I’m more than halfway between the center of camp and the outskirts when something tingles across the back of my neck. A sense that something I just saw is somehow . . . wrong.

Trying to make it look like I’m simply acknowledging another greeting called out to me, I turn and slowly scan the area I just crossed.

Eloise and her friend still sit against the wagon wheel.

Adam has joined Nola and Jodi for dinner.

A scattering of children play tag around clusters of seated adults.

Jeremiah and a few of the older men sit in a tight circle, heads together, playing checkers.

Behind them, close to the edge of the field, a man with black hair and olive skin stands beside the far corner of the aging barn, watching the camp.

He isn’t one of ours.

My hand is already reaching for my sword when the man meets my eyes for half a second before turning and slipping into the woods.

He’s wearing the uniform of a Rowansmark tracker.

Chapter Forty-Two

RACHEL

“Stop!” Logan yells, and runs toward the southern tree line.

“Logan?” Frankie asks, already running toward him even before he knows what’s wrong.

“Rowansmark tracker!” Logan tosses the words over his shoulder as he plunges into the forest.

I leap up to follow them when the concussive boom of an explosion tears across the field. Before I can turn to see what happened, another boom sends me to my knees. The explosions sound like thick rocks being torn apart. I skid forward on my palms, and a sheet of yellow-white flame blazes to life from the ground three yards to my left.

One second, there was nothing but grass and a flat, white stone I nearly tripped over when I took my place at the guard station assigned to me. The next second, the force of the explosion knocks me to the ground as a wave of voracious heat rolls through the air, sucking out the oxygen and leaving the exposed skin on my face and neck feeling crisp and tender.

Dense, white smoke pours out of the flames, and I cough in harsh, hacking sobs as I crawl toward the next guard post. Behind me, another explosion rocks the field, and another sheet of pale flame leaps for the sky.

People scream. Run toward the wagons or toward the forest. Fall down and crawl while others run past them.

It’s chaos. And chaos kills.

I struggle to my feet as another explosion rips through the air, this one closer to the tree line. Those running toward the forest skid to a halt and look around wildly for another plan. Before they can move, another piece of the ground bursts into flames, right beneath the feet of an older man I recognize as one who’d taken to sitting by Jeremiah every evening to play checkers.

He screams, a long, high wail of agony that tapers off into silence as his body twists away from the fire and falls to the grass in a smoldering heap.

A woman next to him leans over and vomits while another man grabs her around the waist and pulls her away.

I rush toward Drake, who stands ten yards from me at the next guard station. Another small slab of white rock, about the size of a loaf of bread, is hidden in the long grass. It catches my foot, and I fly into the air before slamming down onto the ground a yard from the stone.

The fall saves my life.

Behind me, the slab of stone sizzles for a second and then bursts into flame with a terrifying explosion of sound and heat. I press my face into the grass and start crawling as a thick cloud of white smoke pours from the fire. The smoke is bitter and leaves an acrid taste in my mouth.

Someone snatches the back of my cloak and drags me forward. My eyes are streaming as I look at Logan’s furious expression.

“He did this,” he says, and I know he means the man he chased into the woods. “We have to get everyone away from the fires.”

“It’s the stones.” My voice is hoarse from the smoke, and I cough until I taste blood.

Another explosion. Another sheet of flames. This time to the south of us, putting another obstacle between our people and the trees. The fire licks at the grass and begins to spread.

“What stones?” he asks as he hauls me upright and looks around to assess the situation.

“The white stones. I just tripped over one, and a few seconds later, it exploded.”

Logan frowns and stares at the collection of fires burning with brilliant white-gold flames. “Light flames. Tremendous heat. Thick smoke that smells like . . .” He sniffs the air.

“Garlic,” I say, because the taste is scorched onto the back of my tongue.

He locks eyes with me. “It’s white phosphorous. We have to get everyone off this field now.”

“White phosphorous?” I jog at his side as he hurries toward Drake, who is busy shouting instructions and rallying people to him.

“Made by chemically altering phosphorous. Spontaneously combusts when it comes in contact with oxygen. He must’ve coated the phosphorous with something that would eventually let the oxygen through. Don’t get burned, whatever you do. The phosphorous keeps burning you until either you starve the wound of oxygen or you die.”

We reach Drake. Behind him, a thick white stone rests on the grass.

“Get back!” Logan shoves Drake away from the stone as it sizzles and then explodes.

By this point, no fewer than ten fires burn. The thick, noxious white smoke billows out, forming an impenetrable haze, and lines of flame snake away from their source like veins of brilliant gold spreading across the field.

Logan begins yelling instructions to Drake, Frankie, Ian, Willow, and Quinn. He wants Drake to recruit five others and drive the wagons back to the path we took to get to the field. Anyone close to the wagons can ride inside as long as no white stones lie in wait beneath the wheels, ready to turn the last of our resources into ash. The rest of us are to take quadrants of the field, shepherd the people there past any phosphorous, and meet at the path as well.