Hells & High Water: The E Apocrypha, #3

Alex Andre

Copyright © 2024 by Alex Andre

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Cover art by Christian Bentulan

Map by Oscar Paludi Exoniensis

Disclaimer

All characters and events appearing in this work are fictional. Any resemblance to real persons—living, dead, or yet to be born—is purely coincidental.

To L—my muse, my first reader, my everything. I can't imagine writing any of this without your unwavering support.

And to my former employer, whose perfectly timed layoff allowed me to give this manuscript the undivided attention it needed!

Contents

Dear Reader

Here Be Dragons

1.Kat

2.Denny

3.Karim

4.Kat

5.Denny

6.Karim

7.Kat

8.Karim

9.Denny

10.Karim

11.Kat

12.Denny

13.Kat

14.Denny

15.Karim

16.Denny

17.Karim

18.Kat

19.Karim

20.Denny

Afterword

Acknowledgments

Content Warnings

Also By

About Author

Dear Reader

Hey! Thanks for picking up my book, and welcome (back?) to The E Apocrypha!

Before you dive in, please consider the following.

If this book is your first exposure to this series, please note it’s the third installment. Lost & Found and As & When had built up the characters’ backstories, past events, and the history of the world. Both are available as e-books on a wide variety of retail platforms, as paperbacks on Amazon, and as professionally narrated audiobooks on Audible. Please refer to Also By at the end of the book.

Readers worried about potentially triggering content and spice level, please refer to the Content Warnings section, placed in the end of the book to prevent accidental spoilers.

In case you find a typo, an improperly used word, a factual inaccuracy, or a scientifically implausible idea, please use the Report Corrections form at the author's website. Your contribution to making this book better will be greatly appreciated!

Chapter one

Kat

May 5 th, 43 PE

Pain seized Kat’s twisted wrist, flaring down her forearm. Her sword tumbled from numb fingers as if mocking her frantic attempts to keep her grip.

The Scar’s axe completed its arc and flashed in the morning sun, rushing from above.

Kat ducked, bracing to take the blow on her shield and groping for her weapon in the grass, but the bone-shuddering impact never came. The axe swished over and clanked, snagging the top edge of her shield between heel and haft.

The burly Scar yanked his axe back with a roar, nearly dislocating her elbow with the wrenched-down shield and wringing a howl from Kat’s parched throat. Their eyes met. She quashed the pinpricks of fear in her temples. Proving she was better than any dirt-digger trumped the glory of death in a battle. She was better, with the Lake as her witness!

This Scar expected her to resist, to struggle for control of her shield? Take this! Disregarding the frenetic protestations of her training and self-preservation instinct, Kat lunged forward, throwing her weight into his pull.

He yelped and toppled.

Kat landed on him, shield sandwiched between them, the edge of his axe a hair’s width away from slicing into her nose.

The Scar’s triumphant grin crumpled. His body stirred and tensed in a panicked attempt to wrestle her off. Too late. He couldn’t know yet that Kat’s knife was already stuck in his side. Funny how these things took time to register in the heat of the battle. Maybe soon she’d find out one was jammed in her too.

Kat ripped her blade back out and brought it between their faces. Blood trickled from its tip onto her enemy’s lips.

The defender’s eyes widened in comprehension, and he slumped with a wheezing gasp. Tears welled in his eyes. He gurgled and grew still.

The fourteenth tattoo ring on her sword arm.

Kat’s quick, ragged sips of air were the freshest, tastiest ever. Because, unlike the Scar, she could still draw them, glorious death be damned. A close call, way too close. She shivered. It could’ve been her, laying on her back with the blue infinity reflecting in her glassy eyes…

You fought well, she whispered beneath the din of the melee. Earned a good death. So what if he didn’t hear her?

An irresistible force hoisted Kat by her belt to her feet. You okay?

She dodged the hot breath in her ear, patted herself down for foreign objects stuck in her sides—phew, nothing—and turned to Murphy. I think so.

Then why are you lying around like it’s a holiday morning? The Scars are still fighting!

Kat recoiled from his bark. Hadn’t he seen? She’d killed a man twice her size, narrowly escaping being split in half like a log! She bared her teeth, conjuring a suitable retort, when a wicked smile bloomed on Murphy’s blood-smeared face.

