“We should leave before he discovers them,” Malachi said. “The farther away we are, the safer we’ll be.”

None of us is safe.

No one would be safe until Asa was dead.

But, Nomi realized, a weight settling on her chest, Asa’s death had become more than a grim necessity to her. It had become a desire. She wanted him dead. She wanted him to suffer.

She wanted to be the one to make him suffer.

TWENTY-ONE

SERINA

SERINA’S BATTLE CRY echoed across the pier and was taken up by the women charging forth behind her, until the banshee shrieks vibrated in her ears and the blood pounded in her temples. She and the others swept down the path toward the soldiers.

The men scrambled to change their focus, but most of them didn’t have time to reload and re-aim their weapons before the wave of women crashed over them.

Serina tried to shut off her brain, tried to focus on the muscle memory of Ember’s training and the fury of revenge. She tried not to be afraid.

To her right, Ember slashed with her two long knives, her face hardened to marble. A spatter of blood stood out against her pale cheek. Mystifyingly, the man before Serina swung his firearm at her head instead of shooting it. She blocked the blow with her arm and thrust her knife into his belly. He tipped forward, groaning. She yanked the blade free and clambered over him.

The next paused for a split second before raising his weapon, and it was all Serina needed to strike him down. Beside her, Mirror screamed in a soldier’s face. His eyes widened, but he didn’t immediately attack. What was he waiting for? As with Serina, the hesitation gave Mirror time to mount her own offense, spearing him through the throat.

It was like that with many of the men; it was as if they’d been caught flat-footed, not really expecting a fight. Maybe they hadn’t been prepared for their enemy to be female. Whatever it was, their doubt—their hesitation—was costing them their lives.

Serina dodged a half-hearted punch and drove her own fist into a man’s groin. He collapsed, clutching himself, and she slashed his throat.

From above, the markswomen urged them on. They had no ammunition left, but a couple threw rocks down at the soldiers on the outskirts of the skirmish. Serina noticed at least one man fall after a chunk of stone struck his head.

Someone grabbed her by the shoulder, his fingers digging into her old, half-healed wound. Her knees threatened to buckle. He drew back his other hand as if to punch her, but then he paused too, confusion washing across his features. “Why are you like this?” he said, sounding oddly distressed. “Women don’t fight.”

Serina thrust her knife into his stomach and swept his legs.

“We do,” she muttered, moving on.