The Hummingbird banked starboard. My light pierced the murky depths of the broken hull. The screams began.

“Saints,” Mal swore, and raised his rifle.

Three large volcra cringed beneath the skiff’s hull, their backs to us, their wings spread wide. But it was what they were trying to shield with their bodies that sent a spike of fear and revulsion quaking through me: a sea of wriggling, twisted shapes, tiny, glistening arms, little backs split by the transparent membranes of barely formed wings. They mewled and whimpered, slithering over each other, trying to get away from the light.

We’d uncovered a nest.

The crew had gone silent. There was no barking or yapping now.

Sturmhond brought the ship around in another low arc. Then he shouted, “Tolya, Tamar, grenatki.”

The twins rolled out two cast-iron shells and hefted them to the edge of the rail.

Another wave of dread washed over me. They’re volcra, I reminded myself. Look at them. They’re monsters.

“Squallers, on my signal,” Sturmhond said grimly. “Fuses!” he shouted, then “Gunners, drop heavy!”

The instant the shells were released, Sturmhond roared, “Now!” and cut the ship’s wheel hard to the right.

The Squallers threw up their arms, and the Hummingbird shot skyward.

A silent second passed, then a massive boom sounded beneath us. The heat and force of the explosion struck the Hummingbird in a powerful gust.

“Steady!” Sturmhond bellowed.

The little craft foundered wildly, swinging like a pendulum beneath its canvas wings. Mal planted a hand to either side of me, shielding my body with his as I fought to keep my balance and hold the light alive around us.

Finally, the ship stopped swaying and settled into a smooth arc, tracing a wide circle high above the burning wreckage of the skiff.

I was shaking hard. The air stank of charred flesh. My lungs felt singed, and each breath seared my chest. Sturmhond’s crew were howling and barking again. Mal joined in, raising his rifle in the air in triumph. Above the cheering, I could hear the volcra’s screams, helpless and human to my ears, the keening of mothers mourning their young.

I closed my eyes. It was all I could do to keep from clamping my hands to my ears and crumpling to the deck.

“Enough,” I whispered. No one seemed to hear me. “Please,” I rasped. “Mal—”

“You’ve become quite the killer, Alina.”

That cool voice. My eyes flew open.

The Darkling stood before me, his black kefta rippling over the Hummingbird’s deck. I gasped and stepped back, staring wildly around me, but no one was watching. They were whooping and shouting, gazing down at the flames.

“Don’t worry,” the Darkling said gently. “It gets easier with time. Here, I’ll show you.”

He slid a knife from the sleeve of his kefta, and before I could cry out, he slashed toward my face. I threw my hands up to defend myself, a scream tearing loose from my throat. The light vanished, and the ship was plunged into darkness. I fell to my knees, huddling on the deck, ready to feel the piercing sting of Grisha steel.