That’s better. Go get ‘em, Kitten! He waved the buckler strapped to his left arm’s stump.

The son of a bitch had to provoke her every fucking time. Don’t call me that! she threw at his back, too late for him to hear over the ruckus of battle.

Kat wiped her knife, sheathed it, and retrieved her sword. Swinging her arm to work out the soreness, she trotted after Murphy to where the two Islander lines were about to converge, grinding the last Scar defenders between them.

The toolbox pulled at Kat’s arm, banging against her knee every other step. A full set of hand tools—a jackpot, as far as war spoils went, well worth a few bruises. A bucket of washers in her other hand, valued no less and weighing far more, would make a nice kit of armor, or three. The best part? She survived. Barely, but there she was still, stomping over Scar soil soaked in their blood.

A chain-link fence bolstered by concrete blocks stretched between her and the Lakeshore. Depths, these mainlanders’ defenses had improved! If she hadn’t suggested sneaking up the Don River Valley to strike the Scars from behind, her crew would still be fighting its way through this barrier, no doubt with a far less favorable kill-death ratio. Good thing they’d targeted poorer clans known to have no guns… Less loot but less shoot, as her stepfather used to say.

Once the tension of mortal danger had dissipated, home beckoned. There, with no one watching, she’d crawl into a quiet corner, curl up into a ball, and succumb to her exhaustion.

Kat entered the main square, dropping her trophies into the common pile and joining the raiders’ semicircle.

Oh, shit. Not this fuckery again. Stupid, distasteful ancient tradition. The Island’s population had been steadily rising, there was absolutely no need to bring more mainland women, but Gene was within his rights. Nasty asshole with his inflated ego. Joining his crew after her stepfather’s death had been a mistake.

You. Gene tapped the top of the kneeling young woman’s head.

She whimpered and rolled onto her side, blubbering.

Gene hop-skipped over her to the next downcast figure. The little girl clinging to the woman’s back could be no older than three.

Gene grabbed the mother’s hair, tilted her head back gauging her features, and squeezed her breast.

Kat turned away and spat on the ground. Move on. Move on, motherfucker, skip her!

You’ll do, too, Gene said.

Mommy, no!

The child’s cry tore through Kat’s resolve to not interfere, shredding the countless layers of restraint she’d wrapped herself in to pieces. Her feet carried her forward. You can’t take a mother from a baby, that’s against the Code!

Gene halted, then made a show of unhurriedly turning around with his hands on his hips. Well, look at this. A thinblood lecturing her raid chief on the Code.

A spasm seized Kat’s jaw under his smoldering glare. Her shipmates’ discordant giggles made it worse. Fucking backstabbers.

You forget yourself, Kitty-girl. You don’t tell me what I can or cannot do. We’re raiding, which makes me your king, your god, Gene drawled with feigned slowness, as if explaining basic stuff to a not-so-bright baby, "and your judge. My word is the Code here. He strode closer. A full head shorter than Kat, he arched his neck to catch her eye. Twice as broad, he dressed her down effortlessly. Our victory today was spectacular. And you fought bravely, killing two enemies. His finger jabbed her belly through her leather vest. Not bad for a thinblood. For that, I’ll let it slide. But don’t you ever—"

"That flanking attack was my idea." Fuck. She should’ve let Gene take the credit, as always. But that little girl’s horror…

Kat, Murphy muttered behind her back, shut up!

Yes, Kathrin. Gene’s eyes narrowed, and Kat’s fingers twitched. "It was your idea. And? You want a bigger share of the spoils? A rank? Maybe replace Murphy as the starboard chief?"

Too late to back out. She’d have to see this through. Kat defiantly lifted her chin. Would be nice.

Gene threw back his head and hooted with laughter. Easy. All you have to do is challenge me, he spread his arms, and win.

Sweat broke out on Kat’s palms. What Gene lacked in finesse, he made up for with years of experience and an unrivaled viciousness. She was good—more than good, better than half of their crew—but Gene… Entering the circle against him would be suicidal. She’d last ten seconds, if the Depths favored her. She knew this, he knew this, everyone knew this. He’d baited her, and she’d fallen into the trap.

What’s the matter, Kitty? Cat got your tongue? Gene surveyed his uneasy raiders. None laughed.

