Alright, I need some help.

I've gotten stuck in a security check loop on and I don't know how to get out of it. In other words, every time I click ANYTHING — on my account page, reading stories, doesn't matter what — it does that security check/confirm I'm not a robot that it always does when you open the app. And it's not the end of the world, but it's annoying as hell and slows me down quite a lot.

I've tried clearing cookies, completely deleting and reloading my browser, updating (there aren't any available), restarting my entire computer, and every other thing I can think of, but none of it's worked.

So, if anyone knows another way to get it to work normally, please let me know. I guess just post it in the reviews, because my email's shit and hasn't been working for weeks. If it helps, I should add that my computer is a chromebook.

And none of this "me too" bullshit. I've gotten quite enough of that off of Reddit.

Okay, in the interest of full disclosure, I really, really hate speaking to strangers.

It's not that I don't like speaking to people. I do. I'm extroverted like that. But this is . . . different. This is the shit I'm not supposed to be telling.

And it's not helping that nearly everyone in my head is screaming at me. It hurts, and it's giving me a headache, and I really, really wish I was anywhere else right about now.

This is personal shit, and I now have a lot more sympathy for all the kids who got turned over to the doctors and psychologists and guidance counselors for this kind of . . . everything. You shouldn't tell people that crap. If they want to cut themselves or starve themselves or kill themselves, then that's their business. Get the fuck out of it.

Yeah, that's ideologically sensitive. I know that. I also don't give a fuck.

And now I was here. About to tell.

Fuck.

The burning in my eyes has already vanished by the time I pull my eyes off the pizza plate and back to Rowan's intense gaze.

I thank the gods or whoever that I didn't cry, but really, other than for a few minutes after I woke up over Jake's body, I've been not-crying for so long that I don't know if I could produce a tear to save my life.

Well, okay, there's a lot of things I wouldn't do to save my life. Stupid fucking shit. But that's why I'm here, I guess.

God, I wish I never listened.

But I have to talk. I said I would.

And Rowan's still waiting.

Shit, why did I say I would do this? Talking about my life before camp was bad enough, I never should have fucking done that, I promised myself I would never do that, and this is even worse . . .

Why did I think I could do this?

I couldn't.

Of course.

I'd spent way too long denying it.

Fuck, I thought it would be easy. I thought I could . . . never mind.

They were my cabin . . . I couldn't just talk about them like — like they wouldn't care —

Okay, they were dead. They wouldn't give a fuck. But still . . . you can't just share that shit. Possible dead people needing help be damned.

I leaped to my feet, instantly regretting it when my leg popped under me, sending me crumpling against the wall like a sack of potatoes. "Fuck," I muttered. Wow, I'd never used that word so much in my life.

Rowan likewise stood up, rubbing at the sore joints in her legs and wincing. "Yeesh. Haven't gone that long without standing up in a while."

I pushed myself off the wall. "Ow," I muttered. "What the — are you — what —" Damn, I was a mess. Definitely in no shape to be healing, but, hey, I don't make the rules. And I didn't particularly care about anything at the moment. Feeling was just starting to return to my legs (painfully), but my head remained blissfully numb.

"Jesus Christ." Rowan fixed me with a concerned look as she shook her wild hair out of her eyes. "Are you sure you're okay to be walking back by yourself?"

So she knew I was leaving . . . she wasn't going to ask about anything? Was she even human? Was she a . . . something? I didn't even know.

"Um . . . how'd you know I was leaving?" Bit of a stupid question, but I was tired, and my whole body was spiked with pain, and I was just starting to really appreciate the reality of hangover headaches. I was having enough trouble just forming coherent sentences.

Rowan walked over to the wall I was still slumped against and stood beside me, though careful not to touch the piss-and-shit soaked sheet that covered it. "It's kind of obvious. You just stood up, after saying multiple times that you're going to have to go, and you've been having a hard time talking all night, and you've got that look."

I slowly blink like a half-asleep cat. I wish I had a fraction of their indifference, really. "That look?"

"Yeah, you know . . . like someone asked you too much, and you just realized that you already said too much, and you're scared that if you stay any longer, it's just going to be worse . . ."

I rub my face, closing my eyes for a moment and breathing heavily. "That's . . . deep." It wasn't a lie. I was pretty sure Rowan had managed to delve deeper into my mentality in about four seconds than I had ever dared to in my entire life.

