Beside her, Crier drew the crossbow. “They’re too fast,” she muttered, frustration bleeding into her voice. “They never stop moving. I don’t know if I can—I don’t trust myself not to hit one of the humans.”

She lost her chance entirely when the world exploded into blue.

The force of the blast knocked Ayla backward. She hit the ground hard, rock digging into her spine, ears ringing so loud she couldn’t hear anything else. The rebels wouldn’t have thrown a powder bomb so close to the others—had one of the Shades gotten their hands on one? Everything was blue smoke. It was too thick, an impenetrable wall of blue, as if Ayla had suddenly plunged to the bottom of the ocean. Where was Crier? Blind, half deafened, terrified that Crier was lying unconscious somewhere, Ayla felt her way sideways and down, fingernails scrabbling at the rock. Down, down—she slipped, stomach lurching, and slid down the rock face for a few breathless moments before catching herself again, finding hand- and footholds. The air was slightly clearer now, smoke dissipating, and she could make out a large roundish boulder about twenty feet down the mountainside. A potential hiding spot. Spiderlike, clinging to the rock, Ayla made her way down toward it.

A flash of movement to her right.

Then something barreled into her, knocking her off her feet for the second time in five minutes. They separated when they hit the ground and Ayla scrambled upright, searching wildly for whatever had attacked her. A Watcher? A confused rebel?

Worse?

Her attacker appeared out of the blue smoke.

“You,” Ayla breathed. “I know you. Rosi.”

Crier’s Automa friend, the one they’d visited on the mourning tour. Rosi. Ayla was frozen for an instant, and that was all it took. Rosi leaped for her again, and this time they didn’t break apart. Ayla couldn’t even scream, she and Rosi were rolling over each other down the mountainside, a wild, dizzying tumble, Ayla’s head cracking against a rock so hard that black spots popped up in front of her eyes. Rosi’s fingernails were ruined and sharp and she was clawing at Ayla’s skin, drawing blood, and then they came to a stop and Ayla was scratching, kicking, smashing the heel of her palm into Rosi’s face, mind blank with panic. Somehow, she managed to wriggle her way out from under Rosi, but only for a moment; Rosi grabbed her ankle, yanking her back. Rosi’s eyes were pure black, even where the whites should have been. Twin voids. Like the other monsters, her veins were raised and black. Her blue-black tongue lolled horribly, her teeth stained and mossy, awful awful awful, a living corpse. She jerked her head sideways and Ayla couldn’t help but gasp: part of Rosi’s skull was caved in, rotting skin peeling back around it, black blood welling up. She must have hit her head during their fall, even worse than Ayla.

“Shit, shit,” Ayla heard herself gasping, wrenching her ankle from Rosi’s grip, trying to kick her in the face, missing. She should be dead by now, Rosi should have torn her throat out, but then Rosi tried to lunge after her and Ayla saw what was keeping her alive: Rosi’s body was just . . . broken. Her right shin was shattered so badly the white bone had pierced through the skin, and her wrists looked broken too, the hands flapping oddly. She was moving like a puppet, like her brain was issuing commands and her body was trying to obey, but all its reactions were clumsy and delayed.