It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that the killings stop, and that he pays for his crimes.

Around me, my people fan out to flank me, weapons raised. My heart clenches as the trackers move closer. Only five yards separate us now.

“Tell your people to back off,” Ian says as he reaches into his cloak pocket and withdraws two clay cylinders, each about the size of his palm.

“Or what?” Willow asks. “You’ll call that unholy lizard—”

“The tanniyn,” Ian sneers. “If you’re going to talk about something, at least use the correct terminology.”

“Would you like to hear the terminology I use for you?” Willow asks. “Or should I tell you that after I’ve cut out your tongue and fed it to the dogs?” She steps past me, and Ian retreats a step.

“Tell your people to back off, Logan, or once again, you’ll be responsible for the consequences,” he says.

“Funny how you seem to think everyone else should be responsible for what you do,” Rachel says from ten yards behind me. Her voice sounds breathless. Pained.

I glance back to see her leaning on Quinn, her knife still in her hand, her skin as pale as the stone beneath our feet. Quinn meets my eyes. I beg him with my expression to get her away from here before all hell breaks loose. She’s in no shape to defend herself, and if I’m worried about her, I’ll be distracted while I’m fighting.

Quinn nods his understanding and begins moving Rachel away again, a task made difficult by the presence of trackers at his back. He’ll have to make it look like he has no part in what’s going on.

And I’ll have to provide a distraction capable of buying him the time he needs.

“Give us the device, along with any modifications, designs, or replicas, and your people get to stay alive.” The tracker who first addressed me speaks again, and Ian takes a sliding step to my right.

“What about Logan?” Adam asks. “You said his people get to live. What about Logan?”

“Oh, there’s no scenario in which Logan survives this.” Ian moves to the right again, and the other trackers step closer. The moves are coordinated. Rehearsed.

Planned.

“You see, the very second Logan hands everything over to me, he will die,” Ian says, his thumbs rubbing the clay cylinders he holds.

“Then why would he ever give it to you?” Frankie says. “You’ve lost your mind.”

What is Ian up to? I stare at the cylinders he holds while I edge toward him, my sword ready. Some sort of incendiary device? More tech involving the Cursed One?

“He never had his mind to begin with,” Willow says. “He’s nothing but a lunatic who lost his mommy and daddy and wants to burn the world down so he can sit back and watch.”

Ian snarls at her, but then drifts farther to the right. Farther away from me.

“He’ll hand it over—”

Farther toward the southern edge of the square.

“—because if he doesn’t—”

The other trackers converge on us, weapons out.

“—if he holds back even one single piece of tech—”

Ian slides to the right again. Toward the edge of the square.

Toward Rachel.

“—he’ll lose everyone he loves.” His blue eyes meet mine, and he smiles. “Just. Like. Me.”

“No!” I shove Willow aside and start running.

Chapter Fifty-Six

RACHEL

Quinn’s arm tightens around me as Ian raises his hands above his head and throws the clay cylinders onto the stones at his feet. They explode on impact and the southern half of the square is instantly filled with thick, gray smoke.

I raise my hand to cover my mouth, but it’s too late. The smoke rushes down my throat and coats my lungs. I cough—harsh, desperate gasps that seem to tear at my throat—and feel Quinn coughing beside me as well. His hand fists into the back of my cloak and he pulls me toward him.

A bell starts clanging from the top of the council building. I don’t know if it’s calling for Lankenshire citizens to help us or if it’s warning them to stay away.

My head feels too light, my knife too heavy, and I struggle to stay on my feet. Ian did this for a reason, and I’m not dropping my weapon or my guard until I see what that reason is.

Quinn coughs and hacks, one arm thrown over his face, and says, “Get down!”

He half pulls, half shoves, and it doesn’t take much to convince my already-shaking knees that they can’t hold me. I hit the pavement hard, and pain screams up my right arm.

“Keep your head down. The smoke is rising.” Quinn sprawls on all fours beside me, his breathing erratic, his arms trembling.

We need to get out of this smoke. We can’t help Logan fight off Ian and the trackers if we’re too busy desperately gasping for clean air that never comes. If we can’t walk, we’re going to have to crawl.

Clutching my knife in my left hand, I lie on my belly, dig my elbows into the stone beneath me, and push myself forward. Agony blazes through me every time I put any weight on my right arm, but I don’t have the luxury of stopping. Quinn drops to his stomach beside me and begins to move forward as well.

We’re heading south. I think. There’s too much thick smoke to tell, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is getting clear of the smoke so that we can breathe again.

Muffled voices shout all around us. The harsh metallic clang of swords clashing fills the air, but we can’t see the fighting. We can only see a handspan in front of us.