Cat’s got Kat’s tongue! he repeated, louder. Too loud.

This time, his joke garnered a couple of chuckles.

He frowned. Once a thinblood, always a thinblood—

I’m no less an Islander than you! Kat’s sword rang, flying out of its scabbard. Better to die fighting than prove him right. She locked eyes with Gene.

The raid chief wasted no time, his boot darting to kick Kat’s knee. She swung her sword to intercept his leg… The smeared shape of Gene’s gloved fist came out of nowhere. A blinding flash erupted in her temple.

Kathrin. Kat!

Alive. She groaned and forced her leaden eyelids up. Murphy squatted above her. Behind him, reaching halfway to the sky, Gene observed with disdain.

The fucker didn’t even deign to end her life. Anger twisted Kat’s muscles into cords. Fight me, coward! Let’s finish this! Pushing the ground away, she climbed to her knee. The treacherous earth pitched sideways, slapping her onto her ear. Debilitating pain exploded in her head.

Ignoring it, Kat flicked her arm, aiming at Gene’s shin, but he sidestepped with ease and planted his boot on her wrist.

You’ve more in common with these mainlander sheep than with your shipmates. Gene smirked. Let’s see if the Scars feel the same way about you. Maybe once they peel your skin off, they’ll find a rotten dirt-digger.

What? Kat growled, overcoming the agony in her forearm.

You aren’t coming back with us. Tie her to that pole there, Murphy.

Gene— Kat had never seen Murphy so dumbstruck. This isn’t right. They…

What’s that? The chief tilted his head.

Can’t we… She’s a stupid thinblood, she doesn’t know any better.

"Are you challenging me?"

Murphy cast his eyes down. N-no, Gene. You’re the raid chief.

That’s what I thought. Get it done.

Just fucking kill me yourself! Kat screamed, arching her back.

Nah. Gene kicked her sword away. You don’t deserve that.

Kat swallowed the insult. Then… Leave this mother be. A life for a life.

Gene sneered. Whatever. Fewer dirt-eaters on the Island.

Nauseous, hollowed, devoid of will, Kat shrugged off her shield straps and threw her knife down.

You really screwed this one up, Kitten, Murphy whispered, helping her shamble to the wooden pole that was to be her grave marker.

Fuck you. I told you a thousand times not to call me that. Traitor. He should’ve had her back!

You’re a fine fighter, Ki… Kat, especially for a thinblood. In a few years, you could’ve taken on Gene. We’ll never know now.

Guess not.

They reached the pole. Up close, the slimy greenish mold covering its base filled the air with foul staleness. Kat grimaced. If she dashed toward the trees, then the building behind them, and if Murphy didn’t chase her… Dashed? She was so dizzy she could hardly keep herself upright. Besides, raiders didn’t run, they faced adversity head-on. Her escape would have proven Gene right. Fuck him, too.

Murphy waited until her eyes wandered back to him. He squeezed her wrist.

She used him to lever herself into a sitting position, facing the distant Lake. Gloriously or not, at least she’d die in its view.

Murphy tied her shoulders to the pole, awkward with his single hand. He knelt and ran a few sloppy loops around her ankles. His broad back blocked Kat from the view of the crew, ensuring no one would notice the loose knot, or the thin dagger he slid into her boot top.

Kat met his grief-stricken eyes. She had half a heart to comfort him.

He stood. Farewell, raider. May you know the Lake’s bliss again.

The Islanders dragged the crates of loot and their captives—some balking, others resigned—to the longboats waiting on the shore. Once they’d set sail, the surviving Scars, mostly women, crawled out of their hidey-holes, to surround Kat. Their icy silence promised nothing but torture and death. Kat tried to steel herself—she was an Islander! Islanders showed no fear!—but the tighter the ring constricted, the more she was overtaken by involuntary trembling.

Come on! she snarled. Do it! Finish me! Let it be quick.

The young mother she’d bought out burst into the circle and, planting her feet before Kat, faced her clansfolk. Over my dead body! she screeched, spreading her arms wide. This Islander lives!

