Margot let herself slump to one side. She couldn’t run from this. More bodies crept into view with every second. There had to be more than a dozen of them. Men, women, their bodies broken, their lips sewn shut. Their circle tightened around Margot like a noose.

And among them, two that were running. A light bobbed between them, cutting through the shadows, putting the grass into harsh relief.

The closest figure moved with a limp.

Kant.

Margot tried to rise to meet him, but her energy was gone. She was slowly turning numb; even the pain of her arm barely reached her. She managed a twitch, to rise an inch higher, but then dropped back.

“There,” Kant called, but there was none of the panic in his voice that Margot had expected. “I’ve got her.”

The second figure slowed, turning in a half circle, his heavy flashlight flashing across the field and the long-limbed bodies pacing toward him.

Kant dropped to his knees beside Margot. She tried to speak, but her tongue wouldn’t move. He put his arms around her back, pressing her close against him, then lifted her, carrying her against his shoulder like a child.

“Behind you,” Andrew called.

“I see it.” Kant turned, his gait switching to a loping jog. Each step jarred Margot. Her arm, pressed between herself and Kant, flared with blinding pain.

But they were moving. She watched them pass through the open gate in the flashes of Andrew’s light. Her head rolled, limp, and Kant’s shaggy hair tangled across her face as she stared back across the lawn stretching up to her house.

The tall man still followed. His unblinking, white eyes never looked away as he paced after her in long, staggered steps, the flap on his arm catching moonlight every time it peeled open.

Then the pain and exhaustion overwhelmed her, and her consciousness dropped away.

28

Hazy lights bled through Margot’s closed lids. Something tugged at her arm as the soft slice of scissors wormed its way into her awareness.

She forced her eyes open a crack. A tall, wiry woman bent over Margot. Her hair had been clipped back tightly from her face, and in the dull light, her skin looked almost like basalt. She worked the scissors along Margot’s blouse sleeve, cutting it off.

“Leave it. I’m too tired,” Margot tried to say, but the words came out as a mumble.

The woman glanced at her, a tight frown drawing sharp lines around her eyes, then returned her attention to the arm.

Margot blinked, trying to draw the room into focus, but colors and shapes blurred. The space was lit by a gas lamp, she was fairly sure. Opposite, Kant sat, his elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging limp between them. His shaggy hair had half fallen across his face, hiding his expression. Another man—Andrew, she thought—paced.