Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

The first hints of morning seep into the room with sluggishness, streaming effortfully through the blinds. Anton rubs at his eyes, turning over in his bed. When he reaches his arm out, it comes down on nothing, and he blinks awake, finding only sheets where Calla had been.

He jolts up. It wasn’t a dream, was it? She really was here.

His hand goes to his heart, and he exhales, finding a puckering, clotted wound. Never did he think he would be so relieved to confirm an injury on himself. The last of his confusion eddies away from his sleep-addled mind, and he runs his gaze along the wall. Her sword is gone too: the one he was caught retrieving yesterday, though fortunately, he had invaded the body of the Crescent who saw him before anyone else took notice.

Anton squints at his wristband. He presses his identity number in, running the timer back on the next twenty-four hours. He wonders when it’s going to ping today. He wonders if he ought to scramble up before it happens while he’s in his apartment, then wonders if that’s why Calla wandered off.

Why didn’t she wake him?

The clock on the mantel turns to half past five in the morning. It’s early. Most of the establishments downstairs have not opened yet, hovering in that the brief quiet segment after night has fully shuttered but day has not quite arrived. Anton finds a clean shirt from his wardrobe. He shrugs into pants fit for combat and the same shoes that came with this body. When he walks into the living room, his clothes from the previous night are still discarded on the floor, but Calla’s are gone.

He opens the front door. A rush of cold morning air swirls through as he stands on the threshold, thinking.

It’s strange that he has not been in Calla Tuoleimi’s acquaintance for very long, and yet he knows exactly where to go to find her. He doesn’t take the stairs down onto the streets. He walks up instead, then pushes through the door to the rooftop. And indeed, there she sits at the very edge with her back to him, one leg swinging along the side of the building and the other propped up beside her. There’s a cigarette dangling from her fingers, the heel of her hand resting on her knee. Even like that, slouching in the most casual fashion, she looks every inch a princess.

“Those are bad for you, you know.”

Calla turns slowly, her expression level while she takes him in. The morning light is brighter here than it is from the streets, but the clouds are as gray and heavy as the plastic bags that litter the gutters. Another storm floats on the horizon.

“Are they?” Calla asks. “I hadn’t heard.”

Her sword has been reacquainted with her hip, hanging where it belongs. When she moves her leg to make room for him, Anton joins her without further prompting.

“Terrible.” He watches her take a deep drag. “Rots the qi and ruins your health. Practically guarantees an early death—”

Calla removes the cigarette from her lips and, with the puff of smoke still in her lungs, leans forward and kisses him. Despite his words, he lets her release right into him, taking the toxin down his throat like it is the sweetest liquor he has ever tasted.

As soon as the smoke settles, Calla pulls away slowly, her lashes heavy and dark, fanning down with her indolent gaze. Her fingers remain around his jaw, and Anton watches her as she turns his face this way and that, surveying him under the groggy daylight.

“Are you afraid this body has somehow changed since last night?”

Calla frowns, unamused by his question. “It is not beyond imagination. Perhaps Anton Makusa has fled and this is someone else.”

He rolls his eyes, nudging her hand away from his face and lacing his fingers through hers before she can protest. An afflicted expression stirs in her eyes, one that was not there the previous night. Anton thinks he recognizes it—a laceration, a torment. Like approaching a fork in the road, alternating between each option at breakneck speed even as the split approaches, unable to turn back.

“You’re not that paranoid,” Anton says. He presses his lips to the inside of her wrist. “What’s really on your mind, Calla?”

Calla extricates her arm without niceties, and Anton blinks, taken aback. One of the factories nearby must be rumbling to a start, because there’s smoke rising through the gaps between the buildings, low-hanging mist gathering around them. The dip in his stomach comes without warning. Seven years without Otta, and he would have thought he had gotten better at this. Would have thought that leaving his youth behind meant outgrowing his need to hold on too tightly to people once he has them. Yet Calla pulling away makes his skin prickle, as if he’s been given a slap on the wrist without knowing what he did wrong.

“You never look the same, Anton,” Calla says quietly. Her fingers play at the hem of her sleeve, her face turned away. Her cigarette has burned to its end, but she still holds it in her other hand, angling the ash onto the ledge.