None of the Scars argued. A life for a life. Apparently, they were no stranger to that rule, either. They dispersed as mutely as they’d assembled. If there was no immediate retribution to be exacted, rebuilding their shattered lives must have been next on their list. A dozen sullen children stuck behind, throwing stones and clods of mud at Kat once the adults had gone.

These kids had every right to exact their vengeance upon her. Many had become orphans, some possibly by her hand. Kat shut her eyes and withstood the ineffectual onslaught, hissing through her teeth when the heavier projectiles struck her already ringing head.

Lulled, against all odds, by the unending impacts, she passed out. The next time she opened her eyes, the sun was already setting in the west, painting the City’s high-rises a blood-tinged gold. Her little tormentors were gone. Kat’s muscles cramped, her bruises throbbed, and her surroundings swam.

The woman Kat had saved came and covered her with a threadbare blanket. With her daughter clinging to her leg, she eyed Kat for a long time, her expression unreadable in the twilight. I don’t owe you nothing no more, she finally said with a decisive nod, as if convincing herself, and left, stomping the pavement. Her little girl kept turning back.

Kat came to, shivering in the predawn chill, teeth chattering. The scant layer of wool did little to protect her from the elements. As the sun crept up, it warmed her body. The flickers of light dancing over the Lake’s water woke her tortured soul—enough to revisit the idea of escape. Murphy’s rope held her upper body secured to the post, but in an omission too glaring to be discarded as carelessness, he’d left her wrists unbound. With a little contortion, the dagger in her boot would be within reach. She could fray the cordage enough to snap it… If those nosy locals weren’t prowling around.

The more the anxiety gnawed at her, the slower time crawled.

When the sun finally started its descent, the woman, who supposedly owed Kat nothing, visited again. She prodded her reluctant daughter forward. The girl, avoiding Kat’s eye, placed a piece of oatcake in her hand and shrunk away, hiding behind her mom.

Thank you, young lady. Kat couldn’t help but smile.

The mother, frowning, pushed a cup of water into Kat’s other hand, then briskly turned and left, dragging the little girl by the arm.

Kat devoured the stale bread and washed it down with the water. She regretted it a moment later when an unstoppable wave rose from her stomach, burning her throat and spilling all over the front of her shirt and pants.

Disgusted with herself, she was left at the mercy of her thoughts. Why was this happening to her? What had she done to deserve this fate? Where would she go if she broke free?

She could swim back to the Island, easily. She was an excellent swimmer. But the Islanders had made it clear they didn’t want her. They’d been beating this tirelessly into her stubborn head since her childhood, and now her raid chief had drawn the final line. Even Murphy, that son of a bitch who used to care a little, didn’t care enough to stand up to Gene for her. How could he, he was her board chief! No, had been. Once Gene had disowned her, any obligation to care for former crewmate’s wellbeing was void. Particularly a thinblood crewmate, a fact none of them had ever let her forget. Then… why the slack rope? The blade in the boot? Whatever, there was no way back.

Mainland? She only knew the lakeshore areas—from raiding. Coincidentally, those areas were occupied by clans the least inclined to accept a former raider. And further inland… Too far from the Lake.

A stranger on the Island, despite her best efforts. A stranger on the mainland, a detestable pirate.

She hadn’t cried in years. Nothing was stopping her now, her reputation with this clan wouldn’t sink any lower. Yet the tears did not come. Luckily, a comfortable apathy spread inside her skull, allowing her to drift into a heavy slumber.

At sunrise, a more pressing issue demanded her attention. After an hour of frantic struggle, Kat gave up. She wiggled her pants down to her thighs, lifted her bum, and took a dump. Then emptied her bladder. The urine didn’t stream away, collecting into a puddle. Kat gagged, hobbled in tiny side-steps around the pole away from the stinking mess, squirmed back into her pants, and sagged. Abject humiliation mixed with an odd relief. One less thing to give a shit about. Kat giggled at the pun.

When the woman returned with food and water, she displayed no indignation. The little girl wrinkled her nose but said nothing.

What’s your name? Kat asked.

The mother hesitated. Celine. She didn’t ask about Kat’s. Kat didn’t expect her to.

What’s going to happen to me?

The woman averted her eyes. Don’t know. The elders will decide.

Between what and what? Kat’s pulse picked up as she awaited an answer. Strange. As if that still mattered.

