fire in the hearth roared high, throwing heat across the crowded room. Tables were piled with bread and roasted meat, kettles of broth steaming. Survivors—my survivors—were already seated, wrapped in quilts, eating with hands that trembled as if they were still waiting for permission.
The townsfolk pressed in around me the moment I crossed the threshold. Faces weathered by dust and hunger, lit with something I didn’t want to see: gratitude. Reverence.
“Bless you, child.”
“God sent you to them.”
“You’re a miracle.”
Their words fell on me like stones, piling up until my shoulders felt bowed beneath the weight. I smiled—I had to. My lips stretched into something gentle, practiced. I murmured “thank you” and “praise God” and “He deserves the glory,” but inside, my stomach twisted tighter and tighter, as if a fist had closed around it.
Every blessing felt like a shackle. Every whispered “savior” made my chest hollow out.
Did they not see?
I wasn’t holy.
I wasn’t unbroken.
I had blood on my hands—angel blood, human blood. I had scars Michael carved into me, wounds no quilt or prayer could cover.
I tried to slip past, but they pressed closer, hands brushing mine, trying to touch me like I was something sacred. Walton finally growled low enough that the crowd eased, but the looks followed me, clinging like burrs.
I excused myself, or maybe I fled. My voice shook when I muttered something about air, about rest. Before anyone could stop me, I snatched a mug of ale from a passing hand and downed it in one swallow. The burn scorched my throat, but at least it felt real.
Another mug found its way into my grip. I drained it, then another.
The noise blurred. The firelight blurred. My head swam. But still, it wasn’t enough to drown the voices ringing in my ears: savior, miracle, chosen.
I pressed my forehead to the rim of the cup, whispering a prayer that was nothing like the ones I used to say: “Please, God. Please make them see I’m just Everly. Just me.”
But no answer came. Only the clink of mugs, the crackle of fire, the murmurs of townsfolk weaving chains of expectation around my name.
So I reached for another drink.
The first mug burned going down. The second left me lightheaded. By the third, I wasn’t sure if the warmth spreading through me was the fire in the hearth or the drink in my veins. I had never been drunk before—I wasn’t even sure I was doing it right—but I knew enough to recognize that the world was starting to tilt, just slightly, like the floor had grown restless under my boots.
The noise of the common hall grew softer, stranger. The laughter and chatter around me blurred into a muffled hum, like I was hearing it from under water. My own breath sounded too loud in my ears. My hands trembled around the mug, but I didn’t stop drinking. Not when the edges of my thoughts still pressed sharp against me.
The ale tasted bitter, sour, almost metallic on my tongue, but it dulled something. That was all I cared about. I wanted the sharpness gone. I wanted the voices gone. Savior. Miracle. Chosen. Each word still echoed, chasing me down even as I tried to drown them.
My head buzzed, but my heart felt heavier. Like the drink was pouring into my veins and sinking straight to my chest. My body swayed, heat rising in my cheeks, but my stomach twisted tighter, aching with something I couldn’t drink away.
Was this what drunk felt like? Hot and cold at once? Light enough to float but too heavy to stand?
I laughed once, bitter and humorless, when I realized how ridiculous it was—my first time drinking, and I hadn’t chosen it for joy or celebration.
No, I chose it like a weapon. Like a shield.
I tipped the mug back again. The liquid sloshed, spilling down my chin, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything except silencing the way their eyes had followed me. Those children, those girls—they looked at me like I was supposed to fix everything. They didn’t know how close I’d come to breaking in that Bunker. How close I’d come to surrendering. How stained I really was.
I leaned against the table, my head in my hand, vision blurring. My thoughts came loose, tumbling over one another. Why me? Why not someone stronger, purer, holier? Why let me survive when so many others didn’t?
The alcohol made it worse in some ways. I couldn’t hold the walls up inside anymore. Shame leaked out, spilling through cracks I’d held tight shut since Michael first laid his hand on me. Guilt, too. For surviving. For leaving Elise. For dragging Walton into this hell with me.
I tried to pray. I really did. My lips moved around words I’d said since childhood, but they felt slurred, empty, like they weren’t reaching past the ceiling beams. Maybe God couldn’t hear drunks. Or maybe He just didn’t want to hear me.
The room spun. My chest heaved. I pressed my fist against my mouth to stop myself from crying out. Tears still burned at the edges of my vision, but I hated them. Hated myself for letting them fall.
So I laughed instead. A sharp, broken sound that startled the woman at the table beside me. I laughed because it was all I could do—laugh and drink and pray to a God who stayed silent.
If this was what being drunk was—this floating despair, this warmth that didn’t comfort—then maybe I hated it. But I drank anyway. Because it was the only thing that dulled the ache of being seen as something I could never be.
The fire had burned low, nothing but embers now, glowing like tiny veins of molten iron buried in ash. I sat cross-legged in front of it, my mug tipped on its side, ale long since spilled into the dirt. My head felt too heavy for my shoulders, swaying whenever I breathed too deeply. My face was sticky with salt and tears, but I kept wiping at it with the back of my sleeve, as if I could scrub the shame away.
The words fell out of me without control, slurred at the edges but still sharp in the gut. “I didn’t save them all. I couldn’t. They just… they just stood there.” My voice cracked, weak and furious all at once. “Why wouldn’t they come? Why wouldn’t they believe me?”
The images wouldn’t leave me—the rows of open doors, the empty chance I’d given them. All they had to do was step through, but instead, they watched. Fear painted on their faces, suspicion like chains around their necks. It was supposed to be enough—truth. Freedom. But it wasn’t.
I pressed my fists into my thighs, nails biting through fabric, and another sob tore free before I could smother it. “What good am I,” I whispered to the dirt, to the fire, to the silence that wrapped around me, “if I can’t even save the ones God put right in front of me?”
Elise’s face flashed in my mind, twisted by defiance and regret. My sister—lost, broken, a stranger now. I thought of the girls I’d whispered prayers with at night in the Bunker, girls who laughed when the Overseers weren’t looking, who dreamed of a world bigger than stone walls. Where were they now? Dead? Married off? Did they hate me for leaving? For surviving when they didn’t?
I dragged a shaky breath, but it rattled out as a scream, muffled into my sleeve. Rage ripped through me, jagged and hot, tangled up with the grief I couldn’t bury. “Why did You let me live?” I asked the fire, the shadows, the God I couldn’t feel anymore. “Why me and not them? What am I even doing?”
The silence that answered was unbearable. I rocked forward, tears spilling harder, shoulders heaving like I could cough up all the sorrow. “The home I thought was safe—it was lies. The people I trusted—they twisted Scripture until it broke.” My voice dropped into a hoarse rasp. “Even Elise. Even her.”
I curled tighter, pressing my forehead against my knees, muffling the sound of my own sobs. The alcohol burned in my veins, but it couldn’t numb this—not the memory of children’s eyes looking at me with a hope I couldn’t fulfill. Not the weight of knowing I had failed.
The fire hissed softly as another log cracked, sparks snapping upward like fleeting stars. I stared at them through blurred vision, thinking of all the faces I couldn’t bring out of the dark. Every name, every prayer left unanswered, every girl locked behind her own fear. My breath shook as I whispered it again, weaker this time, like a broken litany, “Why wouldn’t they come?”
And for the first time, the rage and the grief tangled until I couldn’t tell them apart. They burned in me like the fire in front of me—consuming, relentless, leaving nothing untouched.
