“He wants Malaki to destroy the mine,” Dayo said slowly. “But why?”

“I don’t know,” I said through gritted teeth. “But he’s an idiot! If Malaki sets off an explosion, the Crocodile will have a lot more than the mine to answer for. Doesn’t he know volcanoes can explode for miles?”

“Feed their stolen wealth to the flames,” the Crocodile cried, pumping a fist before leaping down into the crowd. “And now we must go. Take your children; go, take cover! Watch from afar as justice takes its course!” But to the man’s apparent chagrin, many of the villagers ignored him. Instead, they turned worshipful eyes to the mountain, numb to the Crocodile’s pleas for their safety.

With a tremor that shook the ground, Malaki spoke:

“IRON. IRON. ALWAYS—THEY DEVOUR. MY HEART—MY HEART—”

She bellowed in a dialect I barely made out—some form of Arit that had died centuries ago. Ash poured from her lips, making the back of my throat smart. Malaki let out a hoarse, thundering cry, as if speaking hurt her.

“SO—MANY—STORIES,” she rasped. “END THEM—END THEM ALL—”

And from the yawning caverns of her eyes, lava flowed in rivulets.

“Run!” I hollered. “She’s going to blow. She’s—” I seized Dayo’s arm and tried to tow him up the path. But he wrenched away.

“Tar.” His dark eyes fixed on Malaki with pity and wonder. “I think . . . I think she’s crying.” And then Dayo—my large-hearted, brave, and utterly stupid better half—threw himself up the side of the mountain.

As I watched in disbelief, he scrambled up the rock face, calling out over the hubbub. “Malaki, what do you want?” His burn scar prickled with sweat. “Tell us. Let us know how to help you!”

“That thing doesn’t need help!” I shrilled, clawing at his tunic to bring him back down. “We do!” But it was too late. The moment Dayo said Malaki’s name, the alagbato paused, turning to stare in wild confusion.

Then a massive hand descended from the sky, blotting out my vision, and snatched up me and Dayo in a swift, bone-crushing fist.

My head snapped back, then forward.

Thérèse’s nausea potion threatened to immediately resurface. I screamed, clinging to Dayo, and in turn he clung to the alagbato’s fingers, trembling . . . but still he met Malaki’s gaze.

“Please,” he said, gagging on smoke as Malaki brought us to her ancient, smoldering face. “We . . . we just want to help.”

Lava continued to stream down Malaki’s cheeks. “ALWAYS—MORE,” she said, in a hot, strangled rasp. “FALLING—HERE. FILL—MOUNTAIN. PAIN—MORE—STORIES.”

For the first time, Malaki’s eyes locked on mine. We both stilled, girl and alagbato, trapped in mutual horror and confusion. I held my breath, preparing for an early journey to the Underworld . . . but just as Kameron predicted . . . a spark of familiarity lit Malaki’s face.

Species smell their own.

“STORIES,” she rasped, though this time her tone sounded focused. Determined. “YOU . . . TAKE THEM.”