I don’t know! Celine raised her voice. A lie, obviously. Thought Kat couldn’t stomach the truth.

Fighting, proving, winning. Surviving. Kat had always been passionate about one thing or another. Not caring at all tasted refreshing, if bittersweet. You should’ve let your people kill me.

Celine’s nostrils flared. I had a debt to pay.

Self-righteous, huh? Kat rewarded her with a crooked smile. "This is saving me? Whatever your elders choose to do will be better than a quick death?"

Celine pursed her lips and stormed away.

From then on, she came daily to feed and water Kat, but all three kept silent. What was there to talk about?

May 11 th, 43 PE

One day—the fifth? Tenth?—two men came, untied Kat, and hauled her to her feet. Kat swayed and threw up her arm to brace herself against the pole. She’d been sitting for too long. Numbness, beyond the physical kind, consumed her. Having desiccated from the inside and losing her will to resist, to overcome, to win, she didn’t ask what the elders had decided. Why bother?

With Celine watching from a distance, the men unceremoniously peeled off Kat’s stained shirt and soiled pants, which she had stopped bothering to pull down to relieve herself some time ago.

That woke her up alright. They wouldn’t dare, not in Celine’s presence, would they? Kat should have been fighting. Cursing. Maybe crying, paralyzed by fear, or succumbing to a panic attack…

Her captors stepped back, looking her up and down, showing only disgust and hostility, without a trace of lust.

Kat relaxed. They saw a murderous monster, not a woman. Not even a human—an animal, too reviled and filthy for rape to be a thought.

She gasped when one man upended a bucket of ice-cold water over her head, followed by another. Water. A shadow of emotion stirred, and she raised her head. Water was right. Not the Lake right, but still her element. Cleansing, if not cleaning.

The second man tossed her a set of worn, baggy clothes. They let her keep her boots, meaning she still had Murphy’s dagger. Much good would it do her… Short blades, the most intimate of weapons, demanded resolve and determination—a whiff of distant memory in her current state.

Fresh clothes! No more stench, and none of the flies that had become her devoted companions.

The Scars tracked her every movement, gripping their axe hilts while she dressed. They bound her hands and hauled her to a horse-drawn cart.

Again, she asked no questions. Knowing the destination wouldn’t change the outcome—in the unlikely event she was answered.

The cart trundled through the City for a day, then, after a night spent with another clan, half a day more, until an enormous building blocked the sky. Towering vivid-red like a giant slab of raw meat, it dwarfed its surroundings.

Kat had never been to this part of the City. An unspoken convention rendered the shore to the west of the harbor off-limits: the raid chiefs, while prone to boisterous posturing, were not suicidal. She’d heard the name, New Kowloon—home to a power mightier than the Islanders could ever hope to beat. This must be it.

The cart halted for inspection by uniformed men armed with guns. Guns with all muzzles aimed straight at her, or so it seemed.

Kat ducked down the sideboard of the cart, covering her head with her bound hands, flattening herself into its muddy base. Cowardice, yes, unbecoming of a raider, but she’d witnessed these weapons’ devastating effect when her stepfather and Gene had attempted boarding that ship last year… A Kowloonese one, it turned out. Many of her crew had returned their souls to the Lake that day, her stepfather among them, torn apart before her eyes. She still had nightmares where bullets ripped her longboat into pieces. The cart’s wooden sideboard offered no better protection.

The mainlanders wouldn’t bother bringing her all this way to have her killed. And if they did, what did it matter? She was supposed to be dead. Would’ve been better off dead, probably.

What felt like hours later, the soldiers finally waved the Scars through. Kat went limp with a pathetic whimper. Cold sweat soaked her dirt-digger shirt and burned her eyes.

Drained of strength and willpower, she toppled feebly onto her back.

An imposing gate rolled above her as the cart entered the inner yard where she was roughly dumped out of its back. The building loomed taller with people for reference, but Kat didn’t get to gawk at it. She was hurried through a series of austere, poorly lit corridors and metal stairwells, down to a subterranean level. There her escort untied her, shoved her into a tight, blind cell, and slammed the door.

The darkness assailed her nose. It reeked. A sharp tang of piss, with undertones of dried-up shit and ancient mold. Not unlike her cozy nest by the Scars’ post, but… No open water in sight.

