Marasi raised a hand to her mouth. It was him. “Wayne, where … How…”
Waxillium gently pushed her aside; she hadn’t seen him approach. He knelt down, checking Marks’s wound. Waxillium then looked up at Wayne and nodded, the two sharing an expression they often exchanged. The closest Marasi had been able to figure, it meant something between “Nice work” and “You’re a total git; I wanted to do that.”
“Let’s get him to the constabulary offices,” Waxillium said, lifting the unconscious Marks.
“Yes, fine,” Marasi said. “But aren’t you going to ask how he did this? Where he’s been?”
“Wayne has his methods,” Waxillium said. “In a place like this, they’re far better than my own.”
“You knew,” she said, leveling a finger at Waxillium. “You knew we weren’t going to get anywhere asking questions!”
“I suspected,” Waxillium said. “But Wayne needs space to try his methods—”
“—onnacount of my being so incredible,” Wayne added.
“—so I did my best to find Marks on my own—”
“—onnacount of him being unable to accept that I’m better at this sorta thing than he is—”
“—in case Wayne failed.”
“Which never happens.” Wayne grinned and took a bite of his apple, hopping off his steps to walk beside Waxillium. “Except that one time. And that other one time. But those don’t matter, onnacount of my getting hit to the head enough times that I can’t remember them.”
Marasi sighed inwardly, falling into step with the two. They had so much history that they moved in concert subconsciously, like two dancers who had performed together countless times. That made life particularly difficult for the newcomer who tried to perform with them.
“Well,” Marasi said to Wayne, “you could at least tell me what you did. Perhaps I could learn from your methods.”
“Nah,” Wayne said. “Won’t work for you. You’re too pretty. In an unpretty sort of way to me, mind you. Let’s not go around that tree again.”
“Wayne, sometimes you completely baffle me.”
“Only sometimes?” Waxillium asked.
“I can’t give her all I got, mate,” Wayne said, thumbs behind his suspenders. “Gotta save some for everyone else. I dole it out with no respect for privilege, class, sex, or mental capacity. I’m a rusting saint, I am.”
“But how,” Marasi said. “How did you find him? Did you make some of these people talk?”
“Nah,” Wayne said. “I made them not talk. They’re better at that. Comes from practice, I suspect.”
“You should take lessons,” Waxillium added.
Marasi sighed as they approached the entrance to the Breakouts. The human flotsam who earlier had cluttered the stairwells and alleyways in here had melted away, perhaps finding the attention of several lawmen too discomforting. It—
Waxillium stiffened. Wayne did as well.
“What—?” Marasi began, right as Waxillium dropped Marks and reached for his mistcoat pocket. Wayne shoved his shoulder into Marasi, pushing her away as something zipped down out of the air and clacked against the paving stones where they’d been standing. More projectiles followed, though she wasn’t really looking. She instead let Wayne tow her to relative cover beside a building, then both of them began craning to search the skyline for the sniper. Waxillium took to the air with a dropped coin, a dark rush of twisting mistcoat tassels. At times like this he looked more primal, like one of the ancient Mistborn from the legends. Not a creature of law, but a sliver of the night itself come to collect its due.
“Aw, hell,” Wayne said, nodding toward Marks. The body slumped in the middle of the road, and now had a prominent wooden shaft sticking out of it.
“Arrow?” Marasi asked.
“Crossbow bolt,” Wayne said. “Haven’t seen one of those in years. You really only want them for fighting Allomancers.” He looked up. Above, Waxillium gave chase, soaring toward the top of one of the buildings.
“Stay here,” Wayne said, then dashed off down an alleyway.
“Wait—” Marasi said, raising a hand.
But he was gone.
Those two, she thought in annoyance. Well, obviously someone didn’t want Marks to be captured and spill what he knew. Perhaps she could learn something from the crossbow bolt or the corpse itself.
She knelt down beside the body, checking first to make certain he was dead—hoping perhaps that the crossbow bolt had not finished the job. He was dead, unfortunately. The bolt was firmly lodged in the head. Who knew that a crossbow could penetrate a skull like that? Marasi shook her head, reaching into her handbag to get her notepad and do a write-up of the position the body had fallen in.
You know, she thought. The assassin is lucky. They were gone so fast, they couldn’t have known that they dealt a killing blow. If I were looking to make sure Marks was finished off, I’d certainly …
She heard something click behind her.
… double back and check.
Marasi turned slowly to find a ragged-looking man leaving an alleyway, holding a crossbow. He inspected her with dark eyes.
The next part happened quickly. Before Marasi had time to take a step, the man rushed her. He fired the crossbow over his shoulder—causing a Wayne-like yelp to come out of the alleyway—then grabbed Marasi by the shoulder as she tried to run.
He whipped her about, raising something cold to her neck. A glass dagger. Waxillium dropped to the ground in front of them, mistcoat unfurling around him.
The two stared at one another, a coin in Waxillium’s right hand. He rubbed it with his thumb.
Remember your hostage training, woman! Marasi thought. Most men take a hostage out of desperation. Could she use her Allomancy? She could slow time around her, speeding it up for everyone outside her speed bubble. The opposite of what Wayne could do.
But she hadn’t swallowed any cadmium. Stupid! A mistake the other two would never make. She needed to stop being embarrassed with her powers, weak though they were. She’d used them effectively on more than one occasion.
The man breathed in and out raggedly, his head right next to hers. She could feel the stubble of his chin and cheek against her skin.
Men who take hostages don’t want to kill, she thought. This isn’t part of the plan. You can talk him down, speak comforting words, seek common ground and build upon it.
She didn’t do any of that. Instead, she whipped her hand out of her handbag, gripping the small, single-shot pistol she kept inside. Before even considering what she was doing, she pressed the barrel against the man’s chin, pulled the trigger …
And blew the bottom of his head up out of the top.
4
Wax lowered his hand, looking at the new corpse beside Marasi. Her shot had taken off a big chunk of the face. Identifying the man would be near impossible.
It would have been anyway. Suit’s minions were notoriously difficult to trace.
Don’t worry about that right now, he thought, taking out a handkerchief. He walked over and held it up to Marasi, who stood with wide eyes, blood and bits of flesh sprayed across her face. She stared straight ahead and did not look down. She’d dropped the pistol.