“Bow?” My voice echoes, but there’s no return greeting.

She left, clearly, but she didn’t take the backpack with her. Why? Where could she have gone? How much time has passed since I fainted?

The entire cave shakes again as I dig inside the pack. Another battle between the realms taking place nearby? “Essentials” consists of a digital notepad, a necklace with Troika’s symbol, a tank top and pair of jean shorts, a pair of combat boots too big for my feet, six cans of buffalo wings probably taken from the staff lounge and a bottle of vodka.

Mostly useless!

But can I really get mad? Those cans... I’m so hungry, absolutely starved. I open and devour the contents of one. Only one, and only for strength. I resist the temptation to eat the other five. So freaking good! Bow needs nourishment, too. Dang it, where is she?

I switch on the pad, hoping to find a note or something to point me in the right direction. I’m not disappointed. In strong, bold calligraphy, I see:

Ten,

You naughty snoop. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist taking a peek. Good for you. Knowledge pays. Eat, write the world’s most depressing poem, count rocks or whatever it is you like to do, but stay in the cave. If other inmates are out there, I’ll find them and bring them “home.” Don’t worry. I’ve got Troika on my side!

Light Brings Sight!

Instead of signing her name, she’s drawn a picture of a man holding a bow and arrow. An archer.

Her name is Bow, I once said to Killian.

Bow, he replied. An archer uses a bow and arrow. How adorable.

And then, when I lay on the floor of Vans’s torture chamber, Killian and Bow had argued, and Killian had called her Archer.

I shake my head to dislodge the confusing memories. Can Bow find and save any of the other inmates without aid? Well, human aid. Maybe, but not likely. Not only must she face the elements and the guards, she must convince the kids to trust her.

So. Yeah. I have a poem for her.

I am alone.

Never will I believe

You care for me

The truth is

Having faith in you is foolish

I don’t think

My well-being is your first priority

I know

We’ll protect each other

Is just silly. I believe

Remaining on my own

Is the smartest course of action

Staying with you

Is the fastest way to Firstdeath

Walking—no, running—away from you

Won’t be easy, but I’m willing to do it

And I know that

We’re better off together

Is a lie. For I’m certain of this:

I am alone.

Two sides. The read down, and the read up. The negative and the positive. For once, I’m leaning toward positive. Bow needs me. There’s always strength in numbers.

I use the scalpel to cut the tank top into multiple strips of cloth, then wrap the strips around my feet and exchange my regulation sandals for the boots. I return the scalpel to my pocket, then double-check to ensure it’s there. As my only weapon, it’s priceless.

Okay. All right. I push to wobbly legs, blood rushing out of my head, making me light-headed, even dizzy. I wobble as I make my way to the opening of the cave. Before she left, Bow set up a drape of leaves and twigs to seal me inside, and she did a very good job; I have to fight my way free.

Morning sunlight greets me, and oh, wow, it’s gorgeous—but it means I slept the night away. A first since my incarceration.

Unfortunately, the air is so cold none of the ice has melted from the terrain, and my muscles instantly protest, knotting up. At least there aren’t any guards around or booted footprints in the snow.

“Bow!” I shout. If I draw unwanted attention, I draw unwanted attention. The faster I find her, the better. “Bow!”

Eerie quiet taunts me, broken only by the occasional whistle of wind.

“Bow!” As I make my way forward, a storm erupts in my chest. The thunder of my heartbeat, followed by a downpour of acid, scalding everything in its path. What if something’s happened to her? I’m certain the guards aren’t our only worries. Any surviving inmates could have ambushed her, thinking to loot her belongings. Or worse. An animal could have mauled her.

A twig snaps. I stiffen. “Bow?” This time, her name is little more than a whisper.

A brute of a man steps from the foliage—along with two of his friends. They are Big, Bigger and Biggest, and they are covered in grime. I can overlook the grime. Each man has something I desperately want: a coat.

I hope they speak English. I hope they’re friendly. But I don’t count on either.

Still, I try to barter. “You hungry? I’m willing to trade a can of chicken for a coat.” More than fair.

The one in the middle licks his lips—and I’d bet it’s not at the thought of dining on chicken.

Self-preservation instincts scream, Run!

I’m about to do just that when a violent gust of wind nearly sweeps me off my feet. Worse—or better—Bigger’s coat blows open, and I catch a glimpse of chopped pink hair. Bow! She’s clutched against his beefy chest, unmoving, and my heart shudders with fear.

Judging by the leer the men throw my way, I can guess what they want from two lone girls, and it’s not witty conversation. I know the odds of defeating them suck. Three brutes against one wily scrapper. At least six hundred pounds of muscle against one hundred and five pounds of me.

“Did you hurt her?” My words are gritted.

Biggest grins, revealing crooked, yellowed teeth. “We capture escapees for doctor.” His accent is thick and Russian. “We take back to asylum...but not before we have fun.”

Now Vans’s hidden door makes a whole lot of sense.

“Come nicely, girl.” Big. “We have fun with you, too.”

“No harm.” Bigger. “Unless you misbehave.”

No harm, my ass. I free the scalpel from my pocket, hiding the glint of metal behind my arm. My teeth chatter, and the goose bumps return to my skin. “Counter offer. You drop the girl and walk away, and I won’t harm you.”

Bigger and Biggest guffaw as Big’s eyes flare with glee. He likes a challenge. Noted.

Big moves toward me, and I realize I’m not the only one hiding a weapon. There’s a wicked-looking dagger clutched in his hand, but I hold my ground...hold...

There’s no other way to save Bow.

The closer he gets to me, the more his excitement grows. Literally.

He swings at me, aiming for my shoulder. If his punch lands, it won’t be a deathblow, but it’ll make me scream.

Now! I duck, avoiding impact, and slam my scalpel deep into his femoral artery. I may not remember everything from my human anatomy class, but I do remember the smallest nick to the femoral can be fatal.

He bellows in pain, blood spurting from his leg. As he crumples to his knees, I try to roll out of the way, but he manages to tangle his fingers through my hair and yank me to my back.

His friends step toward us. He holds up his free hand—the one with the dagger—stopping them. Then he gives me a cold smile...and strikes.

This time he’s serious, and he’s mad. His target? My heart.

I suddenly see the merits of Troika’s way of thinking: being led by emotions can do more harm than good.

I raise my arm to block the blow, and the blade slices through my wrist, coming out the other side. Pain consumes me in a brutal flash, stars glittering behind my eyes, dizziness overwhelming my mind. I fight to remain conscious. If I pass out, I die.