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The moment they reach us, Feve lets out a guttural cry and melts into them, heading for the Glassies, who have stopped fighting, as stunned as me. The Marked collide with the first of the enemy, cutting them down ’fore they can even consider retreating. A few Glassies start shooting their fire sticks, but it’s like throwing a pebble at a watering hole to try to empty it. All you get is a ripple when what you need is a wave.

With renewed vigor the remaining Hunters and Wilde warriors start fighting, chasing after the Glassies, who finally have the sense to retreat. They cut them down, not stopping until they’re all dead, badly injured, or racing away on their chariots.

Only then, with my heart pounding, my throat dry, my hands shaking, do I let myself believe that we’ve won.

I crouch down in a circle of unburnt land, hug my knees, and, amidst a fiery inferno, thank the sun goddess.

~~~

“He wants to burnin’ talk to you,” Skye says. “But I tol’ ’im he could shove it up his blaze shooter.”

Normally my sister’s antics and uncouth way of speaking would make me smile, but not after the blood I’ve seen spilt today. Brione’s dead. Crya, too. Lara pulled through although I’m told I can’t see her yet, ’cause she’s being attended to by a few of the Marked, whose healing skills are coming in handy considering MedMa’s the only one in the village who can help.

So when I hear Skye’s words today, I can only sigh.

“I’ll talk to him,” I say, wondering why I say it. I reach a hand into the smoky air, batting at the wisps of gray as if they’re something tangible I can knock away. My fingers go right through the haze. The village was spared, barely, whether by the sun goddess’s will or Mother Nature’s fickle sense of pity. The wind’s changed, pushed the brush fires far, far away, off into the desert. Those who are least injured and not attending to the wounded are busily chopping away the tufts of grass and foliage closest to the village, just in case the fire returns.

“Just let ’im die,” she says.

My head jerks up and my eyes meet Skye’s. “He’s dying?”

“Searin’ right.”

I hesitate. My stomach feels light as a raft of emotions tumble through it. Relief is definitely there. A tang of celebration for sure. But, to my horror, there’s a touch of sadness, too. Why I should be sad ’bout the death of the man who ruined my life—who ruined all our lives—I do not know. I guess ’cause I still have the memories of the good times, ’fore he became a monster, ’fore he turned his back on everyone and everything but himself.

“I’m going,” I say. I should be helping the cleanup efforts, but this is something I hafta do.

I hafta.

Skye shrugs. “Yer call. Want some company?”

I shake my head. “I hafta do this on my own.”

I feel numb as she leads me through the village, past cries of pain as fire stick pellets are pried outta Hunters’ skin with hot pokers, past hobbling Wildes, who are both bleeding and grinning, just like my sisters should. The Marked are everywhere, dark and menacing and serious, and I look for Feve—I’m not sure why—but I don’t see him. Questions flash through my mind. Why did he come? Why did he bring his people? Why did they save us?

I shudder when I realize where Skye’s taking me. We enter the section of Greynote huts, following a route that’s as familiar to me as my own bellybutton. She pushes through the door of our old hut. Inside, darkness awaits.

The first thing I see is my mother’s bed, where she lay dying the night of my Call. The bed she dragged herself out of, to help me, to save me, to kill for me. I imagine her still there, not stricken, but healthy, alive. The image vanishes when I hear a groan.

“Go, Skye,” I say. She touches my shoulder briefly, and then leaves. Behind his curtain, my father cries out again. A voice murmurs something to him. “Who’s there?” I ask.

Feve steps out.

“You!” I say.

“Me,” he replies calmly.

“How dare you? Get out!” I have so many questions I wanna ask him, but none of them spring to mind. All I can think of is getting as far away from him as possible.

“Siena, please,” he says.

“What are you doing here? Plotting and scheming with my father even on his death bed? You’re a real baggard.”

“I know,” he says. “I screwed up. Your father…he was very convincing. He offered me a lot in return for watching you the night of your Call, following you if you escaped—skins and food and wood—things we desperately needed. We’ve been working together with the Greynotes for a long time, trading our services in exchange for goods that only your father can get from the Icers.”

Although I’m surprised to hear that the Greynotes have a secret agreement with the Marked, I don’t wanna hear ’bout it now. “And all you hadta give him was your soul,” I say coldly.

“I didn’t know, Siena. I swear!”

“Are you so daft as to not realize what he’d do the moment he knew where the Wilde Ones were? He tried to kill us!”

“I thought he just wanted you back. To bring you home. To keep you safe. I believed him.”

“Then you’re dumber’n a tug stuck in the mud,” I say.

“I’ll make this right,” he says, touching my hand as he passes. I pull away sharply, wiping my hand on my clothes.

“There’s nothing you can do to make it right,” I say.

Head down, he leaves.

~~~

When I pull the curtain away, I gasp. It’s my father on the bed, but not how I remember him. His eyes are closed, hiding his dark and brooding eyes. Dried flecks of blood are crusted on his lips and cheeks. His face is broken with pain.

“Sienaaaah,” he murmurs.

“I came here for me, not for you,” I say, keeping my distance.

His eyes creep open to slits, and then widen slightly when he sees me. “You’ve changed,” he says. “You look different.”

“I’m better for having left this place,” I say.

“I’ve made mistakes,” he says, his voice weak and unsteady.

“Name ’em!” I demand, dead set on hearing him admit what he’s done.

“I should’ve listened to you—to what you wanted,” he croaks.

“Searin’ right,” I mutter.

“I thought Bearing was the right path for you, for all the women…” He almost sounds penitent, but I ain’t about to let him feel better ’bout himself.

“Bearing’s fine,” I say, “but you can’t force it. And you can’t force who we do it with!” My voice is rising.

“I don’t know why the Icers are keeping us out,” he rasps, his voice fading.

“’Cause they’re afraid of catching the Fire,” I say.

“Don’t make sense,” he gasps. “They have a cure. Why would they be scared?”

His question stops me. I’d never really thought ’bout that. Why indeed. But that’s a question for another time. Now, he’s just ducking all the mistakes he’s made.

“You killed Mother,” I say.

“No, I didn’t help her. There’s a difference.”

“No there’s not!” I scream, rushing forward. I grab him by the throat, squeeze. My hand is shaking, not with fear or uncertainty, but with power, with strength. This is the moment I been waiting for. Vengeance’ll be mine.

“Wait,” he rasps. “Circ…”

I release him slightly, maintaining a firm grip. “Don’t you speak of him. You got no right. You killed him, too.” My head’s throbbing with rage. This man has taken everything from me.

Everything.

“No. I’m sorry, I never should have…” His voice falters and he gasps.

I let go, my shoulders slumping. I can’t kill a man who’s already dying. “You never shoulda what?” I say. “I wanna hear you say it.”

He licks his chapped lips, wheezes, says, “I never should have fooled you, Siena.”

“What? You’re not making no sense. You NEVER fooled me. I found out everything, Father, did you know that? I snuck outta my cage in Confinement, saw the lifers—the innocent people you framed—slaving away. All for what? So you could get your precious cure for the Fire and outlive us all? You’re disgusting.”