"Yeah, well, I'm bored." She looked at me sideways, pulling the flashlight out of her pocket. "Well, you never answered my question. Are you okay to walk back to — wherever — or do you just want me to drop you off in the alley."

I was staring blankly at her fuzzy image. All the exhaustion of the past several days seemed to have caught up with me, and now it was taking a conscious effort not to collapse to the ground. "Uh . . ."

"Good point. Probably best not to leave you alone in an alley right now." Rowan chin-pointed toward the end of the tunnel. "Come on. I'll take you back."

Stunned into listening, I hesitantly followed after her, struggling to walk in a straight line.

Glancing back, she noticed how slow I was and immediately slowed down to keep pace with me. "Sorry. You must feel like shit."

"You are a world-class detective." I focused on the ground, the only thing I could trust not to blur and multiply. "It's been a — a long few days."

"I believe it." We came to a point where the ceiling lowered by three feet, and Rowan heaved herself through a hole in the tunnel ceiling. She shoved her flashlight into her pocket and shifted onto her knees. She reached down and gripped my wrists, and with her help, I scrambled out and into the higher tunnel.

"Shit." I paused for a second, kneeling in the trickle of warm water, my head spinning. "Should have seen that coming."

"Yeah, you should have." She hauled me up and I reluctantly resumed walking.

We were almost to the hole that led to the larger tunnel that led to the ladder that led to the alley that led to the bog down in the valley-o or whatever the hell, and I finally screwed up the nerves to turn and look at her. It didn't make sense, and I liked it when things made sense. I was no child of Athena, but I still liked things to fit into boxes. Nothing about this situation fit into a box.

I finally took a deep breath, screwed up my courage, and asked the question I was taught to never, ever ask.

"Why?"

Rowan stopped and looked at me, a furrow in her brow. "What do you mean, why?"

I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the lingerie exhausted headache. "I don't know . . . I just do. None of what you did makes sense. You found a random hungover kid in an alley — who, by the way, looks like a serial killer — and brought him into a sewer. Which you happen to live in. And then another guy tried to kill him, just because he looks like — like this. And then when he tried to kill the guy — and don't ask me why I did that again, because I don't know — you pulled him off, shouting at him. Which would make sense, but I know for a fact you're terrified of him — you apparently 'panicked' and hid in the tunnel that you aren't supposed to go. And you say he's not right in the head. And I don't even know where he went after you pulled me off.

"And then, you basically agreed to listen to my life story, which most people wouldn't do. Or really, my drinking story."

"And here's the part I really don't understand — I didn't tell it. I told you about life before camp, and a little about life in camp, but none of what I promised to tell you. And nothing about my cabin. And . . . you don't care. So why? Why are you okay with all of this? I don't — I don't get it."

My confused speech over, I gave up and stared down at the trickle of gray water rolling along the bottom of the tunnel. Kind of satisfying, I guess.

Rowan was silent for several long moments. She wasn't playing with the flashlight anymore. She was just pointing it at the wall, staring absently into space. She almost looked like her mother, but I pushed that out of my mind, because that was a comparison I didn't need.

She seemed to be . . . debating something. Arguing with herself. For a moment, I wonder if she heard a few voices of her own.

Something in her face finally seemed to clear, and her eyebrows narrowed. For a long moment, her now intense gaze didn't leave the patch of illuminated concrete, and then she turned her resentful eyes on me.

I didn't mean to, but I took a step back, trying to keep the tremor out of my hands. Rowan could be scary . . . I'd forgotten. It was easy to forget when she was laughing with me. But if she laughed at me, I'd probably piss my pants.

She was glaring at me with a strange combination of bitterness, fury, and — the part I really didn't understand — fear.

I guess I wasn't the only one here who you wouldn't want as an enemy. Although the terror didn't exactly make her less imposing.

And it didn't give me a hint to dodge.

She lunged for me, shoving me against the rough concrete wall of the tunnel. She pressed a forearm against my throat, not hard enough to block my breathing, thank god, but hard enough that breathing involved quite a lot of choking as I clawed uselessly at her arm.

I'd also forgotten she was strong. Shit. I had to keep signing my own death warrent, didn't I?

"You want to know why?" Her voice was quiet, almost gentle, but powerful. It seemed to echo around the tunnel, and I winced, backing up another step.