So, this was her sentence, lakelessness?!

Panic clawed at Kat’s stomach, twisting it into queasiness. They couldn’t do this to her! It was inhumane! She needed to see water, right fucking now! She battered the door, then clawed at it, then slid to the floor with her back hard against it.

The Lake. She’d spent her life with the Lake in sight—the sole constant, comforting presence she’d known. It had always granted her strength and understanding. With its limitless capacity to listen to her wishes and complaints, it washed away her griefs without judgement.

A weird prickling trickled down her cheeks. Spiders?! Kat wiped her face with the back of her hand, and it came off wet. She licked it. Salty. Losing the Lake was what it took to make her cry.

She wept. Not for her upended life hanging by a thread, but for this severed connection. The separation from the Lake hurt worse than a stab wound.

Eventually—with the inability to tell day from night, time had lost meaning—Kat ran out of tears. She drew a few wheezing, hiccupping breaths. In the darkness, you can imagine anything. Like the Lake on a moonless, overcast night. It’s still there, even if you can’t see it. There could be water in this darkness, too. Real close, mere steps away, simply invisible.

Kat’s racing heart slowed. There’s always water somewhere.

Transparent waves rolled onto the pebbly beach. Each retreated with an unhappy rustle, disappointed with coming inches short of Kat’s toes, but the next one was already charging on. Stubborn, those waves, rather like her.

Seagulls exchanged grumpy calls, creeping closer to Kat’s lunch, hoping to steal a morsel or two. Or all of it.

Kat shushed them and stomped her foot.

The birds responded with indignant cries and scandalized wing-flapping but refused to back off.

The wind picked up, playing tag with her scalp. Her hair, cropped short at the back and the sides, as always for a raid, made a lousy barrier.

She shivered and pulled her hood on.

The water, gurgling happily, finally washed over Kat’s bare feet. Tingling, chilly but not too cold, offering to soothe her worries…

Kat jerked from a seagull’s screech near her ear and flailed to drive the brazen fuckers away. Her elbow cracked into a solid surface, shooting a lightning bolt up her forearm.

Her eyes flew open.

In the stuffy, disorienting darkness, the cell door she was leaning on creaked, pushing against Kat’s back. The sound had been a key in the lock, not a seagull. Fuck. She’d take seagulls over a mainland prison any day.

You, inside, move away from the door!

Kat scrambled to the opposite wall, shielding her eyes in the crook of her elbow against the small lantern’s light. The weak glow it gave off more than sufficed to blind her.

Come out. No fooling around.

The guard steered her through empty, echoing passages, the same as on her way in. Or not, Kat could not quite tell. Out into the street, across a labyrinth of smaller structures, and to a door in a tall fence crowned with barbed wire. Get in. The command was emphasized with a not-so-gentle shove in her back.

Half-curious, half-apprehensive, Kat walked through the guarded double gate and stopped in her tracks.

A crowd churned and hummed in the prison yard. Women and men, adults and children. Standing, sitting, lying. Some bloodied, a few bandaged. Babies cried, flocks of kids lurked underfoot. All of them Islanders. All the Islanders.

A nearby figure turned. Gene, his arm in a sling and an impressive shiner under his swollen left eye. Not her doing, but a heartwarming sight all the same.

Ah,—his sneer spoiled her gloating—look what the cat dragged in.

Motherfucker.

Another man elbowed his way through the press. Murphy. Kat’s got nine lives!

Kat greeted him with feigned humor, as though she’d never heard that one before.

Earned any new tattoos? Murphy slapped her shoulder, backed off, and looked her over. His eyebrows furrowed. "What are you wearing? And, damn it to the driest land, you stink!"

Kat’s nascent relief died. The Scars’ clothes. They brought me here. No tattoos.

You didn’t escape? How are you alive?

I bet the thinblood begged the dirt-diggers for her precious little life. Gene’s words oozed venom. But even they wouldn’t want her.

Deep in Kat’s abdomen, her once habitual restraints strained… and snapped. This man had disgraced her with his refusal to grant her a decent death. He’d banished her from both his longboat and the Island. He was to blame for her harrowing separation from the Lake. For her tears. No longer her raid chief, just a sour old hater. Still dangerous, but less so with a single usable eye. And she was as good as dead, all the same.

