The smell of ozone hung in the air.
Bobby’s ears rang with a shrill whine as the glow from XX-66’s blast faded. He blinked through the haze, searching—hoping—that what he saw wasn’t real.
But it was.
Lyra lay sprawled on the cracked tiles of the subway platform, smoke curling off her chest where the blast had burned straight through. Her body twitched once, twice, then stilled.
Her knife clattered from her limp hand.
“LYRA!” Bobby’s scream tore from his throat. He dropped to his knees beside her, fingers trembling as he reached for her shoulders. “No, no, no—please—”
Her eyes fluttered, just barely. She focused on him with effort, lips parting.
“Bobby…” Her voice was faint, broken. “Don’t… let him… win.”
Her hand brushed his wrist. Then it fell, limp, as her gaze unfocused.
Gone.