"You want to know why?" she repeated. "You want to fucking — here." She grabbed the front of my shirt, pressing her arm harder against my throat. She glanced at my chest, and her expression darkened even further. She shoved me away from her and turned away.

"What the — what are you —" I turned back the way we came, unsure whether to run or fight. Or just wait and see what happened next. I was scared now that Ryan wasn't the only one who wasn't shooting with a full quiver. My thoughts raced, desperately trying to keep up with the turn of events.

I couldn't see her behind me, but I heard her briefly collapse against the wall, although she had no reason to be as tired as she was. Unless keeping me pinned required more effort that I'd thought.

Breathing heard, she pushed herself up and I heard her stalking up behind me.

Immediately, all my muscles tensed up. I hated it, but I knew my hands were shaking violently. I knew exactly what would happen. I'd been here too many times . . . I knew the drill. It was ingrained in me now.

And now I wanted to ask why more than ever.

I should have known this was too good to be true.

I waited. Waited for the hand to connect with my face, sending me sprawling on the ground, tasting blood as my head smacked against the concrete.

Instead, I heard her voice.

"You remember what I told you about the drug-dealing kid? The one who got forced into the 'family business?'" Rowan's voice dripped with contempt and disgust, and her hand was on my shoulder now, hot and heavy, nails digging into my skin.

It was hard enough to think straight; forcing words out was a whole other matter. "I — uh —"

"Yeah, putting you in the poetry cabin was a goddamn stupid choice." Jesus, I could feel her cynical smirk.

"I — sorry. I know."

"Don't apologize!" she snapped. "Well, Ryan . . ."

I caught on now. "He was — is — that kid, isn't he?"

"Tragically." Rowan tightened her grip, and now her hand was like a vice. My legs trembled. I could have killed her, easily, and I think that was the thing that terrified me most. Because people like us are never satisfied with just one.

Now she shoved me forward, and I could have easily held myself up, but I didn't. Instead, I allowed her to shove me to the floor. Why not? One of us might as well have felt good about themselves. And my body welcomed the rest.

"Why did you come here?" Her voice was all icy coldness now, and her flashlight might as well have been a knife. "Fucking half-blood."

"I — what?" My thoughts were simultaneously racing and dragging themselves through the mud. I turned my head sideways to look at her, still making no effort to get up.

She knew. She fucking knew.

And she wasn't very happy with me.

A cold, twisted smile spread over her face. "What, you thought I wouldn't know? As soon as you mentioned the 'camp'" — she did finger quotes, her horrible smile spreading even wider — "I knew you were one of them. And I was already prepared to hate you then. And then when you mentioned which cabin you were in . . ."

She shrugged, running a finger up and down her flashlight, and for one twisted moment it really was a knife, and then, no, the light had to come from somewhere . . .

"Well, you really fucked up there, because I knew you were one of them, maybe even the ones that ruined her goddamn life, but I thought, no, you're young, there's a chance you're one of the innocents."

It felt as though I was trying to stand upright on one of those playground merry-go-round things, not holding onto anything, tripping and stumbling, knocked down over and over as the world spun and tilted in ways it was never meant to do. "Her?"

She snorted bitterly. "I know you know who she is. It's not a secret. And I know you know who Ryan is, from the second you heard his last name."

"I thought . . . Never mind. What are the innocents?"

She rolled her eyes. "Self-explanatory, dumbass. The younger ones, the ones who never did anything. You seem pretty young, so I figured I'd give you the benefit of the doubt . . . but I know you know about your cabin, and I know you know what they did. You've got the scars on your chest. From the charm. If you didn't know, you wouldn't have been wearing it."

She was right. I did know. I still do.

And she knew.

About the charm.

About the killing.

About everything.

"And where's Ryan now?" I asked. Pointless, maybe, but I had to see him. I had to know . . .

"Not here," she snapped. "Look, I know you want answers . . . there's nothing I want less than to give them, but Ryan might want to see you . . . damn. He really backed both of us into a corner."

"I mean . . ."

"Whatever. Three days. Three A.M. That should be easy to remember. In the alley."

I stared blankly at her, slowly pushing myself up to a sitting position. "I guess I don't have anything better to do . . . other than, you know, saving lives."

