lockers crumpled like a ball of aluminum, and Sloane began climbing over them the second she could get a foothold. She grabbed Mox by the shirt so she wouldn’t lose him. The lockers collapsed while she heaved herself over them, throwing her off balance. She stumbled and dropped to her knees on the tile.
The masked soldier was singing a pure, clear note, and Edda joined her in harmony. The combination of voices made a weight settle on Sloane’s shoulders and press, so she couldn’t help but fall forward on her elbows. She screamed into her teeth and tried to crawl, but the weight was only growing heavier, crushing her, squeezing the air from her lungs—
Mox’s palm flattened on the ground, and the whistle in his mouth sounded guttural, as deep as a lion’s roar. The ground shook beneath just him at first, then rippled out, shuddering under Sloane’s body, then rattling the remains of the lockers, then jolting, violent, launching her up and slamming her back down onto the tile. Mox reached for her and hooked his free arm around hers as he changed the pitch, sliding it up, up—
A sharp crack sounded, and Mox screamed, his concentration broken by a metal rod slamming into his back. It seemed to have sprouted from Edda’s palm. Mox collapsed onto the tile. The masked soldier was just a few strides away from Sloane. Sloane knew that if the woman got a hand on her, they were both lost, captives of Nero.
So she did the only thing she could think of: She raised her hand, and whistled at what she hoped was exactly 170 MHz, to perform the magical breath. She focused on what Sibyl had said to her before they left, that Sloane wanted everything, that she was a bottomless pit, a creature of craving that stank of magic. Fire charged through her, burning in every limb. Still she whistled. Air rushed past her, roaring, and beneath that deafening sound was fabric tearing, glass shattering, screaming.
She watched Edda topple, her heels going over her head. The masked soldier was thrown against a pillar behind her. The locker bank, now a heap of twisted metal, creaked on the supports that bolted it to the ground, about to fly loose.
Mox’s arm, solid as a girder, wrapped around her waist. He dragged her to the emergency exit and shoved the door open with his shoulder. Only when she saw the orange light of sunset did Sloane let herself stop whistling, her throat raw despite how brief the sound had been. She leaned into him, certain that she would collapse, but not yet, not yet.
Mox ran out into traffic, making one car veer and the other screech as the driver slammed on the brakes. He let go of Sloane and ripped the car door open.
“Get out,” he said through gritted teeth, holding up his siphon.
The driver was a teenage boy with a cluster of pimples on his chin. He stared at Mox, unblinking. Sloane was already getting in the passenger’s side and sinking gratefully into the seat.
“Now!” Mox roared, and fire danced over his fingertips, curled around his wrist, and crept toward his elbow. The boy scrambled to unbuckle his seat belt, grabbed his backpack, and bolted from the car. Mox got in and put his foot on the accelerator. The car lurched forward, and he jerked the wheel, almost sending them onto the sidewalk.
“Do you know how to drive?” Sloane demanded.
“No,” Mox replied tersely.
“Gas right, brakes left,” Sloane said. “Slow down! They don’t know we took this car yet. You’re just making it more obvious.” She was feeling woozy. She slammed her hand into the dashboard to wake herself up. “Shit,” she said. “Get to a highway as quickly as you can, then find a place to stop. Somewhere shitty—a motel, or . . .” She blinked; everything was shifting like the air had turned to molasses. “I’m going to pass out now.”
“Sloane!” was the last thing she heard before collapsing back into the seat.
36
SLOANE WOKE to the jerk of the brakes. The car—which smelled powerfully of the teenage boy’s deodorant layered on top of cigarette smoke—was lurching into a parking spot off a narrow road. Across a stretch of tangled grass was a sign that read MOTEL, with the L losing its luster by the second. It was exactly the kind of place Sloane would have chosen if she had been awake.
“Good job,” she said, her voice sounding strained. She watched Mox fiddle with