Then he rolls right back over, and I’m up—I’m free just long enough to rip the adhesive off with my teeth and slap the thermometer down on the beast’s neck, where neither his jaws nor his stubby arms can reach it.

The Reckoner lunges predictably when I let go, but I dance out of the way and run for the opposite end of the tank, crawling over the barrier as I try to catch the breath I lost. To my surprise, there are hands there to meet me, hands that guide me out of the dangerous pool and onto the damp deck. Santa Elena passes me an approving nod from the other side of the tank, and my stomach twists.

I don’t want her approval. I want to get out of here. My head throbs—I raise a hand to it, and it comes away bloody.

Oh. Right.

Now that I’m safe from the pup’s temper tantrum, I can finally take stock of what he’s done to me. About half of my hair is missing or shorn. I probe carefully at my scalp until I can be sure of it. I drop my blood-soaked hand to my chest and press carefully against each rib. I’ve seen trainers with their chests crushed get right out of the tank like nothing’s wrong, fueled by the adrenaline that comes from being in the water with a killer beast. For all I know, I could be dying right now, so I’m not taking any chances.

I press on my sternum, and three sharp pains cut through my sides.

They all must see it in my face. The captain strides over to me, Swift on her tail. “Get Reinhardt down here,” she barks to one of the cabin boys on the back wall. I cough, and her attention snaps back to me. “Sit down. Stay as still as possible.”

“Looks worse than it is,” I gasp.

Her eyes flash. “Don’t lie to me, Cassandra. It doesn’t benefit either of us. Now sit.”

And I guess I’m still just a dog on her leash, because I sink down onto the damp floor.

Swift crouches next to me, her brow furrowed. “Why’d you go back in there?” she mutters. “After it got hold of you—why’d you go back?”

It’s starting to hurt to breathe. The adrenaline is wearing off. “Had to—” I hiss. “Had to make sure the airways were clear … and get the thermometer on. Temperature has to be … monitored.”

“Right, but that thing was about to kill you.”

“If that thing dies, I’m dead anyway,” I shoot back, as loud as I can manage. “And you are too, so you’d better be thanking me.”