"Oh, save me the bullshit," she snapped. "You know as well as I do they don't deserve it."

"Still, it's my job."

"Fuck your job. You better hope you're more of an innocent than you act, or you're fucking dead. Now get the hell out."

"I — yes." I rose unsteadily to my feet, and the world swam. I put my hands on my head, trying to control my breathing.

"Jeez." For a moment, there was almost a flash of sympathy in Rowan's face, and then it was gone. "If you even want to be alive in three days, you might want to get some sleep."

I shook my throbbing head. "Can't do that. Not an option."

She snorted with disgust. "Fucking healers. I wasn't kidding. Get out. And you remember which tunnel to take at the fork?"

"I think so."

"Good. And . . ." She tossed her flashlight to me. "Take this, or you'll get lost. I should be able to find my way around okay."

"Go, then."

She wasn't kidding.

So I did.

The rungs of the ladder felt, if anything, more corroded than they had been an hour ago.

I was so cold, every breath I took seemed to rattle in my chest. My jaw was chattering so hard, I could hear it echoing in the space around me. My shirt and pants stuck to me with freezing water and sweat.

I'd done my best to wash away the blood, and I now looked like slightly less of a serial killer than before. Best I could do.

I only had a few minutes left until daylight, and I had to fucking hustle.

I had Rowan's flashlight clamped between my teeth like some low-budget pirate. It was uncomfortable as hell, and my teeth were starting to ache, but I really didn't want to find the manhole cover by smacking my head against it.

Speaking of the unicorn-jizz covered thing . . .

It was right above me now, thank God.

Kind of unsure how to proceed, I knocked my shoulder against it and accomplished nothing more than hurting myself. Glaring balefully at it now, I clenched my teeth harder around the flashlight, flattened both palms against it, and shoved with all my strength.

The cover opened a crack, and I caught a brief glimpse of graffiti and flashing city lights.

I pushed again, even harder. This time, when I felt the cover begin to give way, I kept up the pressure, gritting my teeth.

The crack widened, and now I shoved it to the side. With a creaking, grating noise, it reluctantly slid out of my way.

I wasted no time scrambling awkwardly out of there, gratefully breathing in non-sewer air. Before I could psyche myself out, I gripped the slightly less disgusting handle and heaved the cover back into place.

Wincing with disgust, and wiping my hands on my tattered shirt, I began once again walking down the road as the people continued mindlessly veering away from me.

The camp was still a ghost town when I finally made it back in. the sun was less than a minute away from being up, but most people in the camp weren't idiots when it came to wake-up times, and were still in their cabins, asleep.

Lucky bastards.

I should have been waking up Kayla and Austin, but I wasn't. Because I had to check if anyone had died first.

They probably hadn't, but, you know, standard medical protocol.

And, you know . . .

I felt my body once again tense up, but this time, it wasn't because someone was standing behind me, ready to hit me.

I forced one trembling hand toward the infirmary door (well, really, the door to the back rooms of the Big House), my finger shaking so violently that it was impossible to get any kind of firm grip on the doorknob.

Turning it took several tries, teeth still chattering despite the noticeably warm air. Finally, the door flew open, and I had to press my battered shirt over my mouth to keep from gagging as I stepped inside.

The patients were exactly as I'd left them — that is, to say, asleep. And none were in any worse condition than I'd left them in.

But that wasn't really why I was here. Or why I didn't want my younger siblings in here.

The back door was ajar, which was concerning. I couldn't remember whether I'd left it open or not, which was also concerning.

Really, the fact that an entire night had been erased from my memory was honestly one of the most disturbing and disconcerting experiences of my life.

I was now locked in a battle between hyperventilation and holding my breath. The result was choppy, uneven breaths that automatically clenched a fist of panic in my chest.

Struggling to force my breathing into some semblance of normalcy, I opened the door.

It wasn't the horror scene I'd been expecting.

Almost all the blood had been scrubbed away — with what, I wasn't sure. True, we have a lot of old rags and sponges back here. And deep-sunk, dark stains remained, but I wasn't really concerned with that. People tended to avoid the room, anyway — next time someone came in here, they'd start spreading rumors that there was blood all over the walls and floor, and then the people who'd been in here before would swear up and down that they'd seen the blood too.

After a while, they would start to believe it.

