it in an arc that cuts straight through the Ghost’s front leg. As the creature topples forward, she untwists the swords and lands two heavy blows against the protective shackle clipped around its neck.
The injured Ghost is still frighteningly fast. It whips its head around and snaps its jaws at her. But Jeran wastes no time. In a single fluid move, he darts onto the injured Ghost’s shoulder, swings up to its back, and yanks out his daggers. He stabs it before the Ghost even realizes it is fatally injured. As it falls, Jeran leaps from its body. His slender figure lands on the shoulders of another Ghost coming up from behind Adena. He crouches on its head, crosses his arms, and brings both daggers straight into the creature. It shrieks, trying in vain to throw him off. There is no sign of Jeran’s sweet smile here, his gentle concern. He hangs on mercilessly. Adena whirls around and fires her gun at the Ghost’s neck shackle. The bullet cracks it with a clang.
Nearby, Tomm and Pira press their backs together, guns out, and fire in a circle. But even as they cut their way through the monsters as fast as they can, more lurch toward us.
I crane my neck, searching for the Premier again. He’s no fool on the battlefield—and that means he knows not to be in the thick of the fighting. Still, I look for him, hoping to have a chance to cut him down.
But he’s nowhere to be seen.
I wave at Red to come with me, then sprint up the hill to the thick of the fighting. The ruins of the Seven Sisters rises ominous in the night, jagged black teeth of steel, seven tall and thin skeletons that tower above the seething masses of bodies. As I go, I pause at a Maran soldier who’s been bitten by a Ghost. Without hesitating, I slash a blade at his throat. He lets out a startled gurgle. I don’t dare stop to look at him. I just run on.
Beside me, Red’s jaw is clenched hard. Our movements aren’t synced in the way the others are—he is harsh and blunt in his attacks, uncoordinated, as if out of practice. We look like nothing more than a pair of people with absolutely nothing in common except the desperate will to survive.
I try to understand what kind of fighting style this is. He’s stiff in a way that tells me he hasn’t seen much open combat, but his movements are as quick and dangerous as they’d been during our practice spar. Had he trained at all in the Federation? Maybe he had only been a recruit and never seen a real battlefield. That would explain the awkward nature of his motions, like some kind of fledgling bird.
A Ghost comes charging without warning over the crest of the hill toward him. He turns in its direction, but I’m already moving, my gun hoisted. I fire three shots into its face and another round into its neck shackle. In the same gesture, I grab Red’s hand and pull him behind one of the metal ruins. The Ghost, temporarily blinded, charges right over us. I stab a sword into its stomach as it goes. It flinches, rolling over and taking me with it. As it falls onto its side, I slash deep into its exposed neck.
There are at least three more hunting us. I haul myself up the side of the ruins, my feet finding shallow dents against the metal as I hop up to higher ground. Red presses himself into the shadows below. Another Ghost circles around us, listening for the sound of my boots scraping against the structure, but my steps are silent. It snarls, stalking away from me for a moment and turning its attention toward another part of the ruins. I reach down and seize Red by the wrist. His head jerks toward me, and our eyes meet.
I try to pull him up as quickly as I can, but he’s even heavier than I imagined, his body a solid brick. He gives a mighty leap and joins me. His eyes sweep the scene of carnage around us. There are Strikers being taken down everywhere, their throats clawed out, mouths open in dying screams. Red’s teeth are bared, and his grip against the metal ruin is so tight that his knuckles look like they might tear right through his skin.
I get a good look at the Ghost circling below us, its