I realize a little too late that running into a turf war might not be the wisest decision. I guess I half expected everyone to stop and gape at this unfamiliar newcomer. But the darkness makes it nearly impossible to distinguish person from tree, let alone Shark from Jet or Montague from Capulet. I find myself caught in the mayhem.

To my left, a nasty kick to the gut sends a kid sprawling in my direction. I catch him before his head hits the ground, but he shrugs off my hands and lunges at the guy who kicked him. Hearing shuffling behind me getting closer, I spin around in time to avoid a sloppy uppercut. The girl tries to punch again, but I sidestep her advance and push her away from me.

"Sorry. Just passing through. Hey, do you know where—"I throw a heavy dude off my back, nimbly catching his knife before he hits the ground. When I turn around, the girl is gone. "I'm not here to fight." I close the switchblade and tuck it in my pocket with the bullets. The guy scrabbles backwards until he hits a tree. I lean in so he can hear me over the sporadic gunfire. "Do you know where I can find—"

He spits in my face. Disgusted, I wipe the thick brown saliva off. Great, I'll probably contract the bird flu or something. While I'm distracted, the guy tries to sucker punch me. I grab his arm and twist it behind his back, effectively pinning him against the tree.

"I'll say it again. I'm not here to fight." The guy writhes, and I tighten my grip just enough to leave bruises. Maybe I should feel worse about it than I do, but at least I'm not spitting in his face. "Listen." He wriggles some more and tries to kick me. I roll my eyes, and for a bizarre moment, I wonder if this is how the Erasers feel. When the guy tries to kick again, he rams his knee into the tree. He hisses in pain. Okay, pretty sure that's not something an intelligent birdkid would do.

"Seriously, dude, I could pop your shoulder out of its socket from here, but I'm not going to, because you seem to be doing a fine job of it yourself. The sooner you tell me where Nick is, the sooner you can stop beating yourself up." To my relief, the guy stops struggling. At least I don't feel like a serial killer anymore.

He smiles, revealing yellow, rotting teeth. Is that what my teeth would look like if I didn't have genetically enhanced DNA? Focus. The guy's eyes keep darting to something behind me. Taking the accidental hint, I duck. Bullets bury themselves in the tree bark centimeters from the guy's face. One nicks his ear. His eyes roll back in his head, and his unconscious form lands heavily on top of me. Ugh. I roll the acrid-smelling body off me and bounce back to my feet.

A man emerges from the outskirts of the fighting, holding what looks like a cannon attached to a backpack. He points the cannon to the sky, and a tall column of flames leaps almost twenty feet into the air. It is powerful enough to illuminate the entire clearing. Everyone pauses their fighting, attention grabbed by the spectacle. The man smiles.

"Sorry I'm late. It's time to end this. Tell us where the drugs are, or else." Nobody moves. A dark-haired, lithe woman with a belt made of bullets—I thought they only did that in the movies—steps forward.

"Or else what?" Flamethrower dude smiles.

"I'll burn this place to the ground." He blasts more fire into the air to emphasize his point. A few smoldering leaves float to the ground.

The lady scoffs. "So what? We don't need this forest."

"Actually, I think you do." The man steps closer to the woman until either of them could reach out and touch the other. "I think there's a warehouse out here hiding everything. The weapons, the drugs. And you can either tell us where it is or let it all burn."

The woman places a hand on the man's shoulder carefully. In the silence, her whisper almost echoes. "In your dreams." The man's face pinches together in anger, and he swings the barrel of the flamethrower to the retreating woman. It knocks her to the ground. The man aims the flamethrower at her chest. She stares back defiantly.

"You'll be the first to burn." He pulls the trigger back. Almost.

The idiot I've been looking for hurdles himself at the man. Nick's momentum knocks them both over, and they temporarily disappear behind an especially luscious tuft of grass. The woman stands up on shaking legs. Without warning, flames hurdle through the air, landing in the lower branches of a nearby tree. The fire spreads like a viral internet video of a sneezing kitten, and people scatter accordingly, including the woman. Everyone but me is gone. I stay rooted in place, torn on whether or not to help Nick.

The man rises from the undergrowth, wiping at his face. He jerkily kicks something a few times, hard, before the flames closing in force him to jog away. I hide behind a tree while he passes, but I note the blood running from his nose. Good. He deserved it.

When Nick doesn't follow close behind, I am concerned, to say the least. I spin around the tree. Thick smoke obscures my view. Nick staggers away from the fire, swaying like a drunk and coughing like a coal miner. He only makes it a few feet before falling to his knees. I ignore my instincts and sprint into the boiling heat. Kneeling at his side, I can tell he's halfway unconscious.

I grab his upper arm and hoist him to his feet. "Come on, kiddo. Got to get you out of here before you get crispy." Jeesh, he's a lot heavier than Fang. I rest his arm over my shoulders, supporting the majority of his weight. My ankle protests loudly, and I grit my teeth in pain.

Nick mutters something under his breath. "What was that?" I half-drag him out of the flaming clearing. Nick coughs a few more times to clear his throat.

"Not. . .kid." I smile despite myself. It drops from my face, though, as I see the extent of his damage. There's a large burn on his forearm, probably from the barrel of the flamethrower hitting it. His face is covered in countless bruises and small cuts. An eye is beginning to swell shut. Most disconcerting, though, is a large bleeding knot behind his ear. Head wounds bleed a lot, I know, but the swelling makes me frown. He probably has a concussion.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to realize that we're moving too slowly. We may have escaped the flames, but the smoke keeps getting heavier. My own breathing becomes ragged, partially from the dirty air and partially from my stupid ankle insisting that I stop walking on it. I finally set Nick on a large, conveniently-shaped boulder to catch my breath. My eyes sting, my throat burns, my head throbs, and coughing produces black ick. The heat can't be far behind.

I take a second to weigh my options. Nick and I could hobble away together. The flames would consume us. I could get away easily enough if I leave Nick behind to die. Obviously, that option is out of the question. My only option left has the potential to be more dangerous than the first two and will probably have pretty dire consequences later down the road.

It's also my best bet.

Nick has settled into unconsciousness. I slap his chest. His eyes crack open, but he has trouble focusing them on me. Maybe this isn't the best idea. I have no choice.

"Nick." He makes eye contact, and my expression seems to convey my urgency. He watches my mouth with concentration while I speak. "Nick, this is important. You can't freak out." My voice is hoarse.

"Okay," he mumbles. From the corner of my eye, I catch the first hints of flames.

"No, not 'okay'. You can't freak out, or move around a lot, no matter what. Got it?" I shake him a little. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am." Either it's a pathetic attempt at sarcasm or he's serious, but it means he's following me. I push my arms under his knees and behind his shoulders and pick him up, bridal style. He's heavy; not enough for me to drop him, but enough that I'll be sore tomorrow. I stand, feet apart, facing the approaching fire. The heat almost burns my face. My wings spread hesitantly.

For old time's sake, I say, "Up and away."