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“Feel that?” he whispers into my lips. “I hear every bloody beat from miles away. It sets the rhythm. Your heart skips a beat, mine does too. Your heart pounds—like now—so does mine.” He pushes harder on my chest. “So slow it the fuck down, or I won’t be able to walk away without leaving you sore and dripping.”

He can’t be serious about our hearts, but that untethered desire for me already has wetness trickling freely down my thighs.

“With come or blood?” I ask.

“Both.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Both. We’ll make a fucking mess.” He taps the blade on my neck to the rapid beat of my heart and pulls his hand from my shirt to squeeze my cheeks. His tongue forces past my smushed lips in a rough kiss, so urgent and consuming it’s as though he needed it in order to keep breathing. “You will behave so we can get out of here alive. I have so much more I’m going to do to you. And fuck you against a tree just got added to the list.”

I grab his suspenders.One more kiss.

But he pulls away.

My knees weaken, and I flatten my back to the tree and watch him approach the vine-covered outer wall of the Ring. He sidesteps along the curved exterior to where the carriage was loaded with babies and the elixir the night I followed it. Another carriage waits in its place, full of sacks—a reminder of my failure. I grip the tree, clenching my eyes shut. The babies. The mothers. Caldera. The thoughts become threads of energy from the bark at my fingertips, passing through my hands and climbing my arms. Magic streaks through me, into me, beyond my control. I pry my hands from the bark and open my eyes. The glow fades from the trunk at my back.

Eli peeks around the outer wall into the back room then disappears through the doorway, leaving me alone with the dwindling gray light and soft sprinkle of rain.

I watch for him to return, to exit the Ring with Kelter behind him, and Milo and Kaleida and everyone else, but a scrawny Life Cycle worker appears instead. He lifts a basket into the carriage, talking over the shoulder of his gray jumpsuit.

“Did you see the Hollow was moved?”

Ash follows him out on her twiggy legs, a basket against her chest. “Yeah, to the underground storage with the traitors. I don’t see why he’s still alive.”

My breath hitches. Kelter. I have to tell Eli where to find him.

“I’m glad the suites are finally back to being used for birthing, not prisoners,” the man says, taking the basket from Ash.

I practice the obscene act of waiting as baskets of drugged babies are packed into the carriage. When the workers retreat, disappearing back within the walls of the Ring, and the carriage door swings shut, I’m ready. The ancient wooden wheels spin, and it takes off, more babies stolen from their mothers. I don’t let myself follow, not this time.

I drop to my hands and knees and crawl over slippery leaves and sharp twigs. Five feet, then I stop, listening. Then another five. And two and three and four more until I’m outside the door, peering into the back room. Baskets and tea carts and blankets. My stomach churns. Waterfalls and rainbows and death.

I stay close to the wall, listening for the heavy breathing and painful cries of labor from the other rooms, but it’s eerily quiet—save for the patter of rain. And dark. My knees go numb on the hard marble floor, my wet hands slipping and squeaking. I shove used syringes out of my path, avoiding the prick of the needles as I make my way along the wall.

A whistled tune sounds—not a song; that wouldn’t be allowed. No, it’s a menacing taunt, like a hunter laughing at his prey as he lures it to its demise. I tuck myself behind a large wooden barrel against the wall and search for the source. And there, beyond the entrance to the moonlit atrium, a guard in a black jumpsuit stands in the rain, club in hand, death tune on tongue.

Dammit. I can’t find Eli if I can’t get past the guard. I debate going back, returning to the safety of the tree and letting himrescue them on his own, but he might not know there’s an underground room. So I stay. I’ll find Kelter myself.

I scoot closer to the barrel. The cold pinches my skin, and every puff of foggy breath might give me away, but my frozen fingers come across a hinge. I slide my hand along a gap in the marble and hit the rounded top of another hinge. My fingers follow the crevice in the shape of a square—then in…to a handle.

A trapdoor. It must lead underground. To Kelter. To warmth and hugs and home. I grab the handle, cold metal biting into my palm. And I pull. The hinges creak. The marble squeals. And the door lifts an inch. I hold my breath, but the guard doesn’t come running. He whistles that awful tune and swings his club at his side.

I raise the door another inch, and another, each motion producing the slightest whine from the hinges. Pitch black peers up at me. I keep going, bit by bit, lifting the heavy marble door higher, and when it’s halfway open, and I’m that much closer to seeing Kelt, the whistling stops.

And boots stomp.

I freeze, still on my knees, one hand holding the trapdoor open, one gripping the edge of the floor, fingers dipping into darkness.

The guard approaches and halts on the other side of the barrel, sliding a hand through his golden-brown hair.

I’m as still as death. I beg my heart to stop banging around long enough for him to move on.

I’m not here. I’m the dark of night. Walk away.

But he doesn’t. He shoves the barrel over, sending it slamming down on top of the trapdoor and closing my fingers inside. Sharp, clinking objects tumble over my back, piercing my skin. I scream, and a vision steals me from the pain and panic.

Fat needles stab into my veins, hundreds of them, draining my blood through tiny tubes. I rip them out one after another,but I’m weaker every second. Sweat coats my skin, my sight a cloud of black. A final needle jabs into my heart, siphoning my last drops of life.