Digging my elbows in again, I shove forward and my hand slaps against a pair of dark brown boots. Before I can do more than gasp for a smoke-tainted breath, the owner of the boots crouches down and meets my gaze.

It’s Ian, his mouth covered with a thick cloth. Brilliant rage glows in his eyes as he reaches out and grabs the front of my tunic. I slash with my knife, aiming for the artery in his wrist, but my movements are slow and sluggish as the smoke drifts through my lungs and settles over my brain like a fog.

He deflects the blow, sending my knife skittering across the square, and then pulls his mask to the side long enough to say, “This time, Rachel, I’m more than happy to let you sacrifice yourself for Logan.”

He drags me to my feet, but Quinn is already there, crouched and shaking, his breath rattling in the back of his throat like a trapped animal. He lunges forward, but Ian snaps out a powerful sidekick, and his boot connects solidly with Quinn’s head. Quinn falls to the ground and disappears beneath the cloud of smoke.

Ian pulls me roughly to the edge of the square and then into a side street, where the smoke thins enough to see where we’re going. I can’t get enough air, and my throat feels raw. I’m weak, my right arm is useless, my weapon is gone, and I can’t even draw enough air to curse Ian’s name.

It doesn’t matter. I’m still going to kill him. For Sylph. For Donny. For Logan.

For me.

The street curves away from the square. The brick facades on the buildings that line the road are covered in a fine sheen of grit and dirt, as if no one really cares what this neighborhood looks like. My boots drag against the ground, and I let myself go limp. If Ian wants me to come with him so badly, he’s going to have to expend the time and energy it takes to carry me. And if he lifts me over his shoulder where my boot has a clear shot at his manly parts, so much the better.

He grunts as I slump against him, and then he rips the mask off of his face. “I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work.”

Since we’ve already slowed down, I beg to differ.

He bends down and scoops me up, cradling me against his chest. My feet can’t reach anything but air, but my arms are another story. Dragging in as much of a breath as I can manage, I punch my left hand toward his face and jab my fingers into his eyes.

He drops me.

I land on my right side, and pain screams through me. I curl into a ball, holding my arm as if I can somehow make the hurt go away, and clench my teeth to keep from crying.

Ian crouches beside me and says, “You can’t beat me, Rachel. All I have to do is squeeze your burned arm, and you’ll come undone.”

I roll slowly onto my back. “Undone is not the same as beaten.”

Far behind us, shouts ring out as the trackers battle with the small group of Baalboden survivors inside the square. I stare up at Ian’s eyes and remember that in the flickering light of the fires, when most of his face was covered by his cloak and I didn’t know who he was, he reminded me of Logan. Now that I know they’re brothers, I can see that Ian’s eyes and the tilt of his chin resemble Logan’s.

Ian’s voice is calm, though the fury in his eyes hasn’t abated. “Make this easy on yourself, Rachel.”

I laugh—a choked, wet, desperate sound. “When have I ever made things easy on myself?”

His jaw clenches. Grabbing a fistful of my tunic, he lifts me partially off the ground and begins dragging me down the street. I kick and thrash, doing my best to jerk myself out of his grasp.

He lets me fall onto the pavement, and my head bounces against the stone with a dull thud that instantly makes my skull ache. Letting go of my tunic, he punches my bandaged arm. I scream as the pain rips through me, but then I swallow it down.

I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he’s hurting me.

Grabbing my tunic again, he continues to drag me as the street narrows and the buildings become rough-faced, broken-down things. I struggle against him, but the throbbing in my arm has spread to my neck, and my head feels fuzzy and unfocused.

“You should’ve kept your word,” he says as he turns abruptly into a narrow alley overshadowed by tall brick buildings on either side. “You should’ve taken the controller from Logan and given it to me. You could’ve avoided all of this, but you broke your promise.”

My feet bump against the uneven stones beneath me, sending jolts of pain through my arm. I’m still gasping for air with lungs that feel gritty and raw, but I say, “You’d already killed eight innocent boys before we had that conversation, even though you’d taken a position as a guard and given your word to protect our camp. You have no right to talk to me about broken promises.”

“They were Logan’s punishment.” His voice is hard and cruel.

“What about the people you poisoned? What about Sylph?”

“Justice requires sacrifice.” He crouches down, keeping one hand on me, and lifts a slim metal circle out of the center of the alley. “I thought you understood that.”

“Justice sometimes requires sacrificing oneself. Not sacrificing others.”

There’s a hole in the ground. A metal ladder is attached to the edge of the opening.

“We’re going down this ladder,” he says. “In your current condition, I’d hang on tight. We wouldn’t want you plummeting to your death before Logan has the chance to give his life for yours.” His smile is twisted, full of pain and purpose. “Logan understands sacrifice, too.”