“What is that? What are you doing?”

When I answer, I speak to Nik. “It’s the average casualty rate for worlds where you take power from your brother. It’s the cost. Tatik is right. It always gets worse before it gets better.”

“How?” he says. “He doesn’t have enough loyal runners to enact this kind of damage.”

“No. He has guns.”

The news hits the others like water on wasps.

“He wouldn’t dare,” Tatik says. “That was his father’s edict.”

“He would and has,” Nelline says, looking casually amused at their fear.

Viet shakes his head. “I honor life. That’s all I do. I cannot be party to anything that would cause such loss.”

“The change in power makes things better, there is no doubting that,” I say. “How he’s running things is wrong.”

They’re not listening. Exlee is waving their black fan, watching as Nik Nik tries to salvage the meeting. I’m guessing they knew about the guns, or at least suspected. Nothing happens in the wastelands without the House being aware. Eventually, Exlee gives a throat-clearing mmhmm. It isn’t loud, but it silences the others.

They address Nik Nik and Esther. “Can you think of any way to mitigate this damage? A transfer of power without the casualties of war?”

Esther looks confused, then lowers her head. Of course she can’t, because she’s a believer. Believers would never consider assassination, and that’s the answer Exlee’s looking for.

Nik Nik is looking at his hand like that long-ago shard of metal is there again, like he’s being asked the same question he was that day. Eventually he shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “I can’t.”

I close my eyes. Nik Nik knows the right answer, but he can’t do it. And that’s why they’re all going to die, bloodily and completely. Adra’s known how to murder his way to power since he was a sickly teen. Cruelty is a science he learned early and well, just like all the others. It hits me then that Adra is smarter than his brother. Colder, worse, but smarter. Which means he must have seen this coup coming.

    Exlee is finished, so the arguing resumes. It’s loud, but beneath the din I still hear it. I hear it in my spine, the way a praying mantis hears a bat’s shriek, the way any prey can always hear its predator: the roar of a dozen motors, far away, but getting closer.

It’s a parade of runners, and it’s too late to escape.

* * *

“THE DOORS! GET away from the doors!”

Nik Nik cries out his warning while I’m still speechless. But of course, he’s lived with the parade every day, and I haven’t heard them in over a decade.

“We don’t run in the Rurals,” says one of the runners, but no one responds.

“Are you still sheltering my people here?” Tatik asks.

Daniel nods. “They were waiting out the bright day.”

It’s all she needs to hear. Rather than waiting to see if an exit emerges, she disappears to the back of the church. She’ll get the deepwasters out, or die trying.

An engine revs in place, then squeals out, and a moment later the double doors splinter inward. The vehicle that skids into the church has four wheels as high as my hips. He doesn’t stop accelerating until he’s halfway into the room. I jump onto the stage, but he’s not aiming for me yet. He slides sideways and Daniel disappears under his massive wheels.

Esther screams and lunges toward him, but Mr. Cheeks is already pulling her back, away from the newly broken-open entrance. He must know a rear exit or a bribable runner. I should follow, but I can’t move. It’s the first runner death I’ve seen since Nik Senior’s funeral, but the smell of gasoline and blood takes me instantly back. I want to go to my knees. I want to scream.

Three more runners ride into the church, these on the two-wheelers whose speed ensures they match the body counts of the larger models despite being half their size. I see the wide, deep treads of their wheels, like teeth on a creature from the deep wastes, and I can feel those marks across my spine. How many times? How many times have I died with my back to a runner? One less, I decide. Not this time.

    The men dismount and begin splashing gasoline on the walls. They each have a second canister on their bikes, and I know it is acid. They’ll leave it in their wake, so that anyone who tries to run through the front door will be hobbled before they can reach it. They must already be at the rear of the building and expect those seeking shelter to come this way.

Exlee hasn’t moved. They just sit perched on the edge of the stage like they’re about to sing, casually flicking that large, feathered fan like a bored god. When I walk past, they raise an eyebrow, then turn to watch my progress.

Finally, Exlee stands. “Who could use a little favor with the House?”

Quickly, one of the two motorcycles pulls up and Exlee sits on the back, finger-waving goodbye as the runner rides them both to safety. I hadn’t thought they would have as much pull in this world with Adra trying to choke the workers out, but apparently even with an ash-washed door there is nothing so valuable in the desert as a safe, warm place where someone will touch you exactly how you want.

I’m not looking for anything safe or warm. I’m looking for Adra. I want him to have to kill me with his own hands.

I walk forward until I am face-to-face with the line of runners keeping us inside. They are blocking the door, waiting for their cue. We started the meeting when the sun was already half-set, but night never comes slower than on a bright day, and past the broken doors the sky is still the bright blue of chemicals burning.

From outside comes a hot-wind hiss that feathers the hair from my face. It’s as good as a slap, the universe asking why I’m walking toward my killers. It’s Nyame leaning in, tilting her head, trying to understand why I’m choosing to leave life this way. I expect any one of them to rev forward and claim my life as their point, but they don’t. Which means someone with authority is watching.

    “You out there Adra? You hiding from me?”

I hear the rustle of his long coat before I see him, but eventually Adra enters the square of horizon I can see over the runners’ shoulders.

He tsks his tongue against his teeth. “Nelline, Nelline, Nelline.”

“Wrong. Your girl’s back there.”

He doesn’t believe me. There’s merriment in his eyes, amusement at my little game, until he looks past me. I’m not sure how she got out of her cuffs—I’m guessing she could have done it anytime—but I feel her at my back even before his eyes go wide. I look over my shoulder, and she blows a mocking kiss at him as she steps forward. I look back at Adra, hoping that Nelline will do the smart thing, the survivor thing, and use my distraction as a way to escape.

Adra looks back at me, afraid this time. Finally.

He’s dressed in the full regalia of a wasteland emperor: rings on every finger that shine only half as well as they cut, huge black boots recklessly tipped in silver, black hide pants, and a wide-sleeved coat of gold and black that drags a few feet behind him. I’ve seen Nik Nik in that coat, but for ceremonies only. He always said it made it seem like he wasn’t prepared to fight. But Adra has six runners between him and me, so I doubt he’s expecting to have to throw a punch.

“Who are you?” he says, stepping forward in a jingle of metal.

In addition to the rows designating his line of succession, he’s wrapped the ends of his braids in silver, another tradition Nik Nik hated. I wanted him to dip his braids. I can still hear his response: Telegraph my location? Walk around like a fucking wind chime?

“Your brother told you who I was. I’m a visitor.”

“The stories aren’t real. People can’t just come…”

“From other worlds?” I say. “Don’t act surprised, Adra. I know you. You figured out the mysteries of the multiverse when you were still a teenager.”

“When I was a teenager, I was ruling Ashtown,” he says, pride mostly, but a little regret.

Someone comes up behind me. Someone else facing death while the smart people take their chances hiding or finding a hidden exit. They know they’re wasting their time. They know a runner never enters a building unless the others have surrounded it. But they want out before the building is razed, and I can’t blame them for that. Runners sometimes miss, but fire never does.

    “Tatik is in there. You can’t do this,” Nik Nik says. “She’s an elder.”

“A traitor has no age.”

Nik Nik flinches. Killing Tatik isn’t technically the same as killing their own mother, but it’s not different in any way that matters.

“She wasn’t participating in anything. This was my doing alone.”

Adra’s glare is potent as he looks at his brother. “Oh? My missing runner had nothing to do with this? My missing wife? The Ruralites whose house you use?” He shakes his head. “Don’t worry. You will pay, but so will they all.”