Maurice pulls back and pauses. Sweat gleams on his brow. He looks me up and down, like he’s searching for a chink in my non-existent armor.

“What exactly did Violette tell you?” I ask.

His lips form a twisted smile. “She said that if a Flame-finger dies betraying someone to their death, they become a numa. Automatically. Finding one to join her was in Violette’s plans. Bran’s mother refused her and... Well, you know the outcome. But while Violette didn’t live long enough to find another willing Flame-finger, I did.” Then, moving so quickly I don’t have time to react, he shifts his sword to his left hand, draws a dagger from beneath his coat, and throws it.

“No!” I yell. I lunge to protect Siaka, but it’s too late.

The blade flies and lodges so deeply into his chest that only the hilt is visible. His mouth opens, his eyes grow wide, and he lets out a groan.

Liv shoves Siaka forward. “Get out of my way!”

Siaka keels over, falling in slow-motion. He lands on his knees, propping himself up with one hand and pressing the other to his chest, as if checking to see if the knife is actually there.

“What’s wrong with you?” Liv says. But she freezes when she spots blood pooling on the ground beneath him. And then she sees the knife. “What the fuck!” she screams at Maurice. Throwing herself down next to Siaka, she scrambles to help him lie down.

The ensuing second of silence is split by an anguished cry. It’s only when I’m running toward Maurice, sword raised, that I realize the cry is coming from me. I swing my weapon furiously. I don’t even think about what moves to take, my anger propels me forward. Maurice’s sneer disappears, and now he’s really fighting.

It’s as intense as the three-way sparring with Ambrose and Gaspard, but with only one foe. And maybe because this thought is in my mind, when a voice appears, I recognize it as Gaspard’s disembodied spirit and don’t miss a move.

Hold him off. I’ve told the others what’s happening. They’re on their way.

The news that my kindred will be arriving acts like kindling to my flame, and I’m gaining on Maurice when something whizzes by me and strikes him on the forehead. I back up, keeping my blade lifted, as we both turn to see where the missile came from.

Siaka is lying on his back, eyes closed, pressing Liv’s wadded-up T-shirt to the wound. She stands a few feet in front of him, stripped down to her tank top. Her face is red with fury. In one hand she clutches a couple of stones and in the other she holds the bloody knife. She chucks another rock at Maurice, missing this time, and screams, “What the hell! You probably killed him, you psychopath!”