“I just did a scan. Lily’s phone is on,” she says.

“For how long?”

“Ten minutes.”

I scan the crowd again, but I know in my heart Anora’s not here. I turn back to Natalie.

“Will you track it?” I ask.

She seems surprised that I asked. “Don’t you—”

“Once you get a trace, notify Elite Cain,” I instruct. “Don’t go alone, Nat.”

“But…where are you going?”

I’m not paying attention to her anymore. I’ve found Lennon in the crowd, and she smiles at me. I’ve always had an aversion to her, but now I understand it—that smile is evil. Whatever she’s done—and it has to be bad—she’s excited about it.

Then she bolts, and I do too.

“Track that phone, Nat!” I call as I take off, rounding the corner of the stadium to find Lennon. She twists toward me, smiles, then wings sprout from her back, and she jumps, shifting into a raven, and is gone.

I shift and chase after her.

Lennon navigates the night like she’s done this for years, and I bet she has, right under the nose of the Order. She twists and turns, dipping below trees and zipping between branches. It’s almost like she’s toying with me. When she goes down, it’s in an alleyway off Main Street. I recognize it because I know there’s an entrance to the Underworld used by death-speakers.

I shift and land, but Lennon is nowhere in sight. I draw my blades and start down the alley. There’s little light from the streetlamps near the road, but it’s enough that I catch shadows squirming on the walls. This place is infested with occulates—they stain the walls with their shadows. I shove my blades into them, and their screams sound around me, their tar-like bodies oozing into pools at my feet. I’ve never seen so many darklings saturate one area. They’ve been placed like wards. Occulates not only act as spies but alarm systems, and they are sending signals in every direction that I’m here.

The air changes, and I twist to find Lennon standing behind me.

“Boo,” she says and swings a long, jagged blade toward me. I block her attack. The blow is harsh. It makes my arms throb. In that moment, I understand two things about her: she moves to kill, and she is strong.

“Good,” she says, critiquing my counterattack, as if she’s my instructor and I’m the student. We stare at each other over our blades. Neither of us move to disengage.

“Where’d you get the blade?” I ask.

“A death-speaker made it for me. You like?”

“I didn’t know you were so connected to the death-speaker Underworld.”

“I have a feeling you don’t know much about me.”

I have a feeling she’s right.