The broken glass was mostly gone too — probably crumbled in the bottom of one of the bins. True, the floor was probably covered with sharp powder, but I would just not touch the floor. I was already wearing shoes.

And Jake was gone.

I sighed and stared at the wall. "This is either very, very, good, or very, very, bad," I muttered. Probably he'd been okay enough to drag his ass back to his cabin . . . unless he'd decided to pull a Me and peace the fuck out.

If he had gone back to his cabin . . . what? What would he tell them? He'd have to explain the hellscape of slices and stab wounds in his chest . . . unless he didn't? Maybe he'd found bandages to wrap his torso, gotten back to the cabin before everyone woke up and changed his shirt.

But still . . . he'd have trouble moving, wouldn't he?

I had no idea. I'd have to ask him.

Oh, wait, he was never going to talk to me again.

Which he was entirely justified in.

I hadn't exactly thought in depth about what I did . . . if I did, the guilt would hit me like a ton of bricks, and then God knew where I'd be.

No, he was just another patient who'd gotten injured by a stupid war game or rogue monster. That was how it had always been done. Just like the cars on the bridge.

And . . .

I forced myself into the room, legs shaking so violently that I had to hug the wall to keep from collapsing back to the floor. I didn't want to be back here, didn't want to ever look at those overflowing bins of old salves and ointments that we kept because we didn't have the time to mix new ones.

Maybe I would feel differently later, like how I now felt about the rocks by the canoe lake, but that was later and this was now.

And . . . what now? I left him a note, and it wasn't near where his body had been lying. Which meant it was . . . actually, I still didn't have a firm grasp on how the teenage hungover mind worked.

And my scythe charm . . . what the hell had I even done with that? I don't think I just left it with the note. I wouldn't have done that. But I didn't really remember the specifics. I hardly even remembered what the note had said.

Well, I had no idea, but I don't think even hungover Will would have been stupid enough to do that.

But if he had . . . Jake was still a loyal member of the camp, as far as I knew, and there was still a chance he had found the scythe.

Which meant I was completely and utterly fucked.

My shaking palms were now slick with sweat, and my eyes were clenched shut. If I was discovered . . . what? Where the fuck would I go? Couldn't go with my mom, for obvious reasons. I really didn't want to stay with other family, although I guess I would have to.

Honestly, some part of me wanted to stay with Rowan. But the jury was still out on whether she would kill me or not, and, in any case, I'd only known her for a couple hours at most.

Jesus Christ, what was wrong with me?

She hated the camp. That was what was wrong with me.

And no one else did.

But that was beside the point.

I quickly left the infirmary, struggling to hold my breath. I didn't want to smell the scent of pine sap, but I really didn't want to smell the hopeless scent of blood and old bandages.

We needed to invest in air fresheners.

A few sun rays were just starting to light up the camp when I finally reached the cabin. Had this all really happened in one night? It felt like years. I wondered if my dad had taken a whole week off just to fuck with me and Jake.

Both Kayla and Austin were still fast asleep, thank the gods. Normally, they would have been up as soon as the sun started to rise, but both of them must have been exhausted enough to sleep until three in the afternoon.

I really didn't want to wake them up. They didn't deserve that . . . but there was work to do. Fucking work.

And, not that it eased my conscience, but neither of them were exactly a vision of peacefulness.

Kayla had her arms wrapped around her pillow, which was damp. Austin was shivering with his face buried in his arms. Nightmares . . . I got that. I shouldn't have been sleeping last night. Next time I did . . . it would be bad.

"Hey," I said softly, resting a hand on Kayla's shoulder. "Time to get moving."

"Hmmph." She pulled the tear-splotched pillow over her face. "Fuck off."

"Kayla. Come on." I gently shook her. "Move it."

She pulled her face out of the pillow and stared at me with a pair of tired, red-rimmed eyes. I remembered the first night I'd met her, and her quiet resignation to fighting to the death in a war. She looked much the same now, like she'd seen every bad thing there was to see and nothing the world did could surprise her anymore. I could have told her otherwise, but I had no wish to.

"You're all wet," she said accusingly. "And your head's cut." She was doing her best to sound pissed off, but I saw real worry flash in her eyes. None of us are good liars. Even me.

"I took a shower," I said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Didn't have time to dry off. And the cuts from a guy I had to put under. He was freaking out from the pain and scratched my head." Lies, all of them, I wished I had time to take a shower. And the head-scratching thing hadn't happened to me. Yet, at least.

