Two hundred rounds per minute. So this was what a modern army could do.

The monsters didn’t seem to know what was happening. They whirled and beat the air, driven into a tizzy of bloodlust, hunger, and fear, tearing at each other in their confusion and desire to escape. Their screams … Baghra had once told me the volcra’s ancestors were human. I could have sworn I heard it in their cries.

The gunfire died away. My ears rang. I looked up and saw smears of black blood and bits of flesh on the canvas sails. A cold sweat had broken out over my brow. I thought I might be ill.

The quiet lasted only moments before Tolya threw back his head and gave a triumphant howl. The rest of the crew joined in, barking and yapping. I wanted to scream at all of them to shut up.

“Do you think we can draw another flock?” one of the Squallers asked.

“Maybe,” Sturmhond said. “But we should probably head east. It’s almost dawn, and I don’t want us to be spotted.”

Yes, I thought. Let’s head east. Let’s get out of here. My hands shook. The wound at my shoulder burned and throbbed. What was wrong with me? The volcra were monsters. They would have torn us apart without a thought. I knew that. And yet, I could still hear their cries.

“There are more of them,” Mal said suddenly. “A lot more.”

“How do you know?” asked Sturmhond.

“I just do.”

Sturmhond hesitated. Between the goggles, his hat, and the high collar, it was impossible to read his expression. “Where?” he said finally.

“Just a little north,” Mal said. “That way.” He pointed into the dark, and I had the urge to slap his hand. Just because he could track the volcra didn’t mean he had to.

Sturmhond called the bearing. My heart sank.

The Hummingbird dipped its wings and turned as Mal called out directions and Sturmhond corrected our course. I tried to focus on the light, on the comforting presence of my power, tried to ignore the sick feeling in my gut.

Sturmhond took us lower. My light shimmered over the Fold’s colorless sand and touched the shadowy bulk of a wrecked sandskiff.

A tremor passed through me as we drew closer. The skiff had been broken in half. One of its masts had snapped in two, and I could just make out the remnants of three ragged black sails. Mal had led us to the ruins of the Darkling’s skiff.

The little bit of calm I’d managed to pull together vanished.

The Hummingbird sank lower. Our shadow passed over the splintered deck.

I felt the tiniest bit of relief. Illogical as it was, I’d expected to see the bodies of the Grisha I’d left behind spread out on the deck, the skeletons of the King’s emissary and the foreign ambassadors huddled in a corner. But of course they were long gone, food for the volcra, their bones scattered over the barren reaches of the Fold.