War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,129

set my teeth on edge, reaching out with every piece of my exhausted ability I can muster. Grabbing for her gun, her remaining bullets, the knives hidden all over her body. To stop her if she decides to strike.

“Cal’s this way,” she finally says, snapping the string of tension between us. “We need to get those ships out of their hands.”

“Of course,” Ptolemus replies, and I almost punch him in the teeth.

Be quiet, I want to hiss.

Instead I step in front of him slightly, shielding his body from her wrath. Farley only twitches, staring at him for another blistering second. “Fall in, soldiers,” she sneers, before turning her back on us.

Soldiers. Not Your Highness, not our titles.

If that’s the worst she’s going to do, I’ll take it gladly.

We do as commanded, sliding into formation with the rest of her band. I don’t recognize any of them, and her Guard are distinguished only by red sashes tied around arms or waists or wrists. The Guard look ragtag, hastily thrown together, their clothes common. They could be servants or laborers, dockworkers, low traders, cooks, drivers. But they share her steely disposition and determination. And they’re armed to the teeth. I wonder how many Silvers kept such wolves in their own houses.

I wonder how many there still are in mine.

Our coalition holds a stretch of the Port Road as it curves around the harbor, looking out on the battleships blocking up the War Port. Behind us are more barracks and military outbuildings, all overtaken. Many of our soldiers take up defensive positions, poking out of windows and doorways, and others form up at the port side, waiting for orders.

Have we won the city?

Cal stalks among his lieutenants and guards, more disheveled than I’ve ever seen him, his hair slick with sweat, the rest of him striped with ash and blood. I can barely discern the armor beneath, shimmering a deep ruby red between the dirty patches. He paces at the edge of the water, harried and frustrated. And careful to keep out of reach of the surging waves.

Calore princes hold no love for water. It makes them uncomfortable.

Right now, Cal looks like he might crawl out of his own skin.

His grandmother watches as he paces, her silks and gowns discarded for a simple uniform with no insignia to mark her rank. Not even her colors. She could be just an old woman who wandered into the wrong crowd, but anyone with eyes knows better. Anabel Lerolan is not to be underestimated. At her side, Julian Jacos keeps silent, his lips pursed together, eyes fixed on the battleships. Waiting to be of some use.

My brother and I shoulder through the fray, entering Cal’s line of vision. His brow rises at the sight of us. He might be as relieved as I am, and just as surprised by the sensation.

“Good to see you standing,” he says, offering us both nods. “What about your battalion?”

I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t know. Iris tossed us both into the port while our team was crossing the bridge. We had to swim out or drown.” He watches me as I speak, intent and sharp. Almost accusatory. As if I should feel shame for staying alive when others couldn’t. I push past it. “Did any make it to the city?”

“Hard to say. I sent out the word as best I could to regroup here. We’ll see who gets the message and who can get back.” He frowns at his hands, then back at the battleships. Out on the water, they steer clear of their docks, idling instead of heading out to sea. Setting their sights on us. “You’re the only magnetrons we have right now.”

No Samos cousins left. None but us.

Next to me, Ptolemus scowls. “We’ll do what we can with the missiles.”

Cal looks back to my brother, his dark hair flicking with the motion. “I’m not wasting either of you catching missiles. We have enough Montfort bombers to destroy what can be destroyed.” He points with a single finger, gesturing to the harbor. “I want you on those ships.”

I know we have to stop the battleships, but getting on them? I pale so quickly I can feel it, an icy cold spreading across my cheeks despite the heat of flame and ash and my own sweat.

“I don’t fancy killing myself this late in the day, Calore,” I snap. With a sneer, I angle my chin toward the battleships, safe on the water. “Iris will sink us