"Okay . . . you're a minute late, though. You're usually here before the sun comes up."

I sighed. "First of all, shit isn't set in stone. We don't have a concrete schedule. Second, I was in the middle or stitching up a bleeding wound, which I figured I should probably finish before getting you."

"Fair enough," she muttered.

"Yeah, I know. Get Austin. Meet me outside in two minutes."

Mollie talked again today. Asked if she could have a drink of water. When I handed her a bottle, she took it, unscrewed the cap, and downed half of it.

Then she handed it to me, and went back to her silence and stillness.

Sierra was the same, although I was still holding out hope for her.

Half of our patients were discharged that day. Several had casts, slings, and crutches, but those would be gone soon enough.

We had about ten patients left. I hate that word, by the way. About. They're not about anything. They're all people. We should have a real number.

But that doesn't matter. I'm not counting them.

I don't want to know. I can heal them without knowing.

And I did know without counting that one camper who absolutely needed medical attention was not in the infirmary.

I had no idea where Jake was — I assumed he was still at camp, but, really, I didn't know. In an effort to get everyone out of the infirmary as quickly as possible, I hadn't stepped out for mealtimes. Same as the first couple days of work. Austin had offered to bring me something, but I turned him down — my stomach was churning with guilt and fear, and forcing food down my throat would be torture.

Point is, I had no idea if my former friend was even showing up for meals.

I hoped to God he was. If he was gone, if all of his remaining siblings had lost yet another brother, if some unprepared and terrified kid was now in charge . . . that was all my fault.

And their cabin might turn into something resembling mine.

Because of a stupid, cruel mistake I didn't even remember making.

Okay, I should rephrase that. Mistakes are accidents. Just because I didn't remember it doesn't mean it wasn't on purpose.

I wanted to ask Kayla and Austin if they'd seen him, but I seriously doubted that they had been paying attention to the Hephaestus table. And I knew that they'd been eating as quickly as possible to get back to the infirmary faster, and that even if they normally did pay attention to Cabin 9, they wouldn't have today.

So, useless.

All the more reason to get everyone out of here quicker.

And I was preoccupied as fuck with the whole . . . Rowan issue. Stupid name, but I didn't know what else to call it.

If her name really was Rowan, of course.

I had no idea how she knew about the Greek gods, or our camp. I didn't know how she knew about our cabin or what we'd done. I didn't know why Ryan hated me so much — actually, I had a fucking excellent idea, but I'd have to see him to make sure.

And I was concerned with the fact that she knew we were traitors.

She'd purposefully looked at the scars at the top of my chest, the scars left by the razor-sharp edge of a scythe charm.

Just to make sure I wasn't an innocent.

And if she knew that . . .

Well, gods knew who else knew.

Granted, she was a human. It wasn't like she could talk to anyone at camp.

And even if she did, judging by our last interaction, she would have shoved a flashlight down their throats.

And she had asked — no, ordered — me to meet her.

Should I, though?

She had said Ryan might want to meet me, which checked out. I wanted to meet Ryan. And I desperately wanted answers.

But I didn't know if it was a trick . . . if I was going to show up and she was going to gut me.

But I was still a demigod. I could defend myself.

I could do to her what I'd done to the scorpion. What I'd almost done to Ryan.

I didn't want to, but it was that or leave Kayla and Austin alone.

And I couldn't do that.

I would meet her. And Ryan.

I had to know.

In the meantime, I didn't sleep. And I hardly ate.

The voices were, for once, silent.

Three days passed.

I continued working the night shift. I didn't have a choice. No way in heaven or hell I was letting my little siblings do it.

I didn't sleep, like I said. I didn't have time for that.

Sierra began to speak. Slowly, hesitantly, but she spoke.

Mollie talked and moved more and more frequently. She would probably be discharged within a week.

I still didn't ask about Jake. I was afraid asking might bring an answer I didn't want to hear.

Being awake at three o'clock in the morning was easy.

I hadn't slept for almost a week — and I hadn't been tired since that night in the sewers. I would have said I was running on pure adrenaline, but there wasn't a hint of that in me. I just wasn't tired. I had a job to do.

