But before Rachel can deliver, Ian scissors his legs and rolls to his left. Rachel lands where seconds before Ian was lying. With controlled, methodical movements—movements that speak to years of training—he lashes out and sweeps her legs out from under her, flips onto his stomach, and whips her arms into a submission hold.

Rachel swears, and both Jodi and Cassie applaud Ian’s win. He grins.

The second he lets go of her, Rachel gets to her feet and shoves a finger into Ian’s chest.

“Where did you learn how to do that?”

“You’ve been training us for over a month now,” he says.

Her eyes narrow. “I never taught you how to do that. I don’t even know how to do that.”

He casts a quick, pleading glance my way, as if hoping I have some magic answer that will derail Rachel once she’s on a roll. I’m not going to be the one to tell Rachel that Ian apprenticed to be on the Brute Squad. Not after what they did to her on the Claiming stage. Not after they were a party to Oliver’s death. She’d tear him to pieces. I’m also not going to lie to cover Ian’s mistake. I give him a little head shake. He’s on his own.

He raises his hands slowly as if to placate her, and says, “You weren’t our only teacher, remember?”

“Quinn taught you that?” she asks, and I can see she believes it’s possible.

He’s spared from answering when there’s a commotion in the hall and Quinn himself strides through the door, Willow right behind him. Relief weakens my knees for a moment, and I steady myself with one hand on the wall beside me. I’d truly thought I’d have to leave them behind in the morning.

“You made it,” I say, and Rachel rushes to my side.

“We’re two days late. You shouldn’t have waited,” Quinn says, but he smiles at us both.

“We only arrived an hour ago, and plan to leave in the morning.” I walk forward and clap him on the shoulder. “Did you find the killer?”

“We found his boot prints,” Willow says. “Twice. He’s following the group.”

“Pretty sloppy for a tracker,” Rachel says.

Willow smiles a little. “Not where these prints were. We had to move leaves and underbrush to find them. He’d done a good job of covering his tracks, but he made the terrain a little too perfect, and that’s usually the sign of someone trying to be invisible.”

“Could you see a maker’s mark on the print?” I ask.

“Rowansmark,” Quinn says. “He’s good enough to hide from Willow and me. We doubled back, circled around, laid traps . . . everything we could think of, but he stayed a step ahead of us. He’ll come after the group again. No one dedicates this much time and attention to hunting down prey without coming home with their prize.”

Prey. A chill brushes across my skin.

“Well, we’re safe for now. Rachel, Ian, and Adam checked every inch of this building before we allowed the group inside. We’re alone here, there’s only one entrance, and I’ve tripled the guards we normally use. No one is going to get inside this building tonight.”

“I hate to tell you, but the tracker is the least of your worries.” Willow grabs my arm and pulls me toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. “You have a bigger problem now. Come on.”

My heart thuds painfully against my chest as we reach the stairwell and begin to climb. This ridiculous building has thirty-five floors. I cling to the railing and practically drag myself up each miserable step. The air in here is stale and dank, and clusters of moss cling to the cracks that spread across the walls. Sweat gathers at the small of my back, and I’m breathing way too fast, but I can’t seem to control it.

Did the previous government outlaw the building of new homes or shops? I can’t imagine any other valid reason for agreeing to stretch steel and glass toward the sky as if daring the wind to knock it over.

I’m panting, and my fingers feel numb when we finally reach the brown metal door that leads to the roof. It sticks. Quinn slams into it with his shoulder, and it reluctantly creaks open on hinges nearly immobile with rust and age. He walks onto the roof, followed by Willow, Rachel, and Ian. Thom, Cassie, Keegan, and Jodi stayed downstairs like the admirably sane people I know them to be.

Adam looks up as we walk onto the roof, and his eyes go straight to Willow. “You’re back. I was getting worried.”

She tugs on her braid and says, “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“No, but I did anyway,” he says. Willow’s cheeks turn a dusky pink, and her smile is a little shy.

Then she turns to me and says, “Coming out sometime today?” Before I can respond, she strides toward the edge of the roof.

I cling to the doorjamb, staring at the wide-open space before me. The rooftop is a faded gray stone riddled with cracks and holes. Rusted pipes stick out at irregular intervals, like some sort of ventilation system. A large, square metal box rests in the corner. Almost every available inch is covered with a clinging green vine or a carpet of moss. The edge of the roof is surrounded by a low railing that barely reaches Willow’s waist.

That can’t possibly be safe.

She waves me over, a sharp, impatient gesture, and I edge my way out of the doorway. The wind tugs and pushes, and only pride keeps me from dropping to my knees and crawling. I step over vines, slide across moss, and grimly calculate the trajectory necessary to slam into the railing instead of sailing over into thin air, should the capricious wind have its way with me.