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May 14, 7:38 P . M . ANAT

East Siberian Sea

Valya crawled across the rough stone. Blood flowed from her forearm, from both ankles. It filled her boots, soaked through her armor. Where it pooled under her, it ran in streams to the bubbling mud behind her. The blood and her wounds drew flies and gnats, buzzing and divebombing, clouding the air around her.

I will not die like this.

She used her elbows and knees to propel her. She scraped and dragged herself toward the copper boat still overturned on the shore. Seichan had left her shotgun hidden under the false blind.

Valya struggled toward it. In the past—abandoned, brutalized, and blood-oathed—she had lost so much control of her life.

No longer .

She reached the boat and shouldered it aside. She clutched the stock of the 12-gauge and pulled it to her. Better to end this now, by her own hand, rather than succumb to the injuries inflicted upon her by another.

She intended to take back this much control.

She rolled to her shoulders.

As she did, she stared past her toes to the mudflats and the rustling growths.

She squinted. She did not remember the plants being this close to shore, gathered where her blood seeped into the mud.

As if noting her attention, the nearest plant curled its leaves, in a nearly hypnotic rhythm. Two fronds parted, revealing a coiled vine. She instinctively pulled back her legs, but she was too slow, too weak. The vine snapped out like a whip, striking at her ankles where her grandmother’s blade had cut deep.

She yanked the leg back, her foot flopping in her boot.

A breath later, fire shot up to her knee, then higher. She scooted on her elbows, trying to escape the agony, but it followed her.

And that was not all.

The plants shivered closer, propelled by roots that swam and pushed through the hot mud. One, then another, and another. A second vine lanced out at her, missing by inches, stabbing into rock. Crimson oil spattered where it struck.

She swung her shotgun around, struggled with her aim, and fired.

The slug tore through the closest plant, shredding leaves, decapitating those fleshy flowerheads. Panicked, she fired again. But there was no lasting damage. A plant on her left crawled onto the stony bank, casting out roots, gripping the rock with thorns. It pulled itself closer, following the blood trail toward its source.

Its movements were slow, relentless, determined.

She twisted and fired, shattering through the plant’s anchor of roots. It rolled back into the hot mud. As she lowered her gun, a sharp sting bit her wrist, near where the athamé blade had impaled her forearm. She jerked her limb away, breaking free of the vine that had stabbed her.

Still, the damage was done.

Acid burned through her veins, up her arms. The fire reached her heart and exploded, pumping everywhere with each panicked beat. She fled away, dragging the shotgun.

More of the plants clustered along the shore.

Roots snagged and pulled.

She tried to reverse the shotgun, to bring the muzzle to her chin, but her hands, then her limbs, refused. The weapon fumbled free and clattered on the stone.

No...

She let her body fall toward it, to retrieve its promise of release. Only she ended up slumped across the rock, unable to move—yet, still burning inside.

She blinked away tears—even this control was stolen from her.

As she stared, unable to look away, the plants continued their slow, inexorable march through her blood, coming for her.

The first one scrabbled close enough to bow its many heads. A frill of dancing cilia probed the air, leading those malignant flowers to kiss her bare wrist. At first, it felt like the whiskers of a cat, tickling her hot skin—then those hairlike tendrils burned with acid into her, drawing the head closer. Petals opened, curling back, revealing a tangle of waving tendrils, far larger than the cilia.

With their touch, acid melted flesh, leaving only raw nerves that screamed.

Then the others joined the feast.