Galen grasped Ranka by the collar of her shirt and pulled her to her feet. Wind leapt to life beneath her, caressing her skin, churning up, up, up, keeping her aloft. Galen hauled Percy and Aramis over each shoulder, his right hand still moving in circles, somehow commanding both the winds that now held them upright and the spiral that kept the Hands at bay. He took two steps forward and crashed to his knees with a painful crack. Fury sparked in his eyes, and he stood again.

“Ranka,” Galen said flatly. “I need you to take Aramis. Can you do that?”

She nodded, even as lights danced in front of her eyes. Ranka took half of Aramis’s weight, gasping as her wounds tore. She was cold. So cold. Minutes. She had only minutes left.

“We need help.” Galen lifted Percy onto his back and took Aramis’s other arm around his neck. “I need you to find help, Ranka. Can you do that for me?”

“The city,” Ranka croaked. “Bring it to me.”

The winds swirled again, gentler this time, rushing over her cheeks, her lips, her tongue. She leaned into it, sorting through the blood, rot, and decay that pulsed stronger with each passing night. She breathed in, searching, and there—the sting of polished metal, old leather, and salt.

“Guards,” she croaked.

Galen looked back at Foldrey. Beyond him, a few Hands were picking themselves up, blood dripping from their noses, their ears, their lips. Pain flashed across Galen’s face. His eyes darted from Foldrey to his sister, from Foldrey to the Hands beyond. Galen sobbed, turned, and threw out a hand. A blast of wind slammed directly into an old home teetering behind some of the Hands. The building groaned and collapsed, taking out the townhouse beside it, and the one beside that, pulling down long-abandoned clotheslines strung between their windows and old, rotting verandas someone had once lovingly built when this street was a place of life. The Hands screamed as the building collapsed on top of them. Blood filled the air.

Galen turned to Ranka, sweat pouring from his face. “Which way?”

He trusted her, though he shouldn’t have.

Ranka latched on to the scent and jerked her chin east.

The wind kept roaring.

Together they limped away, and left Foldrey Wolfe to die. Twice Galen sank to his knees, veins popping in his forehead. Both times he shoved himself back up. He coughed up blood as his lungs strained under the pull of his magic.

Black tunneled Ranka’s vision. There was so much poison in her. She’d lost too much blood. She swayed and staggered, falling to her knees. So tired.

Wind lifted her back up. “Get up, Ranka.”

Her hands. She couldn’t feel her hands. Her skin was burning, burning, but the rest of her was so cold.