“What’s this?” says Emmera.
My stomach plummets, and a silent groan escapes my lips.
Ingrid laughs. It’s a wicked, rattling sound that makes Emmera force a nervous giggle. I press my blowgun to my lips, but I can’t move to get a clear shot without exposing myself. Ingrid steps out of range, and gunshots fill the air. The tree trunk I’m using as cover blocks my decoy, but I see pieces of torn fabric floating down.
“Did you direct the other girls to this tree to help your friend?” asks Ingrid.
Emmera moans an incoherent and gibbering denial.
“I should fill you with bullets,” Ingrid snarls. “Because of your stupidity, Constance and Paris are probably dead. Go and fetch someone to carry these girls back to the personnel carrier.”
“Who?” says Emmera.
“Do you want a dead body to match your brain?” Ingrid roars.
Emmera shrieks, and the sound of her rushing footsteps echo across the mountainside. If I wasn’t stuck up this branch like a cat waiting out a horde of rabid dogs, I would smile. I can’t because Ingrid makes her way back to my tree.
“I’m going to enjoy killing you, Zea-Mays Popcorn,” she says in a sing-song voice that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. “It’ll be like hunting a Foundling, only instead of ridding Phangloria of a scourge that should be left to the wild men, I’ll get the crown.”
She shoots a bullet into my tree, and I flinch.
“What’s wrong?” Ingrid says in a taunting melody. “Do you think if you lie on that branch still enough that you might fool me? I can see how all the heat has left your extremities and is pooling around your frantic heart. Riling you up is more exciting than chasing prey.”
Disgust ripples through my insides. The girl is as vicious as a border guard and twice as insane. Before I can stop myself, I say, “How many girls have you killed?”
“Not as many as you,” she replies with a laugh.
“At least I killed that hijacker out of self-defense.” I lean to the side, trying to get a clear shot of her, but she steps out of range, leaving a glimpse of her silver gown. “It’s nothing like how you murdered Rafaela van Eyck.”
“No,” says Ingrid in the kind of tone people use for small children. “You killed Rafaela to break Prince Kevon’s heart, so you could stitch it together with your lurid, naked self.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, that was—”
A gunshot cuts off my words. I dart behind the massive trunk, my pulse quickening. Sweat moistens my fingers, and I have to wipe my hand on a petticoat, so the blowgun doesn’t slip. Either Ingrid believes Prunella Broadleaf’s ridiculous lies or she’s reconstructed events in her mind to justify my murder.
“Zea?” says a male voice. “Are you al—”
“What’s that?” Ingrid shoots a round of bullets, and a heavy body thumps to the ground. She stops shooting and shrieks, “Oh my Gaia, oh my Gaia, I’ve never seen anything so horrible.”
A bolt of cold shock hits me in the gut, followed by a flash of hot anger. She killed Firkin. She shot down an innocent man because he looked different. I wrap my lips around the blowpipe, tilt my body sideways, and aim the barrel of my weapon where Ingrid staggers into range, still screaming at Firkin’s dead body.
Every ounce of my rage channels into an exhale, and the dart hits her in the neck. In the blink of an eye, Ingrid falls.
I scramble off the branch, fall into a low crouch, and stumble to Firkin’s side, my heart shattering with every step.
The Foundling lies on the forest floor on a pile of leaf litter a few feet away from the fallen girls. Dozens of dark bullet wounds tear open his chest and blood flows from a hole in his short neck. He’s not moving or breathing or showing any signs of life, but his bulging eyes stare lifelessly into the sky.
“Firkin.” The crushing feeling in my heart spreads across my chest and up my throat. An apology would be inadequate. He returned because of me, and now he’s dead. “She won’t get away with this, I swear.”
I turn my gaze to Ingrid, who lies on the ground like a sleeping beauty. One dart will paralyze a human. Two will stop their heart. I walk to Ingrid’s side and crouch. Slumber smooths her pinched features, and her face radiates serene innocence. Revulsion swirls through my insides. Why does the Council of Ministers favor this deranged creature? I reach into my quiver and pull out a dart.
“You and I both know that if I showed you mercy, you’d see that as a weakness,” I say, my voice full of bitter tears. “As soon as you wake, you’ll point that gun at me and shoot.”
A hand wraps around my wrist. With a yelp, I turn to meet the confused eyes of Berta.
“What are you doing with that thing?” She raises my arm and squints at what’s in my hand. “Are those poisoned darts?”
“Ingrid just shot an innocent man to death.”
She wrinkles her nose at Firkin’s dead body. “So, you murdered Strab for putting a mutant out of his misery?”
I pull my arm away, but her grip is too strong. “You didn’t hear her boast about hunting them in the mountains?”
Berta drags me to my feet. “He probably went rogue and escaped from the camps. They all know when we let them through the Great Wall that the sentence for disobedience and becoming a nuisance is death.” She places her hands on my shoulders
