Fate's Edge

overturned benches and shattered wood greeted her. The sickening, cloying stench of decomposition hit her nostrils. A stage and a pulpit at the far end of the structure still smoked weakly, their wood charred to blackness. A twisted thing of jagged metal and melted rubber lay on its side on the right—one of the Broken’s vehicles, destroyed beyond recognition. The acrid, bitter reek of Cotier’s explosive darts emanated from it, and from another spot, farther to the left.
    Her eyes picked out a dart lying on the floor. Another. Another. At least a dozen darts lay in a circle around a wet spot on the floor. A single dart packed enough charge to explode an average-size carriage.
    Helena’s gaze slid up. Cotier’s body hung from the rafters, upside down. A large hole gaped in the crown of his head. A matching smaller hole pierced the back of his head near the neck. He must’ve seen the shot coming and curled up to avoid it. The bullet caught him in the back of the skull, scrambled his brain, and exploded out of his forehead. In the next hours, the brain matter and blood had dripped out of him onto the floor.
    Helena looked down on the floor. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen darts. Any physical barrier would’ve been demolished. Only magic could withstand an assault of such magnitude. Someone in Kaldar Mar’s party could create a blisteringly potent flash shield.
    Helena turned. A leg with telltale orange skin stuck out from behind a clump of benches. She approached. An orange body lay in two pieces, cleanly severed at a diagonal and peppered with dead flies, poisoned by the Mura’s toxic blood. The sword stroke—if that’s what this was—cleaved her from left shoulder, through the ribs, through the heart, through the stomach, and through the right side of her ribs. The cut was perfectly clean, the severed bones flat. Karmash had mentioned that the Mars possessed an ancient art of sword fighting, but this was beyond her experience. Swords didn’t do this.
    Behind her, a foot scraped on the ground. She turned. Sebastian bowed his head. “You should see this, my lady.”
    She followed him to a break between the benches. A shapeless mass of flesh sat in the stretch of open floor, hidden from her view by the demolished vehicle. It resembled a pile of meat that had been shredded and dumped in a heap. Emily, her tracker, knelt by it, sampling the air.
    “What is this?”
    “I believe it’s Soma, my lady.” Sebastian bowed his head.
    “Did they put him through a meat grinder?”
    “This was done by one person,” Emily said. “A boy.”
    Helena knelt by her. “What makes you think this?”
    “Only one scent with the body. Young scent. Male. And also this.” Emily pointed at the floor. Two bloody shoe prints clearly visible. Sebastian put his foot next to them. The shoe print was an inch and a half shorter than his foot.
    Helena rose and saw a giant headless body slumped against the far wall. A wrought-iron inch-wide beam protruded from his chest. It took her a moment to recognize it as one of the church’s candelabras.
    Her magic whipped around her in a furious frenzy. Sebastian and Emily backed away. Helena whirled, her cloak flaring around her, and strode out of the church.
    Sebastian trailed her.
    “One man, a woman, and a boy against four operatives.” Helena bit off words with diamond-cut precision. “Why are they still alive? Why don’t I have Kaldar’s head?”
    “I don’t know, my lady.”
    Four operatives. Each a veteran, each an expert in death. Taken out by an Edge rat. Shame gripped her. When Spider had spoken of the Mars, his face was ice, and his eyes boiled with fury. Now she understood why.
    A vehicle climbed up the narrow road and entered the camp.
    Sebastian growled under his breath.
    The doors opened. Three men stepped out, two older, one young and bruised, followed by an older blond woman.
    The larger of the older men clamped his hand on the younger male and half led, half dragged, him forward.
    The blond woman and the smaller of the older men walked up to them. The man spoke. “We represent the local Edge families.”
    “I’m Helena d’Amry.”
    “You are the Hand,” the woman said.
    “Yes.” Helena didn’t feel the need to correct her. The Edgers knew the Hand and feared it.
    “You are looking for a man and a red-haired woman,” the woman said.
    “Yes.”
    “We don’t like problems,” the smaller of the older men said. “We want the violence to end. There has been