worse than I am,” a muffled voice said from behind the mask, “and yet you hunt me, lawman. Why? I’m a hero of the people.”
“You stopped being a hero weeks ago,” Wax said, striding forward, mistcoat rustling. “When you killed a child.”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
“You fired the gun, Marks. You might not have been aiming for the girl, but you fired the gun.”
The thief stepped back. The sack slung on his shoulder had been torn, either by Wax’s bullet or some shrapnel. It leaked banknotes.
Marks glared at him through the mask, eyes barely visible in the electric light. Then he dashed to the side, holding his shoulder as he ran into another room. Wax Pushed off the filing cabinet and threw himself in a rush down the hallway. He skidded to a stop before the door Marks had gone in, then Pushed off the light behind, bending it against the wall and entering the room.
Open window. Wax grabbed a handful of pens from a desk before throwing himself out the window, a dozen stories up. Banknotes fluttered in the air, trailing behind Marks as he plummeted. Wax increased his weight, trying to fall faster, but he had nothing to Push against and the increased weight helped only slightly against air resistance. Marks still hit the ground before him, then Pushed away the coin he’d used to slow himself.
A pair of dropped pens—with metal nibs—Pushed ahead of himself into the ground was enough, barely, to slow Wax.
Marks leaped away, bounding out over some streetlamps. He bore no metal on his body that Wax could spot, but he moved a lot more slowly than he had earlier, and he trailed blood.
Wax followed him. Marks would be making for the Breakouts, a slum where the people still covered for him. They didn’t care that his robberies had turned violent; they celebrated that he stole from those who deserved it.
Can’t let him reach that safety, Wax thought, Pushing himself up over a lamppost, then shoving on it behind him to gain speed. He closed on his prey, who checked on Wax with a frantic glance over his shoulder. Wax raised one of the pens, gauging how risky it would be to try to hit Marks in the leg. He didn’t want a killing blow. This man knew something.
The slums were just ahead.
Next bound, Wax thought, gripping the pen. Bystanders stared up from the sidewalks, watching the Allomantic chase. He couldn’t risk hitting one of them. He had to—
One of those faces was familiar.
Wax lost control of his Push. Stunned by what he’d seen, he barely kept himself from breaking bones as he hit the street, rolling across cobbles. He came to a rest, mistcoat tassels twisted around his body.
He drew himself up on hands and knees.
No. Impossible. NO.
He scrambled across the street, ignoring a stomping black destrier and its cursing rider. That face. That face.
The last time he had seen that face, he had shot it in the forehead. Bloody Tan.
The man who had killed Lessie.
“A man was here!” Wax shouted, shoving through the crowd. “Long-fingered, thinning hair. A face almost like a bare skull. Did you see him? Did anyone see him?”
People stared at him as if he were daft. Perhaps he was. Wax raised his hand to the side of his head.
“Lord Waxillium?”
He spun. Marasi had stopped her motorcar nearby, and both she and Wayne were climbing out. Had she actually been able to tail him during his chase? No … no, he’d told her where he thought Marks would go.
“Wax, mate?” Wayne asked. “You all right? What did he do, knock you from the air?”
“Something like that,” Wax mumbled, glancing about one last time.
Rusts, he thought. The stress is digging into my mind.
“So he got away,” Marasi said, folding her arms, looking displeased.
“Not yet he didn’t,” Wax said. “He’s bleeding and dropping money. He’ll leave a trail. Come on.”
3
“I need you to stay behind as we go into those slums,” Wayne said, determined to impress solemnity into his voice. “It’s not that I don’t want your help. I do. It’s just going to be too dangerous for you. You need to stay where I know you’re safe. No arguments. I’m sorry.”
“Wayne,” Wax said, walking past. “Stop talking to your hat and get over here.”
Wayne sighed, patting his hat and then forcing himself to put it down and leave it in the motorcar. Wax was a right good fellow, but there were a lot of things he didn’t understand. Women for one.