“You’ll be in Team Twenty-Four with me,” said Colin, leading her toward a group of fifteen or so cadets standing just inside the track.

“Thank you so much for joining us, Mr. Stevenson.” The instructor was a stocky woman with a square jaw and cold blue eyes that landed on Kate for a long moment before returning to the eight crates sitting on the floor.

“This,” said the woman holding up a modified rifle, “is an AL-9. Who can tell me why our Night Squads carry them?”

“They can be modified to hold shatter shells.”

The words were out before Kate realized she’d spoken. Again, those blue eyes found her, as did every other pair. Kate cursed herself—why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?

“Continue, Miss . . .”

The instructor was obviously going to make her say it.

“Harker,” offered Kate. And then, pressing ahead, “Shatter shells are designed to break apart on contact. They’d have to be dipped in silver, iron, or some other pure metal to do any real damage, but within say, fifty yards, they might have enough force to penetrate a Malchai’s bone plate. A spike driven up behind the shield would be a better bet, but that method does require close contact.”

The rest of the training hall kept buzzing with noise, but Team Twenty-Four was a pocket of silence. The instructor didn’t need to raise her voice to break it.

“Indeed,” she said curtly. “Each crate contains the parts for an AL-9. You’ll spend the next hour assembling and disassembling them. Pair off.”

A guy tapped Colin’s sleeve, and he shot Kate a questioning look, visibly relieved when she shooed him away.

She didn’t bother waiting for a partner—she went to the nearest case and knelt over it, sliding back the clasps—so she was surprised when a shadow suddenly loomed overhead, and a second later another girl knelt across from her. She looked a year older than Kate, maybe two, with curly black hair and a glare that said South City.

“Mony,” she said, by way of introduction.

“Kate.”

“I know.”

“I figured.” She nodded at the crate. “You first.”

The girl raised a brow. “Eyes open or closed?”

“Suit yourself,” said Kate, “but when you use it out there, I’d suggest keeping your eyes open.” That earned her the barest smile.

She watched as the girl assembled the weapon with swift, sure movements, humming under her breath.

Monsters, monsters, big and small . . .

“Have you ever actually fired one of these?” asked Kate.

Mony’s hands kept moving. “Only active squads are armed. Team Twenty-Four is still in training.”

“So we don’t actually fight?”

Kate chose we on purpose, one of those simple psychological cues that turned you vs. me into us vs. them.

Mony checked the barrel. “Occasionally we get tapped for day patrols, or guard shift, but most of our work is onsite until we’re cleared for active duty.”

“I’m going out for the Night Squad,” said Colin, one row over.

Mony rolled her eyes at him. “As what? A stepstool?”

Colin colored, and made an effort to sit up straighter, as if his height deficiency was just a matter of posture.

“So you never go out?” asked Kate.

“We’re lucky to be here.” Mony set the assembled weapon on the crate. “Your turn.”

Kate reached for the gun, but the moment it was in her hands, the thing in her head began to stir. It was like a cold, or a pulled muscle, something you almost forgot about until you coughed, or moved the wrong way, and then it flared. For just a few minutes, she’d forgotten, and now her pulse sounded loud and steady in her ears, muting the world beyond, and she felt suddenly calm—the kind of calm that comes with realizing you’re in a dream, knowing nothing can hurt you.

“Hey,” said Mony, the word muffled, distant, but there. “You good?”

Kate blinked. She looked down at the gun.

It’s empty, she told her hands. Put it down.

“Yeah,” she said slowly, setting the weapon back on the crate. “Guns just aren’t my thing.”

Mony snatched the weapon back and started breaking it down.

“Good luck with that.”

The instructor blew a whistle, and Team Twenty-Four let out a collective sigh, slumping onto the mats. They’d moved from firearms to formations, cardio to crunches.

“I hate sit-ups,” moaned Colin, clutching his stomach. “I don’t see what strong abs have to do with hunting monsters . . .”

But Kate felt better than she had in days. Her muscles burned in a pleasant way from the simple physical exertion, and it left her feeling in control of her body, her mind. She got to her feet, ready for the next exercise, but the team was moving toward the doors.

“Lunch break,” explained Mony.

They took a left and hit a broad corridor teeming with people in the dark grays and greens of the FTF. She expected the crowd to part around her, the way it had back at Colton, but the difference between Colton and the Compound was that, for every five people who swung wide, one went out of their way to knock into her.

“Watch it,” warned someone after they checked her in the side.

Kate’s pulse rose. Her fingers curled into a fist.