Page 63 of Sullied Saints

He looks at me, blinking. I don’t know if he sees me at all. "She wasn't going to stop," he says softly, like he's just now realising that. I see now that he’d held out hope. That she could be saved, could become the girl he grew up with again. But that was always impossible. She could never come back from that. And maybe Tristan can’t either.

His eyes search my face, and I’m certain at that moment that he’s slipped somewhere beyond here, beyond functioning. Dirk grabs his arm as he starts to sway, throwing it over his shoulder to hold our killer up. I step back as Dirk turns them toward the door. "What’s wrong with him? Did she…"

"It’s just shock," Dirk says. "We need to get out of here. Before it burns to the ground."

Needler comes back sometime around the oval, pulling away, stumbling, falling to all fours in the dirt. The shouts towards the entry tell me Cassandra’s followers have been caught or are in the process of being run down by the same mobs that have set fires across Crennick. A helicopter flies somewhere above, the spotlight cutting through the smoke high above. Too far above to be of use. They can’t get caught in the thickest of the smoke.

Sirens are popping up from all directions. Backup didn’t go quite the way we planned, the mob too dense. I see now, just how many people turned out tonight. They flood into the school, some searching the corners and the buildings for any more of Cassandra’s followers, but most swarm the oval. If there’s so many here, there must be thousands out there.

Behind them, the police are shouting, a vain attempt to gain order. They may as well give up.

The city belongs to the people tonight. It’s been taken back from Cocooner.

The crowd falls past us like a flood. Dirk turns, craning his neck in the direction of the police shouts. Our names are on their tongues. Not just for us. They want to get Needler back before it’s too late. They think he’s going to slip away, this ruined man clutching the ground like the world is trying to spin him right off. Needler has sat back on his heels, staring sightlessly at his hands. When Dirk looks at me, I nod slightly.

I come to the other side as he claps Tristan on the back. "Come on," Dirk grunts, pulling the near-limp man to his feet. Once he’s stable, Dirk lets him go and turns his back. With a last lingering look at me, he’s lost in the crowd, out of sight in the direction of the police and the media. People bump into Tristan and me as they fill the oval, retreating from the acrid smoke thick on the air outside.

I cup Tristan’s face in my hands, making him still. "Breathe."

He does as I say, and awareness comes back to his eyes, along with the grief, the fresh guilt. The anger of rioters has dissipated. The object of their ire smashed is on the pavement, her followers beaten. Now the violence turns to quiet vigil. We two have become a central point, whispers spreading outwards.

Here is Needler. And he killed Cocooner for them.

"You're Needler,” I tell him. “You did what you had to do."

"Not anymore." He manages a difficult smile, hand coming up, his fingers brushing mine where I hold his face. "Little Shadow."

I laugh at the name, tears rolling down my face.

I'm never going to see him again.

"Isn't there something you have to do?" he asks me.

"There is." I smile. But it’s not arresting him. Leaning in, I briefly press my lips to his, then step towards him, pushing him back into the waiting arms of those who have loved him all along. "Goodbye," I say. He frowns briefly in wonder or confusion. The gentle hands are taking him, whisking him through the ranks, far away from here and any waiting cell.

I watch his blond head disappear in the sea of people.

He’s gone.

I take a trembling breath, feeling a hollow space in my chest ache.

Dirk’s hand on my hip tells me he's back. The rioters linger on the field, largely numb to the demands of the police still railing at the edges. They won't find Needler, I'm sure of that. I lean back as Dirk’s arms encircle me. Now that it’s done, I’m bone tired, weary beyond measure.

"It was the right thing?" I ask.

His lips brush my temple. I close my eyes. The oval is clearing as smoke sifts down. "It was the right thing," he promises.

Dean and Howie find us. Dean has a bruise forming on his temple, and Howie looks somehow singed but otherwise none the worse for wear. "Where’s Needler?" Dean asks, out of breath.

"He escaped in the confusion after Cocooner fell."

“Jesus, maybe they’ll find him.”

“Maybe.”

"So that was really her?" Dean asks eagerly, then shares a look with Howie. "It’s over?"

Howie shakes his head. "The night’s not over for us."

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