A back door stood ajar, propped open by the corpse of a soldier who’d obviously tried to escape and failed, a pattern of gunfire dappling his back. There was no time to tend the dead. August closed his eyes for an instant as he stepped over the body, and Soro’s fingers tightened on their flute-knife as they followed.

Inside, the Compound was in chaos. The power flickered, and in the unsteady light, August saw the corpses littering the hall, most of them in green-and-gray fatigues.

An FTF was slumped on the ground, his back against the training-hall doors, and August’s chest lurched when he recognized warm brown eyes in an open face. Colin was bleeding, he couldn’t tell where, but when he stepped closer, the boy’s head drifted up, and he actually smiled.

“They’re safe,” he said. “I got the doors closed before”—he coughed—“before it saw—before they saw . . .”

He trailed off, eyes drifting shut, and August went to check for a pulse, but Soro’s hand was already on his shoulder, urging him up. They had to keep moving. Every second was a life, and he straightened just as a voice reached him from the lobby.

A voice that reminded him of fevers and cold steel and falling.

But it wasn’t just the Malchai’s voice. It was the single word he said.

“Ilsa.”

August turned to Soro. “Get to the command center,” he said, “hit the intercom and start playing.”

Understanding lit the Sunai’s eyes, and they took off toward the stairs as August sprinted for the lobby, and his sister, and Sloan.

“You got blood on my clothes,” said Kate as she took in the room, trying to carve a mental path.

The Malchai looked down at her shirt. “Hmm, I wonder who that was.” She smiled, flashing teeth. “You know what I keep asking myself?”

Kate cheated a step to the side, within reach of the sofa. “Why your hair isn’t as good as mine?”

Alice’s red eyes narrowed. “What it will feel like to take your life.” The Malchai crouched, setting the detonator upright on the floor. “There’s a beauty in it, don’t you think? A kind of poetry. What happens when the effect kills the cause?” She straightened. “I’ve spent the last six months watching Sloan kill you. Wondering if I would enjoy it half as much. I think I will.”

Kate’s grip tightened on the spike as the shadow in her head longed to be let in, to be let out. “Are you done?”

Alice pouted. “Not one for talking, are you? All right, then.”

She lunged, so fast she seemed to blur, to disappear, but Kate was already moving, too, cutting sideways. She got one foot up on the couch and pushed off, driving her spike down into the blurring shape beneath her.

An instant too late.

The weapon scraped against the floor and Kate rolled and came up, twisting just in time to block Alice’s shoe as it slammed into her front. Pain exploded down her arm as the blow connected, and the spike went skidding across the floor.

Kate gasped and drew the second spike as she tried to swerve out of the Malchai’s path, but Alice was already there. Nails raked across Kate’s face, fine lines of blood welling on her cheek.

Alice smiled at the red on her fingers. “You don’t honestly think you’re a match for me,” she said, flicking the blood away. “I am you but better, Kate. You don’t stand a chance.”

Kate shifted her grip on the spike. “You’re probably right.”

She ran a hand through her hair, pushing the bangs out of her face, the silver cracks on full display. Alice’s eyes flickered with surprise, then suspicion, and it was Kate’s turn to smile.

“So it’s a good thing,” she said, “that I’m not entirely myself anymore.”

Ever since that moment in Prosperity, she’d wanted to fight, to hurt, to kill, and she’d resisted, and resisted, and resisted, had run from the shadow, knowing it was only a matter of time before it caught her.

And now, at last, she could stop running.

All she had to do was let the darkness in.

All she had to do was let the monster out.

And so she did.

Kate’s resistance crumbled, and the world went quiet as the shadow stole over her.

There was no fear here.

There was nothing but this room.

This moment.

The iron singing in her hands.

The monster in her way.

Alice’s eyes narrowed, as if she could see the change in Kate.

“What are you?” she snarled.

And Kate laughed. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Let’s find out.”

August reached the lobby just in time to see Sloan slam Ilsa back into the far wall, a knife tumbling from her fingers. Her hair was matted with sweat, the collar of her shirt torn, exposing a swathe of stars along her shoulder.

Sloan kicked the knife away and leaned in close.

“What’s that?” he hissed. “I can’t hear you.”

“Sloan!” shouted August, and the monster sighed and let Ilsa drop to the ground.

“August,” crooned the Malchai. “It’s been so long.”

The last time he’d faced Sloan, August had been starving, feverish—edging toward mortal. Strung up in a warehouse and beaten to the point of turning.