Something struck me between the shoulder blades. I was weightless for a moment, suspended in darkness. Then I hit the ground. My wrist bent back and snapped. I bit back a scream half a second too late.

The gun was gone. There was no chance of finding it now. I could hear the thing—it was near me, it was on me. With my uninjured hand, I reached into my boot and found the hunting knife.

I forgot about my spirit. I stabbed into soft mush. Wet ran down my wrist. Buzz. Another stab, two stabs. Buzz. Buzz. Things kept hitting my face: small, round things. I blinked them from my eyes, coughed them from my mouth. Fingers clawed at my neck, and hot breath stank against my cheek. Stab, stab. Buzz. Teeth clashed near my ear. I stabbed up, back into the flesh, and pulled down. The blade tore through muscle and gristle.

Then it was gone. I was free. My hands were coated to the wrist in a syrupy, foul-smelling liquid. Bile surged into my throat, burning my mouth and nose.

The torch lay about ten feet away. I crawled toward it, my broken wrist cradled to my chest. I’d broken it before: it was throbbing like a bitch. I dragged myself along on one arm, holding the knife between my teeth, drenched in sour sweat. The smell of corpse wrenched at my stomach, sending painful spasms up my throat.

I grabbed the torch and swung it behind me. I could see dark shapes between the trees. More footsteps. More Buzzers. No.

My head was pounding. My vision blurred. I don’t want to die. Possessing the butterfly had weakened me much more than I’d anticipated. Run. I dug into my jacket, pulled out the syringe. My last resort. The flare gun was not a resort. I wouldn’t fire. I would not lose this game.

ScionAid Auto-Inject Adrenaline. Much stronger than the diluted cocktail of drugs Jax used to keep me awake. I punched the needle through my trousers, straight into my thigh.

Sharp pain. I cursed, but kept the needle in. A spring-loaded jolt of adrenaline shot into the muscle. Scion adrenaline was designed to wake up your whole body; not just to help it function, but to wipe out pain and make you stronger. Gillies were wired on the stuff constantly. My muscles became supple. My legs grew stronger. I launched myself off the ground and broke into a sprint. The adrenaline had no effect on my sixth sense, but it made it easier to concentrate on the æther.

The Buzzer had a dark, cavernous dreamscape, a black hole in the æther. I wouldn’t get far if I tried to break into it. I still tried, not quite leaving my body.