He wants to pinch it out. Pluck it from her grasp and press it to his skin if that means she’ll look at him. “Why does that matter?”

Calla finally drops the butt of the cigarette. “I don’t know who you are.” Her eyes shift in his direction at last, glinting with a cascade of color. The yellow of hardened gold; the burning end of an overwrought electric wire. “How can I trust you?”

A high-pitched call comes from the street below, but neither of them reacts. They are mirrors of each other, one head tilted to the left and the other to the right, one with a leg propped on the ledge and the other with a leg stretched inside, effigies hung for display on the edge of this rooftop.

Anton doesn’t understand. Or he does, he supposes. He understands that she’s searching for an excuse, and he doesn’t want her to find one. Calla, despite her grandiosity and confidence, is just as trapped as anyone without the jumping gene. She is stuck on the idea of her body giving her power, so much so that she has forgotten who the one moving that body is.

“You know who I am,” he says. He dares to reach out again. Skims his finger along her temple, brushing her long hair back. “I am Anton Makusa. It doesn’t matter what body I’m in.”

The rooftop stutters, its gurgling pipes coming to a pause.

“You must understand,” Calla says evenly, “that by the same logic, I am nothing. No one. I don’t even have a name.”

Anton snorts. At the sound, Calla shoots him a sharp glance, indignation ready in her expression, but he shakes his head before clarifying.

“You are Calla Tuoleimi. If you choose to be.”

“Don’t you—” Calla cuts off, huffing. “I stole her.”

“You have been her for fifteen years. She is more you than anyone else.” His hand runs along her face now, along her soft skin and the sharp angles of her cheek. She lets him, and he knows she catches the exact moment his jaw clenches tight and his voice hardens. “Who cares if you stole her? You deserve this power more than the girl who was born into it. Forget your name and adopt the title instead. Calla . Soon, people will be saying it just as they whisper God .”

Calla shifts toward him slowly. He almost wonders if he should be afraid, if her hands are coming around his shoulders to throw him off the side of the building. Thankfully, she’s only twining her arms around him, drawing near until she can rest her chin on his shoulder.

“Calla,” she echoes, putting on a tone of reverence. She makes a thoughtful noise. “Would you know me in another body?”

“In any body,” Anton promises, “you would still be the same terrifying princess.”

That draws a laugh from her, and the sound sends a thrill shooting along his body. When she lifts her chin to grin at the look on his face, he can’t help but feel that he is giving away more than he should, yet he can’t stop himself.

Calla touches the ridge of his ear. “I have to tell you something.”

“It is more or less shocking than your identity?”

“Less.” The building jolts beneath them. The restaurant on the fifth floor has activated its industrial-size exhaust fan. “I entered the games to kill King Kasa.”

Anton doesn’t know if he is supposed to act surprised. He figured it had to be something like this. Why else would she emerge again in San-Er? She singlehandedly enacted the most audacious massacre in its history and got away with it. She could have easily lived the rest of her days in quiet hiding.

“And that requires victory in the games,” he guesses. No one outside the palace has access to King Kasa any other way. He pauses. “Would you like me to offer my heart in sacrifice?”

Her eyes narrow into a glare. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Good,” Anton replies. “I would have thought that a mighty ask.”

He wouldn’t have enrolled in the games either if he didn’t need to win. He wouldn’t have done any of this unless it was the last possible option.

Calla has traced her finger from his ear down to his neck. The smoke from the nearby factory lessens as the machines find their rhythm, dispersing into the air more evenly. It feels easier to breathe.

“I don’t suppose you’ll pull your wristband out of commission?”

San is starting to wake up. The rooftop doors are opening and closing as wayfarers move in and out, but there’s no reason to be concerned; few will recognize them as players, and other combatants cannot creep up on them in such an open space.

Anton exhales. “Calla. I cannot.”

She pulls a fistful of his shirt collar. Not in threat, if her blank expression is any indication.

“Do you love her?”

There’s little doubt who she means. Otta Avia—the one he’s doing this for. Does he? He loves her the way everyone loves keepsakes from their childhood. He loves her the way no one can let go of the first person they ever wholly adored.

