The marshals rolled aside and ran a safe distance away long before Thierry’s left hand made contact.

Green light exploded from Thierry’s palm, and the creature’s death scream rattled my eardrums. Its thrashing intensified, and its remaining limb swiped at her, but she hung on and ramped up the light show. The blackish skin peeled where she touched it, flaking off and fluttering on the hot breeze. Joints ripped like torn seams, revealing orange flesh with black veins. The creature gurgled once more then fell silent except for the hissing of seared meat. Thierry wobbled where she stood, but Shaw was there to catch her when she collapsed.

I had to move my tongue around to find enough moisture to swallow. I stared at my hand, flexed my fingers and wondered what the hell I had been thinking borrowing an unknown source of magic from a legacy. Thierry had peeled that creature like the skin off a grape. It was a miracle acting as her conduit, even for those few seconds, hadn’t fried me.

Whistling brought my attention back to Rodriguez. His shirt was fisted in his hand, and he walked away, cleaning his blade with the damp fabric while baby-talking to his sword. Flipper remained motionless on the ground. Another fae—a medic I hoped—leaned over her. She had thumbed Flipper’s eyes open and pressed a palm to the girl’s frail chest. Out of energy, I dragged one foot after the other until I reached her side and collapsed to my knees. Her arm extended toward me, fingers lax. My hand hovered an inch above hers, so close I felt the damp coolness of her skin, but I recoiled.

Comforting or not, Flipper wouldn’t thank me if she woke and discovered that I had touched her and learned her secrets.

“Is she breathing?” I asked the medic, who nodded in the affirmative. “Okay, Flipper, so you’re not dead. That’s good. Not dead we can work with.” Giddy, I sank back on my heels. This was why I had become a marshal, why I had accepted the Earthen Conclave commission. I wanted to prevent grim-faced marshals from knocking on doors in the wee hours of the morning carrying a burden that would crush the recipient of their news. So often, as with Charybdis, I failed. But not today. Today I had made a difference. “Can you open your eyes? Something?”

“Harlow.”

I frowned. “What?”

“My name—” her words slurred, “—is not Flipper.”

I wiped a trickle of warm crimson from under my nose. I tasted copper sliding down the back of my throat as I rubbed my face clean on the tail of my shirt. Staggering to my feet, I held still until the ground stopped bucking and jumping underfoot, then scowled at the kraken. It was still dead. I had just expended too much energy then stood too quickly.

“Be right back,” I promised.