Kat moved on instinct. She hawked and spat on Gene’s boots. As his unharmed eye incredulously tracked the gob, she side-stepped into his blind zone and kicked him in the balls. His betrayal, dirty insults, second-sort treatment… Kat channeled all of it into her shin. The impact lifted Gene’s two-hundred pounds a few inches off the floor and bent him over. Kat slammed her knee into his face. A satisfying crunch reverberated through her thigh—his nose breaking? His teeth? Gene’s legs buckled, but before he collapsed, Kat sprang up and landed her elbow on the back of his head.

Gene went down like an anchor into the water.

Kat followed through with two brutal kicks into his face, then drove her heel into his temple. Something gave way, sickeningly satisfying.

Knock it off, or I’ll shoot! a guard’s yell carried from the tower above.

Kat raised her hands and backed away, panting.

The crowd ebbed, forming an empty circle around Gene’s prone body.

Unable to blink, Kat stared into the bloody pulp that had been Gene’s face. She should have felt something: elation, vindication, a sense of accomplishment. Or maybe horror and disgust with herself… Nope. Nothing stirred in her. She did what needed to be done, and that was that. Did this earn her another tattoo? Fuck, yeah! An extra-wide one! She owed herself three rings now, but finding an ink kit here might prove challenging.

Depths, Kat! Murphy edged to her side. What. The fuck. Just happened? His hoarse voice trembled.

Yhh… Speaking required air in her lungs. She drew a hard breath against the resistance of her unyielding ribs. You’ll be voting in a new raid chief.

Murphy shook his head. "Didn’t know you had that much crazy in you. Remind me not to get on your bad side. He paused. What’s with your face?"

She touched her cheekbone. Still swollen. Gene’s punch, remember? What color was it now? Green? Yellow? A mirror would’ve been nice. Or not. Must be an ugly mess.

No, not that. It’s… You look… older.

Son of a bitch. Well, fuck you too! Her voice rose to a screech. Depths, why did she care? "I’m a stupid thinblood! Maybe we age faster."

Murphy cringed.

Kat turned away.

Kitten… He mumbled behind her back. Kat, I—

What is this place? Kat asked harshly. She needed information, not his lame apologies. Why is everyone here? What happened?

Right! Murphy smacked his forehead, relieved to be off the hook. You weren’t there. Long story short, these bastards landed on the Island at the crack of dawn yesterday.

What bastards?

The Kowloonese, the City trash, the CIU from Locksville. All carrying guns, with bigger guns on their ships. And let me tell you, they weren’t the soft dirt-diggers. These guys… I saw murder in their eyes. Murphy pressed his lips together.

How many did they kill? From within the crowd, it was hard to estimate if any Islanders were missing. Is… Kat’s treacherous voice broke. My mother okay?

Should be here somewhere. They shot the first few who resisted and roughed up a couple more who’d had a mouthful for them. Like Gene. Murphy’s eyes darted to his chief’s motionless shape and avoided meeting Kat’s again. The rest got the message. Funny how nobody wants to try heroics against guns.

Yeah. A vivid flash of her debilitating terror at the Kowloonese checkpoint raised goosebumps on her arms. Then what?

Then they herded us on board their ships and hauled us here. Oh, and burned all the longboats.

They wha— Fuck!

Yep.

So—

Listen up! A powerful voice turned all heads to a gallery running atop the eight-foot fence. The tall, bald, dusky man waited for the Islanders’ murmurs to die down. "The Iron Dragon will speak to you now. I suggest you take her words very seriously."

He stepped aside, giving way to a young girl who barely reached his shoulder.

Kat blinked. The image did not change.

The girl—miniature, thin, with an angular face and braided black hair—leaned on the guardrail and examined the prisoners. Kat flinched when the girl’s dark eyes glanced over her. So much malice was there, so intensely it burned. Not a little girl, then. Definitely something iron about her.

The silence stretched, but the Islanders—the rowdy lot who never shied from booing or shouting down a chief, hardened raiders who went into battle with a smile—didn’t make a noise.

Forty-three years. The girl’s quiet words, barely above a whisper, as if she mused aloud to herself, miraculously carried across the prison yard. "Forty-three years the Island has terrorized the