“He knew you’d want to shoot, so he put pieces of Tattletale, Moonsong, and other people you care about in the way. Don’t shoot, don’t try. That’s the information you’d regret not having, that buys me my safe exit.”

Paris brought out his phone. I saw him bring up the same screen I had with Etna’s phone, showing the layout of the traps.

“Let’s get you first aid for that neck of yours,” Paris told Contender. “Come on, V.H.”

“No,” Vulturehawk said.

Paris hesitated, staring at the aerial assassin.

“Cray’ did nick-drip my hand meat,” Vulturehawk said. “No yah?”

“Yeah,” Contender said, sounding resigned. “You realize that means we’re going our separate ways?”

“Yah.”

“Yeah.”

“Sor’, Thud,” Vulturehawk said.

“Neh,” Thud responded, voice low, guttural.

Paris and Contender exchanged glances before heading out into the field, Thud following. Here and there, traps illuminated, and Contender created bubbles surrounding the two of them, allowing them to walk unmolested. When traps weren’t destroyed, they activated well after the bubble disappeared and the pair had moved on.

On Moose’s shoulder, the Harbinger that sat there drew a slingshot out of his pocket. “Three stones, one pen.”

“No,” Bluestocking said.

The others were rousing. Most lay on cold ground, panting for breath. I could see the sheen of sweat on faces. My mother’s. Rachel’s. Foil’s.

Byron had helped Chastity up.

“Can we hurt him? Just a little?” Byron asked. “Because he’s a dick that hospitalizes minors for being different? My friends, even? And now he’s gone after Moonsong?”

“Who are you asking?” I asked, quiet.

“I don’t know,” Byron said.

An instant later, Byron blurred.

I tensed, watching. Across the field, I saw Paris stumble, dropping to his knees on rough ground, as droplets of water became pebbles and water elsewhere became water with veins of rock in it and rock with veins of water. But Paris had been skipping over the dips, avoiding the water, and he hadn’t really been affected, other than a change in footing. Contender had forgotten Paris’s earlier warning, and Contender fell, making a sound that I heard from two or three hundred feet away.

A twisted ankle, a sprain, maybe a break.

Tristan, already blurring to become Byron again, was nodding, silent.

The change from Tristan to Byron hadn’t changed the stone back to water. Paris had to use his power to disintegrate the rock, which meant shielding Contender from the spray. It held them up.

“Letting him know,” Byron said.

“You can handle the rest of this on your own,” Bluestocking said. I wasn’t sure if this was a consequence of Byron acting, after she’d told Harbinger no. I wasn’t about to judge either way.

No, this was… uneasy ground. Ground where I wasn’t sure I knew how to navigate the terrain.