She hit him harder than she needed to. Percy reeled backward, his cheek already beginning to redden in the faint outline of her hand. His eyes flicked over her several times, round with disbelief, and Ranka watched as the last bit of faith he’d had in her slowly shriveled and died.

Now Percy looked at her with nothing but loathing. Her enemy at last.

She might have laughed in any other circumstances. She had gotten terribly good at that lately, it seemed—making an enemy out of everyone around her.

Ranka fixed her attention ahead. “Let’s go.”

“They’ve got them in the dungeons.” Tafa shuddered. “It’s so creepy down there.”

Ranka made a noncommittal noise and did everything to quell the relief pulsing through her. She hauled Percy upright and stepped after Tafa, ignoring the Murknen witch, who still eyed her warily. Once they found Aramis, Ranka would set both of them free, and then she could find Galen. She knew better than to hope they’d want her help after this, but so long as the three of them made it out, she’d gladly face Ongrum’s wrath.

Footsteps sounded ahead. A Skra tore around the corner and paled at the sight of Ranka. “You—”

Ongrum was awake. She’d called her witches, and they were coming for blood.

Ranka’s time was up.

60

RANKA LUNGED.

Without her blood-magic, she was so much slower. So much weaker. Only surprise gave her an edge. She brought the girl to the ground and cracked her head against the floor. Blood pooled from the witch’s ear, and Ranka rose, her hands trembling. When her blood-magic made her hurt someone, it stole away the sounds, the feeling of them under her hand, the knowledge of what she’d done. But now this girl was bleeding—now she might not wake up—

“Ranka,” a familiar voice behind her whispered. “What was that?”

Ranka turned, her ears ringing. She hesitated over the unconscious witch. Tafa and the Murknen witch stared at her, mouths hanging open in shock. Behind her, the faint sound of more feet pounding on tile came closer.

So much for a silent escape.

Ranka’s hand inched toward the witch’s belt.

Tafa’s mouth trembled. “Ranka, what was that?”

“Listen to me,” Ranka said, her heart in her throat. “Ongrum is lying to us.”

“I knew something was off,” the Murknen spat. She whipped a knife from her belt and brought two fingers to her lips. A piercing whistle ripped down the hall, and the Murknen stalked forward. “Pathetic.”

Somewhere, in the distance, three whistles answered in turn.

Shit.

Ranka palmed the girl’s knife. Percy sat up straighter, an interested light in his eyes, and Ranka gave him a hard stare, praying he understood.

Tafa looked between them. “You can’t be serious, Ra.”