“Will it change how these games end?” he counters. An image of Otta flashes in his head. Not her cunning smile in the palace, but her comatose form lying in that hospital bed. How can he walk away from the only money that will keep her alive?

Calla lets go of his shirt collar. Her hands turn idle in her lap while her chin rests back down onto his shoulder. He can no longer see her expression.

“I suppose not,” she says. “But I have an idea, nevertheless.”

“An idea?”

“For us to survive and claim a victory on both fronts.”

“You want the king dead, and I want the victor’s prize,” Anton states. Of course he wants them both to survive, but he hardly dares hope. “To have the king dead, you need the victor’s prize. Am I missing something here?”

“Yes. Kasa watches the Juedou from the throne room every year. His location is set.”

“And we’ll barge in, weapons raised?”

Calla pulls away with exaggerated exasperation. “May I finish, Makusa? Or would you like to draw the plan instead?”

Anton isn’t sure if he still loves Otta, but he thinks he loves Calla. He loves her quick temper, her sharp words, even when they’re directed at him. He loves the rush every time he turns her scowl into a grin, or her grin darkens into a glare. Is that love? It’s not as if he ever really learned what love is supposed to feel like.

“No, please,” he says. He tugs her back. “Continue.”

Calla grumbles something under her breath, crossing her arms. Anton doesn’t catch it, but since she settles into him again, he figures it cannot be anything too worrying.

“We’re not both barging in,” Calla continues. “ I am. Soon as we filter down to the final three, I’ll pull my chip. They’ll call the Juedou, summon you to the arena battle. You must play it as if everything is normal, as if these games are proceeding like any other year.”

“And are they not?” Anton asks, only to annoy her.

“And then ,” Calla says, ignoring him, “I make my way to King Kasa. The Juedou is always one of the busiest days of the year, practically a citywide holiday. The palace guard will be widely dispersed and surrounding the arena instead of the palace proper. I know the layout and the grounds. I don’t need a victory to kill him, I just need access.”

He loves that too. The pure confidence. The resolve in her voice as soon as she has set her mind to a task.

“Even on such days,” he says, “the palace is highly guarded.”

“I have a secret weapon.”

Anton raises his eyebrows. There’s a new shroud of smoke wafting up, bringing the scent of factory ash and burning plastic. He nudges his nose into Calla’s hair, so that all he can smell instead is something sweet and metallic.

“Don’t tell me your weapon is yourself.”

“Do you think I’m that conceited?” Before Anton can give his answer and risk being pushed off the building, Calla says, “It’s August. I have his cooperation, so surely he can get me in.”

August . Anton goes rigid. Calla must feel it, because she straightens, throwing a concerned glance over at him.

“I’m not sure you can trust him,” Anton says. He has chosen his words carefully, trying not to betray his total doubt. With a curious noise, Calla draws her leg up from the side of the building and rests it across his lap.

“Trustworthy or not, he is a necessary tool. He won’t help you , which is why you need to win the prize fairly. Me, however… if he stabs me in the back, he’ll be receiving a sword through the heart too.”

Anton grimaces. “That doesn’t assure me very much.”

“Well”—Calla leans in, her mouth an inch from his, and he draws a very low breath to control the hitch in his throat—“it’s either we try this, or we fight each other in the coliseum. Which do you prefer?”

Anton tries to close the distance instead of answering the question; Calla swerves back, her lip twitching in amusement.

“Anton.”

Ugh. “You’ve made your point,” he replies. That doesn’t mean he has to like it.

The corners of Calla’s red lips curve up properly, rewarding him with a full smile. Despite Calla’s conviction, the sinking feeling in Anton’s gut only grows stronger, each worry weighed down by waves of memory. He has always been afraid of August Avia holding power over Talin. Prince August sees the kingdom as made up of playthings, people to move around and make choices for without first asking what they need. Prince August will step on his friends if he needs a rung up and squeeze his closest loved ones for use until there is nothing more they can offer. It would be within his very nature to stab Calla in the back if the occasion calls for it, because August Avia has worked tirelessly to become August Shenzhi, to become the heir to these seething cities, and no one good can want power that badly.

“What’s going to happen when this succeeds?” Anton asks after a moment. “Will you take the throne?”

Calla casts him an incredulous look. “Of course not. The throne is August’s.”

