Adversaries Together Read Free Page B

little sense to Fery, dying by your own hand. She
couldn’t imagine not living, but every day that she saw more
corpses she felt herself spinning away from sanity.
    Every morning it was more and more difficult
to not eat the cheese. Holding it in her hands now, feeling her gut
twist in a pain that wasn’t going to go away. Her mind raced. What
if she didn’t eat it? What if she just kept on not eating and
wasted away? How was that any different from the Parmentier Way?
What if she lost it? Or if it was stolen? Then, all her noble
hesitancy would have been for no one’s benefit—a complete waste of
food, of effort. She had to eat. Gripping the brick with both
hands, she broke off a piece. Holding it between her thumb and two
fingers, she brought it to her mouth and slowly pressed it past her
lips. It was dry and hard, but as it sat on her tongue, she could
feel a thick creaminess flood her palate. She fought the urge to
devour the whole brick and began to chew slowly. Fery felt her body
relax.
    Sitting with her legs beneath her, she let
her hands drop to her knees. She swallowed and took another piece,
for an instant it there was a flood of normalcy in her heart.
Wrapping up the rest of the cheese, she stowed her food away and
tied her pack up. Standing, she threw her pack over her shoulder
and walked the length of the floor looking for anything she could
use. As she walked she pulled the pack’s straps tight to her
body—shoulder, chest, and waist—and looked around. The likelihood
of there being any food in the building was slim but even if she
only got a handful of seed, it would increase her chances. There
was nothing here for her. But that meant there was nothing here for
anyone else. Fery smirked and kept tightening her straps, she
wasn’t going to have another satchel stolen from her by other
desperates or the city’s own obstacles. This floor was empty but
there looked to be at least two more above her. She paused at the
stairway and listened hard. There was the flutter of birds.
    “ Pigeons, maybe even
gulls.” She whispered, “One of those could make a meal. And the
roof might have some pools of rainwater.”
    Reaching down along her thigh, she unsnapped
a leather flap revealing a blade pocket and pulled out two small
makeshift knives. Little more than pieces of twisted scrap metal,
but a day of shaving against stone had given each enough of an edge
to serve a purpose. She held them tightly in each hand and began to
make her way up. She moved deliberately, straining to hear any
movement from above or below, her guard rising as the brightness of
the day grew.
    Stepping onto the roof, she spied her
prey—four pigeons perched on the edge of the building. She froze
and thought for a moment calculating just how she should move. One
good throw could get her what she needed, except she was usually a
terrible shot. Moving even slower than before, she tried to get
into a position where she could throw both blades. Sudden motion
would send these birds flying off, but if she could simply stand
and throw, she might be able to catch one. She doubted her skill.
Ribbon dancing had never taught her how to throw, if only the birds
would just sit still while she tumbled and pirouetted towards them.
Fery let out a long sigh, her muscles tensed, and she focused on
the birds; she was stone for minutes it seemed. Then she spun
throwing both her knives one after the other, the birds soared in a
flutter of coos and down. She came to a standstill and glared. Over
the edge and into the empty air her first knife disappeared. Her
second, though, had found its mark. At least, after a fashion.
    The pigeon wasn’t dead and was spinning
erratic, unable to fly. Fery bolted and pounced on the bird griping
it with both hands. Its beak tore into her hand’s flesh between her
thumb and index finger and she felt its feet scratching her wrist.
She held the bird tighter than she had ever held anything and began
twisting its neck. It took all