“Shut up,” snaps Selwyn. The wounded boy struggles in Selwyn’s grip, but Selwyn holds him down without effort, without even looking. Selwyn’s gaze hasn’t left the flickering thing moving above their heads. After several pained breaths the boy releases a low moan. “The rest of you, over here with him.” The other three boys exchange glances in silent debate. “Now!” he barks, and they scurry together on hands and knees to sit next to their injured friend.

In that second, I realize I have a choice. I can go find Alice and Charlotte. Alice will be worried sick. I can leave, like Selwyn told me to. I can put my wall up again, this time against whatever is happening here with these kids I don’t know from a school I’ve barely started. I can hide my curiosity, just like After-Bree, just like my grief. Or I can stay. If this isn’t just a trick of grief, then what is it? Sweat streams down my forehead, stings my eyes. I bite my lip, weighing my options.

“As soon as I get them out of the way, it’s going to bolt,” Selwyn cautions.

“You don’t say?” Tor says dryly.

“Snark later. Hunt now.” Hunt? My breaths quicken.

“Pot, kettle, black…,” Tor huffs, but reaches over her shoulder for something I can’t see.

Any choice I had evaporates when silver smoke appears from nowhere. It writhes and coalesces around Selwyn like a living thing, wrapping his arms and chest, blurring his body. His amber eyes gleam—actually gleam—like dual suns, and the ends of his dark hair curl upward, topped by bright flames of blue and white. The fingers on his free hand flex and contort at his sides, as if they’re pulling and churning the air itself. Impossibly, he is both more terrifying and more beautiful than before.

Silver smoke materializes and surrounds the boys. They don’t even blink—because they can’t see it. But I can. And so can Selwyn and Tor.

When Tor takes a step back, I finally see what she’s holding: a dark metal rod curved in an arc. A downward snap and it extends—into a bow. A goddamn bow.

At the sight of her weapon, the taut football players shout and scatter like crabs.

Ignoring them, Tor pulls hard to extract a silver bowstring from one end. Strings the weapon with practiced fingers. Tests the tension. The girl I’d called prissy draws an arrow from a hidden quiver between her shoulder blades and nocks it without looking. Takes a breath—and in one powerful motion, pulls the bow up and the arrow back to her ear.

One of the players points a shaking finger. “What—”

“Where do you want it?” Tor asks, as if the boy had never spoken. Cords of muscle strain at her bicep, in her forearm.

Selwyn tilts his head, assessing the creature. “In the wing.”