Abruptly, it stops.

I have the urge to pause, to wait to see what happens, but we’re like a flowing river now, moving forward until something stops us.

The gates—the ones Adele got in through—to the New City open.

Soldiers swarm through.

Adele

Even as my mind is stuttering over the fact that Jocelyn isn’t behind me anymore, the alarm stops.

The silence that follows is eerie, almost as if more than just the gut-wrenching sound has been sucked away. Soulless. Dead.

My shoulder’s on fire, like it’s being roasted from the inside out. Not a clean wound. The bullet’s in me somewhere. Blood squirms between my fingers as I try to stop the bleeding.

Glass crunches underfoot around the bend. Does the guard know I’m shot? He must, the way I cried out, but he can’t know the extent.

My pistol is a few inches beyond my feet.

Slowly, slowly, I ease a toe forward, gritting my teeth because my nerves are screaming. I hook the gun and slide it back toward me. The sound of metal scraping against the tile is loud enough to wake the dead.

Crunch, crunch. The guard’s gun comes into view. He’s still being cautious, regardless of whether he thinks I’m hit or not.

My left hand leaves my shoulder to bleed.

Grips the gun, forefinger resting lightly on the trigger.

Breathe in, breathe out, through my teeth.

Heart racing—ignore it.

Drops of sweat quivering on my brow—doesn’t matter.

Focus.

The guard steps out and fires, a heavy blast meant to end this game, but I’ve already shrunk back another foot and his bullets sing and chirp and glance harmlessly off the wall.

The moment he stops shooting, I push to my feet and rush forward, one arm damaged and dangling, and the other held steady in front of me.

He’s reloading, scrambling to snap a new clip into his weapon.

I aim—

—point blank at his chest—

—and I fire.

He’s thrown back by the speed of the bullet ripping through his skin and veins and bones and heart.

His gun clatters to the floor, along with the clip.

I approach slowly, my gun never leaving its target. The guard’s not breathing, not moving. His eyes are open, unblinking. Dead.

I’ve made too much noise. Surely Lecter will be gone, having escaped through some back door. Or he’s waiting inside with ten more guards. But either way, I have no choice. This is my mission, my destiny.

The heavy wooden door stands before me. What lies beyond?

My right arm is useless, so I have to stuff the gun in the back of my pants and use my left hand to turn the handle. It’s unlocked and opens inward. Pushing it forward an inch, I grab my gun and kick it the rest of the way.

Crash! The heavy door reverberates off the inside wall, shuddering slightly.

It can’t be. It can’t. He’s there, waiting, just staring at me from across the large room, seemingly weaponless.

The man from the propaganda videos.

Lecter.

With a wave of his arm, he beckons me inside, like an old friend.

I aim my gun at the thickest part of his body and step inside, trying to guarantee I’ll hit him with the first shot. Just a step closer and there’s no way I’ll miss.

Before I can react, I feel the cold press of metal against the side of my head.

“Drop the gun,” Tristan’s mother says.

Siena

Feve goes down, hit by a fire stick. Wilde’s got blood all on her front, bubbling from a deep slash ’cross her belly. Circ’s being held from behind while another Glassy smashes his face. They don’t have fire sticks, so they musta lost ’em during the battle. Even Skye looks ’bout ready to topple over, though she’s still giving the Glassy baggards scorch.

Me, I’m surrounded by three Glassies. At any moment, they could send fire and magic shooting from their sticks, finish me off. But instead they’re having fun with it, laughing and poking at me with the knives on the ends of their weapons. They think they’ve won.

I dance away from a jab and they roar with laughter.

I duck a slash and they taunt. “This one’s still got fight in her! Might have to take her alive!”

But I won’t surrender. They ain’t taking me alive—that’s one thing I know.

With a wild yell, I leap at the one who said that, slash at him with my blade. He tries to jump back, but I’m too quick and I slice open his throat. His last words bubble out through his neck.

Then I stumble over my own two feet, fall, almost on top of the man I just killed. Even as I land face down in the durt, I know it’ll be my last clumsy, awkward moment, the last time my two left feet trip me up. But I roll anyway, ’cause if there’s anything I learned from my big sister, it’s that you hafta keep fighting, never give up.

Crack!

The sound of a fire stick exploding rings out so close I know I’m dead. I don’t feel nothing, so I keep rolling.

And then:

A shout. And another. Some close, some far. What’s happening? Why ain’t I dead?

I look up and there’re hundreds of boots running through the dust, thundering onto the battlefield. Familiar boots. It takes me a moment to place where I’ve seen ’em ’fore.

Water country.

The kind they wear on the decks of the ships.

The Soakers have arrived.

Still not dead, I push to my feet and see one of my tormentors taking aim at the newcomers. Rage filling me from gut to heart to head, I charge him, stab him from behind, not caring whether that’s fair.

He drops his searin’ stick. The third Glassy shoots fire from his stick and a Soaker falls in front of him, but there are ten more to take his place and they swallow him whole, trampling his bleeding carcass as they surge forward, moving on to other enemies.

I whirl ’round, the desert spinning like a dust devil: dead bodies and injured folks crying out and the Soakers finishing off the Glassies. And Skye, still fighting with ’em, killing another enemy, her brown skin glistening with sweat and exertion.

Somehow I always knew she’d be the last of us fighting.

I spot Grunt, who’s pulling himself to his feet, staring in amazement as the remaining Glassies flee for the safety of the city. He’s hobbling, one leg bleeding heavily from a hole near the top. He spots me and in his face I see horror and relief and pain, and the man who saved my life. I’ll never look at him the same way.

I throw myself at him, and almost knock him over, but his sheer girth holds up my skinny frame. He’s sweaty and durty and even less attractive’n usual, but I hug him with everything I got left. “Help me find Circ,” I say to him, my chest heaving. We pick through the bodies. Each one I turn over chips away at my heart. My people. Dead. So many dead. The tears are flowing down my face, hot and dripping, but I keep looking, ’cause I hafta see him one way or t’other.

Grunt calls out and I stumble toward him, fearing the worst.

My legs give out when I see the body, which is too small to be Circ.

I slump over her, bawling, unable to hold back the tears flooding from my eyes. And then Skye’s ’side me too, dripping all over her—all over Wilde.

She’s barely breathing, her chest rising and falling in a way that ain’t natural. The slash ’cross her stomach is so wide and deep it almost looks fake.

She’s trying to speak, her eyes dry, her tongue moistening her lips. “You’ll…”

“Don’t,” Skye says, choking.

“…always be my sisters.”

“No,” Skye says, but it’s too late, ’cause Wilde’s eyes are closed and she’s gone. The sun goddess took her.

We huddle t’gether, crying, crying, pouring everything we got left out of the deepest pits of our souls.

Skye, always the stronger one, stops ’fore I do. She kisses my forehead, tucks my head to her chest. “We hafta find Feve and Circ,” she says.