The monster babbled and cursed in a language she didn’t understand. He swatted at the knife in him while the flames ate the shelves and spread to the sack of cornmeal.

She should flee. She knew she should. But the monster’s flailing hand managed to bump the knife handle just so, and it slid out a ways. Blood drenched his beautiful robe, but the knife was barely sticking in him now. The girl had not killed him enough.

She darted in. Grabbed the knife handle. Yanked it out.

And plunged it right back in.

It scraped bone this time; she felt that scrape down to the roots of her teeth. He spun around to face her, but his knees buckled and he fell back against the wall. The knife point thrust out of his abdomen, making a tent of his lovely, bloodstained robe.

“You . . .” he gasped. “Disgusting half-breed.” His back scraped the wall as he slid to the floor.

His amulet was still glowing, its heat creating an ever-widening circle of char on his robe. “You rotting piece of . . .”

The sorcerer’s head lolled against his chest. Fire spread around them; its heat seared the girl’s face. She didn’t have much time.

Yet she hesitated. Maybe she still hadn’t quite killed the monster. If so, he would burn alive in the next few minutes.

Shimmering blood formed a pool around him. Its edges lapped the base of the collapsed shelf, now a bonfire. The blood sizzled, and a scent like cooked meat filled the air. She knew exactly what she was smelling, but she hadn’t eaten all day and she couldn’t stop her belly’s instinctive rumble or keep saliva from drenching her tongue.

Her hands flew to her nose and mouth, and she backed away from the glowing conflagration, the monster’s cooking body, and the final scraps of Mamá’s winter stores.

Her back banged against the ladder. She whirled, reached for the rungs, and yanked herself up as fast as she could.

She had to flee. No one who sassed an animagus—much less attacked and killed one—got away with it. She’d get no help from the village; she and Mamá were barely tolerated as it was. She had to pack as much as she could, as fast as she could, and get far, far away.

It meant leaving Mamá’s body behind. Their tiny cottage. The vegetable garden. All the things she loved. The only things she loved.

She stared at her mamá’s limp hand, unable to move. Smoke curled up through the planks of the floor. Her lungs and throat were starting to sting.

“Run, my sky,” she imagined her mother saying. “You know how much I want you to live, yes?”

Well, she had wanted her mamá to live too. Grief swelled inside her, until it exploded into a single gut-wrenching sob.

But that was all she allowed herself. She wiped frantically at her eyes to clear them of tears and stiffened her cheeks and put on her big-girl face.