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“That I hadn’t shot her?” Patrick spat.

Theo eyed the bullet and nodded once.

“You love her,” Patrick surmised.

And Theo nodded again.

“It’s the only reason you’re not dead now. You hear me?”

The man exhaled in a gust. The bullet kissed the bridge of his nose.

“You’ll put out the rest of the fires,” Patrick commanded. “It’ll give me time to consider whether I shouldn’t blast you away.”

Theo swallowed. Nodded. “We should hurry.”

Indeed. Kenton still burned. To the north, nearer to the square, the fires spread of their own accord, no longer compelled by anything but their own appetite.

Patrick collected his bullet, replaced it in the chamber, and grimaced against the pain in his shoulder. He collected the rifle from where it lay. “Come on,” he said, running with Donny and Theodore in tow, back toward the sounds of rampant artillery. He collected the blossoming truth of it all and buried it deep. After all, it was likely that by night’s end, both he and Theodore would lay dead. He’d be relieved from the knife in his middle.

She lied to you, sang a voice.Outsmarted you. You were too stupid to see it.

Patrick ran faster. He passed every familiar building like a comet.

And you can’t even kill her for it, can you?taunted the voice.

CHAPTER 66NINA

The bangs and blasts wrenched me from unconsciousness.

My neck tilted at an uncomfortable angle. A splintering pain pulsed behind my right eye. My back reclined over something solid and unforgiving—ration sacks. The confines of the bunker began to free themselves from the dark.

I was underground again. Beneath a grate, most likely.

I forced my reluctant hands to search along the gritty floor, forced my knees to crawl until I found a wall. My hands searched each crevice of mortar until they found a lantern. I pulled its cord and blinked against the sudden relief of light.

I was alone. And trapped. The bunker cover above was firmly in place. When I tried to push it away, it did not budge.

And beyond it, the fighting raged on. It shook the brickwork, shook the lantern in its sconce. And at every shot, I pictured Otto, Scottie, Briggs, Donny. I pictured Gunner. Patrick. They could all be dead. How long had I been unconscious?

With a grunt of frustration, I hit the timber that fortified the ceiling and was surprised when it shuddered in response.

The bunker cover turned an inch, and the timber shuddered some more.

I backed away in time for the cover to lift away completely, and the faces of two strangers hovered above, their eyes frenzied.

One of them had blood dribbling from his lip. Both wore the Artisan military insignia on their lapels.

“It’s the earth Charmer!” one said. He had a Western accent, clipped and precise.

“Thank Idia,” said the other. He even smiled.

And though I despised myself, I covered my ears against the noise and said, “Help me, please. My name is Nina Clarke.”

The town square had turned into a smoldering mess. I blinked at the walls of smoke, tried to grasp the movement all around. It seemed the entire world was churning. Thousands of bodies colliding and melding and separating.

“Keep moving,” commanded the soldier, voice at my ear. “We’ll have you safely away into the tunnel, Miss Clarke. Keep your head down.”

Death was everywhere. Another body hit the pavement every second. Bayonets sprouted through backs and necks and stomachs. A spray of bullets weaved through the navy uniforms.