“I hoped you wouldn’t say that.” He shakes his head. “Why give it to him so easily? The Palace of Union has joined San-Er into one now. You’re as much the heir as he is.”

The line of questioning seems to surprise Calla. She raises her shoulders, keeping her neck warm in the collar of her coat, her brow furrowed while she chews over an answer. Then:

“Because I’m not doing this to rule,” she says quietly. “I just want to stop King Kasa.”

“Stop him?”

Calla gestures over the rooftop, at the streets below them, into the twin cities and beyond. “From all this. Only caring about himself and his throne. Expanding ever outward so that his kingdom can claim more land to take taxes on but refuse to feed. What good is a ruler without a sense of responsibility? I’m wiping him away.”

“You don’t think August would be the same?” Anton asks.

“He wouldn’t,” Calla retorts confidently. She tugs at the fraying shoelace on her boot. “I know him.”

As does Anton. In fact, he might argue that he knows Prince August even better than Calla does. Only it’s not worth arguing about this, because if Calla won’t seize the crown, then short of August taking over upon Kasa’s death, there is no other contender except mass anarchy.

“This is Kasa’s rot,” Calla continues steadily. “And when he’s gone, no child will go hungry again.”

Anton examines her. She must know that this is unrealistic. Calla Tuoleimi is too clever to be fooled into such elementary thinking, too sensible to believe that a kingdom could change so wholly by merely swapping one mortal man for another.

Though perhaps… perhaps she is simply weary enough to be fooled. She looks at the cities with such duty, the weight of the kingdom hefted upon her shoulders by her own appointment. Allowing August’s heroics to swoop in means reprieve from the never-ending, immeasurable task of keeping watch; a savior to replace a tyrant, justice restored so long as one cruel king bears the burden of his whole lineage’s wrongs.

“Do you want to stop Kasa from letting another child go hungry again?” Anton broaches slowly. “Or do you want to punish him for letting you go hungry?”

A spark of ire flashes in Calla’s eyes. Then, that glint fades just as fast as it came, because Calla must know that it isn’t an unreasonable accusation, and Anton does not ask to be scornful.

“Can’t it be both?” Calla replies. She tucks her loose shoelace deep into her boot, tidying the knot before it can trip her up. “The kingdom is starving. My purpose is to save Talin.” Her lips thin. “But the king of San and the king of Er also let me grow up in misery, forced my village into their kingdom without seeing us as people. For that, they must answer with their lives. One down, another to go.”

The rooftop door bangs shut. A child cries from below. And inside Anton’s body, his heart takes on a clamor, fearing for the unflinching drive that has hardened Calla Tuoleimi’s voice.

“Okay,” Calla says suddenly, breaking the gravity of their conversation. Her tone returns to normal, humor creeping back into her manner. “I need to go find August.” She starts to rise onto her feet. “Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m—”

Anton snags her by the wrist, stopping her before she can stand. Though it’s a basic impulse that launches him into action, if he searches deeper, he knows it is fear: the very real possibility that she could wander away from him and he might never see her again.

“Not yet,” he breathes. “Wait until the day begins proper, at least. Stay with me.”

Calla complies. He wonders if he is the first to beg before her like this—not for a lack of people who want to, but because Princess Calla Tuoleimi will not let them get close enough to try. Slowly she eases back onto the ledge with her legs inside the rooftop this time, set on the solid, cluttered ground.

“Until the day begins proper, and only until then,” she warns. Her eyes crinkle. She has been with him since the previous night, he has not seen her adjust her cosmetics, yet the dark liner on her eyes remains intact, pulling the corners until they look feline. “How do you suggest I make use of such time milling around?”

By all counts, the day proper has already begun. The sounds, the calls, the cries—everything that makes up San-Er, rising to a fever pitch by the minute. But still, Anton closes his eyes and elects to block them out, entreating Calla to ignore them too.

“Kiss me,” he says. “Kiss me and make every dreadful second here worth it.”

Calla only needs to be asked once. She presses her lips to his, and the rest of San-Er drowns out, fades to nothing, shrunken into oblivion by sheer will. All Anton can hope is that this is enough—that this time around, outsmarting the cities with a plan pinned on love will finally succeed.