“If you betray us, I will make you disappear, piece by piece. There won’t be anywhere in the world for you to run where I can’t find you. Am I clear?”

Ranka held carefully still. “Crystal.”

Aramis cut her free, and Ranka’s head spun as she rubbed the feeling back into her wrists.

“If you’re going to be a part of this team, there can be no secrets. No lies. Is there anything you need to tell us, witch girl?” Aramis’s gaze lingered. “Anything at all?”

It would be so easy to let it slip free—she could tell them about Ongrum, the Skra, their mission, Galen’s impending death. But this girl, these people, were not her responsibility. They were a means to an end. Once the winalin was dealt with—once her coven was safe—she owed them nothing.

“No,” Ranka lied, meeting their eyes one by one. “I’m with you, until the very end.”

Part Two: Monster: Twenty-Five Days Remain

PART TWO MONSTER TWENTY-FIVE DAYS REMAIN

19

FOR NEARLY TWO WEEKS THEY heard nothing of winalin witches. The only rumors that filtered into the palace were those spread by the Hands. Ranka tried not to listen as the twins read off the accounts of monsters roaming the streets at night. Whispers had begun to trickle in—of the freshly dead dug up from their graves, only to be found miles away, half gnawed and dismembered. Of missing pets snatched at dusk, and at night, from the mines beneath the city—rumors of screams.

The rumors weren’t limited just to the winalin witches. They claimed the Bloodwinn was actually a demon, that she’d bewitched Galen, and he was dooming them all. Reports came in that the ranks of the Hands were swelling. Every morning new doorways were marked with gold pins as the citizens of Seaswept turned to zealots in their streets to protect them from the monster in their palace.

If Seaswept had been unwelcoming before, now it was outright hostile.

And yet—a strange peace had settled within the palace walls. Ranka spent her mornings beside the sea, running and stretching and lifting in the heat. Fall was nearly two weeks away, and Yeva’s death hung over her like a shadow, touching everything. No word came from the Skra.

Every morning Ranka trained, and every morning she reminded herself that Percy and Aramis were a means to an end. Sure, Percy was a lot friendlier, and even Aramis had traded open threats for glares and frosty silence, but they could never be her allies. She was only using them for information. She was a prisoner, she hated them, and she wanted nothing more than to see them ruined.

Except sometimes—she didn’t.

“Hey, Ranka,” Percy said. “How many of these do you think I can balance?”