“Crawl,” I whisper to Logan. “Fast. I’ll buy you some time.”

“What are you doing?” Logan asks. “The bushes—”

I lunge to my feet and raise my voice, “You filthy, miserable, no-good coward! Get out here and face me like a man.”

Logan grabs my ankle and hisses his words. “Get down. Stop making yourself a target.”

“Crawl.”

I raise my voice and keep my arms up around my face in case the killer decides to throw another rock. “You’re a coward without honor. Too afraid of us to do anything but throw rocks.”

Anger gushes through me, fueled by the memory of eight boys carved up like slaughtered sheep. “I’ll make you beg for mercy, but there won’t be any. Not for you. Not after what you’ve done. Do you hear me?”

Something feral claws at my throat—a wild, furious need to rip the tracker apart. To make him pay. To scream and scream and scream until all the broken pieces inside of me soften into something that no longer cuts into me every time I sleep.

My knife is a silver-sharp slice of diamond beneath the glistening light of the moon. I stab the air in front of me as if I can kill the thing that hurts me even though it’s buried so deep inside, I no longer know how to find it.

“Rachel!” Logan drives the point of his sword into the ground. Using the weapon as a crutch, he pulls himself to his feet. He leans precariously to one side, and I swear as I wrap an arm around his waist and anchor him to my side. “The tracker will follow your voice—”

“Let him.” My knife is still raised, my body shaking with the need to punish someone for the fear, the blood, and the injustice of it all. “We’ll kill him.”

A shadowy blur moves in the corner of my eye. I whip my head to the right, but I can’t see far in the dark. Logan tries to lift his sword, but the movement nearly pitches him to his knees.

“Rachel! Logan!” Quinn’s voice echoes through the night. “Where are you?”

I grab Logan’s tunic and hold him steady. “Here!” I call out, and scan the area again, my knife ready.

“Need help—” Logan says, his shoulders slumping.

“Hold on. Quinn’s on his way. If anyone attacks, he and I will take care of it. But no one is going to attack”—I raise my voice—“because cowards who throw rocks in the dark don’t have the guts to attack face-to-face.”

The only sound that greets this pronouncement is the soft slap of Quinn’s boots against the dirt. Seconds later, he whistles, and I call out our location.

When he reaches us, he says, “I heard you yelling from thirty yards away. Are you deliberately putting yourself in danger?” He sounds angry.

“Sort of. Logan’s hurt. The tracker threw a rock and hit him in the head. Help me get him back to camp.”

“How do you know it was the tracker?” Quinn asks.

“Because he said something about our debt needing to be paid. It was all very dramatic and cowardly.”

Logan says something that sounds like he’s missing most of his teeth and has a bee sting on his tongue.

I take more of his weight and say, “He wants to know where Willow is.”

“She was escorting Thom and Ian back to the shelter. I was coming to find you two so we could all go back together.”

Logan mumbles something else.

Quinn snakes an arm around Logan’s other side. “He doesn’t sound good. Let’s make this quick.”

We’re quiet as we navigate the forest, climb over the fuel line, and head down the main road into the city. It takes twenty minutes to get to the shelter, and I keep glancing over my shoulder, looking for any sign that the tracker is following us. When we reach the building we’re using for shelter, Frankie steps away from the door and says, “Who’s there?”

“Rachel, Logan, and Quinn,” I say. “Logan’s hurt. The tracker threw a rock at him. Double the guard on this door tonight. We need to make sure he doesn’t try to kill anyone in their sleep.”

“You hear that, boy?” Frankie asks. Eric steps to his side, his dark hair nothing but a smudge beneath the starlit sky. “Go wake four people instead of two and have them take over this post.”

It takes less than five minutes for Eric to return with four new guards. We wait at the entrance with Frankie, our eyes constantly scanning the street, looking for threats.

When the new guards are informed of the situation and are in position, we start toward our room, and Frankie says, “Where’s Logan hurt?”

“Took a rock to the head,” Logan says, his words sounding clearer than they did a few minutes ago.

“Good thing they went after your head. Anywhere else, and they might’ve done some damage,” Frankie says.

Logan laughs and then hisses in a breath. I don’t laugh. I don’t see anything funny about the situation at all. The tracker is still with us. Still focused on hurting us.

Most troubling of all, he’s focused on hurting Logan.

It takes time to navigate the stairs and reach our room. Willow is waiting in the hall.

She holds our door open and peers at the dark trail of blood slowly sliding down Logan’s face. “It’s a good look for you, but I wouldn’t recommend repeating it.”

He tries to smile, but moans instead as we lower him onto his bedroll.

I hurry to the corner of the room where I keep the rest of my water ration waiting to help me freshen up in the morning. Tearing a strip from one of my blankets, I dunk it in the water and press it against Logan’s cut. By the time I’m done cleaning the cut, Drake, Nola, and Adam are hovering in the doorway, concern evident on their faces.