“Chase,” Leo chokes.

“I always knew you had a soft spot for our guide,” Hemslock says.

“Gail Merkan said no,” I say quietly. “They all did.”

Hemslock eyes me again. The sneer has leached out of his face, leaving something far less human in its wake. “That ain’t my problem anymore,” he says, raises his gun at me, heedless that Chase’s standing between us, and fires again.

Something unspools itself from the ground and rises up. It’s a fast-growing balete tree with the same thickly intertwined roots, forming a shield between Chase, Askal, and me, as well as the bullet, which hits the center of the newly spawned clump of branches. It engulfs the ammunition until it becomes lost within the dense roots.

“What the f—” Hemslock begins.

More trees sprout up around us, leafless branches and dead twigs, furious and angry against the wind. Spindles lash out, the closest one striking Hemslock across the cheek, drawing blood. With loud curses, he turns on the offending branch, firing at where it’s thickest, puncturing it until its weight can no longer hold. With a loud crack, it topples to the ground.

Askal is howling. The rest of Hemslock’s men waste their bullets on the other moving trees, gunning them down before they can reshape themselves into the frightening creatures with the snapping mouths. Leo Gries throws his arms around both me and Chase, pushing us out of the line of fire and back toward the mess hall, with Askal close behind. I see the rest of the crew follow.

It feels like hours, though it only takes minutes. The gunshots finally stop.

Straw Hat is the first to look out through the window, nervously. “They killed those monsters,” he whispers. “Nothing is moving. There’s only branches and bark on the ground.”

I shift to look myself, ignoring Chase’s warning grip on my hand.

Hemslock is laughing. The sprawl of wreckage on the ground from this vantage point looks almost human, though black bile seeps out into the ground instead of red blood. His men are sifting through the tree corpses, keeping their guns ready should anything else move.

“Now that’s how you do it,” Hemslock chortles. “Hey, kid! Your supernatural friend’s not as strong as it likes to have us believe, eh? What a waste of power, keeping to this fucking island when you could conquer the world. Who knows? Maybe I’ll take its place. Imagine what I could do. What I could take. The cultists got it wrong, letting all this get away because they let the curse fuck with their heads. I—”

He stops, staring. “Sam, what the hell’s up with you?”

One of the soldiers has doubled over, coughing. “Got something in my lungs,” he wheezes. “Went down the wrong way. I can’t—I—”

He stiffens without warning, staring at something over Hemslock’s shoulder. The actor spins around, but there’s no one there.

Sam opens his mouth again—and a black sap-like liquid pours out. He gags and stumbles back, clutching at his throat, as the veins in his arms and face begin to protrude, his eyes bulge in fright.