“The vaccine,” she whispered. “They’re looking for the cure—and Aramis is down there. Someone else must have tipped them off.”

Percy’s eyes darted from her to Galen and hardened. “Go.”

“But—”

“I can protect Galen. Go, Ranka.”

Ranka took one last look at them—and then she was running. The roar of fire came again, followed by the screams of the witches who’d once been the only family she’d ever known. Ranka kept running.

All she could think of was Aramis. Aramis, who would sooner die than let the Skra destroy her work.

Aramis, alone.

52

THE SUNRA ESTATE HAD COLLAPSED into chaos.

Blood clouded everything as Ranka tore through the eastern wing. A woman screamed to her left, sobbing as a witch aimed a knife at her heart. Humans wearing gold pins lay dying in the hall, and witches wrestled with one another on the ground, screaming curses as they fought for their lives. Everywhere Ranka looked, she found death.

She kept running.

The stables reared up in front of her. Horses tugged at their reins, eyes rolling, whickering with panic at the stench of blood. They’d likely not survive on their own, but they had a better chance in Seaswept than with the Skra. The Skra had no use for horses. They’d sooner butcher them for their meat than let good animals go to waste.

Ranka sliced through their restraints, set the horses loose, and hit the tunnels at a sprint.

Please, please, please.

By now she’d memorized the intricate path to the workshop. Her feet pounded in time with her frantic heart.

Right, right, then left, right, then straight, left, right.

The tunnel walls flashed by. Roaches skittered out of her way. The stench of corpses wafted around her, coupled with that sour rot, that reek of horror that had never belonged in this world or the next, and Ranka tried not to think of the rumors of the hungry creatures beneath Seaswept’s streets that grew more frequent each day. Was that a moan from somewhere down the tunnels—or just her fear-addled mind?

Again, Ranka reached for her blood-magic.

Again, nothing answered.

Without her magic pumping adrenaline through her, she was painfully slow. Her lungs burned, and her strides felt sloppy and weak. Still, she ran. The workshop reared ahead of her, and Ranka hurled her shoulder against the door. It flung open, and she exploded into the room, grasping for any kind of weapon—

“Ranka?”

Aramis stood in the center of the room, tears streaming down her face.

In front of her lay the Kerth they’d pinned all their hopes on.

She was dead.

The blisters had started to heal. There was a flush to her cheeks that hadn’t been there prior. Even in death, she looked less monstrous, like a part of the girl she’d been before had returned, before winalin won its battle.