Rise An Eve Novel

voice,” I said.
    “If you want to see what’s on the other side of this revolt,” he said, holding up his hands, “then go ahead. But there is a darkness coming that you cannot possibly imagine.” His eyes were locked on mine. He stood there, begging me to fire at him.
    He turned away, back toward his desk, and it took me a moment to register it: the quick sleight of hand, how he’d tucked his fingers into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. His arm came up, the gun visible, his face fixed in concentration. I fired just once, the sound of the shot startling me. He stepped back, falling down on his side, the weapon landing on the floor.
    I went to him, kicking the weapon across the floor. I stayed by his side, my chest heaving, watching as his expression grew foreign, his face contorted with pain. He held his chest, pressing at the wound to the right side of his heart. I helped him toward the ground, setting him down on the floor. The blood was coming fast, the stain spreading on his suit jacket, the dark fabric torn where the bullet had gone through. I knelt beside him, half expecting him to push me away. But we stayed like that, his hand tensing around mine as the color left his face. Then his eyes squeezed shut. His breath slowed to a stop, until I was alone again in silence.

twenty-nine
    IT WAS OVER. THIS WAS WHAT I HAD WANTED, WASN’T IT? NEWS of his death would spread through the Trail. The army from the colonies would eventually arrive. The City would transition to new power. It was supposed to be better now.
    I kept hold of his hand, noticing the coolness that spread in his fingers. The way the blood ran, dripping off his jacket and onto the floor, where it sunk into the thick carpet. He was slouched against the front of the desk, his shoulders curled inward, his chin pressed to his neck. I didn’t feel any relief now that he was gone. Instead I thought only of that photo, the one he’d held in his hand the day we’d met, the paper wrinkled under his touch. It had disappeared from my room the first week I was in the Palace. Beatrice had spent hours searching for it. He had seemed so amused in it, his eyes lingering on my mother, studying the way her dark bangs fell into her eyes. He’d seemed happy.
    I opened the front button of his jacket, for the first time noticing the holster looped around his arm, the leather pouch where he’d kept the gun hidden. I didn’t want to look but I had to. My fingers felt for the inside pocket. The thick square pressed against the silk. It was still there. He had carried it with him, the photograph sitting in the left side of his jacket, right over his heart.
    I sucked in air, the heavy, choked feeling coming on so fast I couldn’t anticipate it. There they were, my parents, the year before the plague. They were together, held forever in time. I tucked it into my shirt, pressing it down into my tank top where it wouldn’t come loose. He was telling the truth , I thought, willing myself not to cry. He loved her. He hadn’t lied about that.
    The City outside was silent and still. I knew I had to leave, but I couldn’t move. My hand kept reaching for his, squeezing his fingers in mine. It wasn’t until the knock sounded that I startled, remembering where I was and what I’d done.
    The doorknob turned, the lock clicking shut. There was a pause, then a man’s voice calling from the hall.
    “Sir?”
    I scrambled to my feet, taking in the massive wood desk behind me, the curtains that framed the long windows, the closets on the far wall, looking for somewhere to hide. The soldier punched the keypad beside the door, then the knob turned again. I had just enough time to dart behind the desk, curling up beneath it, before the door swung open.
    The soldier didn’t move. I could hear each of his breaths. He stood there so long I began counting them, trying to keep calm. “Jones!” he finally yelled down the hall. “Come here!” Then I heard the padding of feet on carpet and a low whisper as he leaned down, just inches from the other side of the desk. “Sir? Can you hear me?”
    “What is it?” another voice called from down the hall.
    “Alert the Lieutenant,” the man said. “The King’s been shot.”
    I kept my hand on the gun at my waist. There was an inch between the bottom of the wood desk and the carpet. I could see the soldier’s shadow as he moved around the side of the desk. His legs passed in front of me, his feet just inches from mine. There