I wondered if this was some kind of Cabin 7 thing, if we weren't tired when there was work to do. It made sense, in a way, but I had a feeling that the second everyone was healed, all the exhaustion and stress and overwork would crash down on me like a ton of bricks.

I wasn't looking forward to it, especially considering that I wouldn't be allowed to show it.

But that was a concern for in a few days.

I would get answers, hopefully.

Either way, I would know.

There weren't any clocks in the infirmary — we generally went by the sun, which I guess they expected us to, seeing as they hadn't given us said clocks. I don't think anyone at camp except us understands the concept of a night shift.

So I counted. And I waited. And I think I left half an hour too early, but then again, I might not have. I can only separate myself into so many parts.

But I attached the goddamn harpy pass to my arm — the same one I had been wearing three days ago. It didn't have to be that one, but I kind of liked it. Even if it was ripped and smelling like a sewer. It wouldn't do anything for me if they saw me leaving camp, but it would be nice not to have to hide the entire time.

And I walked through camp as I had before, but my limbs were in slightly less pain and my head wasn't pounding with a hangover headache. My throat wasn't as raw and scraped up.

I wasn't quite as terrified, but I still was.

Resting in a sheath on my belt was a knife.

Chances were I wouldn't need it, but if I did, I was fully prepared to use it.

Nobody saw me leave. I hid behind the trees and the cabins, sometimes rolling and crawling under them like some lame secret agent when I heard the harpies coming.

And then I was through the border, and I was out, and nothing in the world could have beaten the smell of the fresh air.

Nobody was watching me now, but there was no time for crying, either with relief, sadness, or fear. Instead, I walked through the trees, down the hill, and toward the cluster of lights.

People didn't avoid me as they had before. Not being covered with blood and laughing like a madman certainly helped.

If anyone noticed or cared that I had a knife on my belt, they did not show it.

I was still wearing the blood-stained, shredded, and oversized scrub shirt. I didn't have to, but I kind of liked it. And I couldn't wear one of The Shirts for work.

I also wished I had some steel-tipped boots for self-defense purposes, but alas, all I had were an open ski jacket, battered jeans, and old hiking boots.

It would do. Rowan and Ryan pretty much dressed the same. Rowan did, anyway. I assumed Ryan did.

But we're getting off-track.

The alley was silent and empty when I finally appeared at its mouth. Much of it was hidden in the darkness, which was disconcerting. But what I could see looked the same as it had before — same bad graffiti, same filthy and flattened cardboard boxes, same damp, dirty walls splattered with things I didn't want to think about.

I saw no sign of Rowan.

Reflexively, I wrapped my fingers around the leather grip of the knife I had stolen. I gently, carefully drew it from its sheath. Just in case.

"Goddamn, what do you think this is? Some kind of kidnapping ring?" Rowan stepped out of the shadows, looking exactly as she had before. "Put that away."

I didn't loosen my grip on the knife's handle. If anything, I tightened it. "Where's Ryan?"

"Oh, that's nice." She raised her eyebrows coldly. "I said, put it away."

I scowled, immediately distrustful, but I reluctantly slid the knife back into its sheath. I didn't have to give them any more reason for killing me than I already had just by existing.

"And, to answer your question . . ." Rowan stepped aside and jerked her ching toward the shadows. "Right here."

I had to stifle a gasp as Ryan Ambers stepped out of the shadows.

On his own, he wasn't particularly noticeable. He was maybe a year older than me, much taller, with shaggy dark curls and gray eyes.

But I recognized those eyes — I recognized the strange paleness of the gray, as well as the flashes of dark silver.

And I recognized the curls — not exactly black, but so dark brown that they looked it.

And I recognized the expression — hurt and betrayed and fearful and threatening all at once. She hadn't had that expression often — really only once that I remembered. But it had been a very memorable day.

However, the expression immediately shifted to surprise. "Oh, shit," he muttered. "It's you."

I smiled crookedly as I stepped forward to meet him. I extended my hand, not really expecting him to reciprocate the gesture, but he did, possibly shocked into responding.

"I'm Will Solace," I said, shaking his hand once before doing both of us the favor of stepping away. "Your sister's half-brother. And I'm sorry to tell you, but Gracie's been dead for almost a week now. Can we finish this conversation out of everyone's view?"

Not waiting for a response, I stepped past both of them, melting into the shadows of the alley.

Stunned into following, they turned and headed after me.