I’m two steps away and the shadow is all over me. Tackle the guy with the ball.

One step. Blackness everywhere.

I turn my uninjured side toward the front just before I collide with Circ. Even still, it’s like running into a hunk of rock at full speed. Circ doesn’t have any soft bits on him at all.

At the same time, a burst of air rushes past me. Claws scrape between my shoulder blades. I cry out.

Circ’s a fighter. ’Fore today, I already knew it, but I’ve never really seen him in a situation where death’s not only possible, but likely. He’s on his feet in an instant, pulling my tangled arms and legs behind him, urging me to “Run, Sie, run!” He pushes me and heads in the other direction at full speed, right for the Killer, as if he doesn’t have a set of crushed ribs and who knows what other injuries. I thought I was saving him, but now he’s saving me.

’Cause of my momentum, I take at least five steps ’fore I’m able to stop. There’s heat all around me, pushing in: on my back, practically tearing through me; on my arm, which, having broken free of the sling, is dangling from my side again; but the worst heat is what I’m now forced to watch: the heat of death and war. Someone hasta die. The Killer or all of us. Running is no longer an option.

Circ’s chasing the Killer, and the Killer is chasing Hawk, who’s decided to ditch us for the relative safety of the high ground. Circ’s fast as scorch, but the Killer’s faster and has a headstart. When Hawk looks back his eyes are so wide and white it’s almost comical, like a Totter’s in a ghost maze when we celebrate the Day of the Dead.

The Killer leaps. At the last second Hawk dives to the side and rolls, rolls, rolls, end over end. The Killer misses again and I think this time it really grizzes him off, ’cause he lets out a growl that sends shivers buzzing up my spine. Unlike Circ, Hawk is slow to his feet, probably a bit dizzy from all the rolling. The Killer stops so fast I’d think it was impossible if I didn’t just see it happen. The predator cuts to the right, pounces on Hawk, his teeth bared and dripping clear and red ooze, a mixture of its own drool and the blood of its last victim, one of t’other Hunters. My feet are stone, too heavy to move. After the Killer rips out Hawk’s throat, I’ll be next.

If my feet are stone, Circ’s are clouds, floating across the desert, graceful and light. But these are winter clouds, full of lightning, and right ’fore Circ launches himself at the Killer, his body seems to darken. His slasher-blade—the lightning—flashes against the darkness of his body as he crashes into the beast.

No, no, sun goddess, no!

Take Hawk, take me.

Not Circ.

Not my best friend, not someone so good, so pure, so perfect.

The Killer is on him, shaking and twitching with excitement. I can’t see its face but I know why it’s excited. Tearing and biting. Clawing and ripping. Feasting on the blood of my world. To me—everything. To the Killer—just a meal.

I’ve got no sense left in me, if I had any to begin with. I run right at it, determined to kill it ’fore it can take any more of my friend, or more likely die trying. I’m weaponless, but I see the tip of Circ’s slasher-blade peeking out from the edge of the Killer’s skin. Circ’s final gift to me.

I hold my breath, reach for the blade, feel it’s warm steel on my fingertips, try to pull it toward me so I can get to the handle. It won’t budge. It’s trapped under something, Circ’s body, or the Killer, or both. I strain against the weight, desperate to get it out before the Killer notices my presence, but I’m not strong enough. Never strong enough.

The Killer’s no longer moving. It’s frozen. It knows I’m here and is contemplating the best way to turn and rip me to shreds. The blade is my only chance and I’m desperate now. I scrabble at it, try to follow the gleaming metal down to the handle. My fingers only get two inches before brushing against blood-matted fur. The blade almost seems to come from the Killer’s skin, like it’s hiding it within him, well out of my reach.

It’s still not moving.

’Cause it’s dead.

Chapter Nine

This clinches it: I’m destined to be in trouble for the rest of my life.

I tried my best to save my friend’s life—although I think I got more in the way’n anything—nearly dying in the process, and then watched him escape death by a hairsbreadth—and now I’m in trouble for it.

“This is the last grain of sand, Youngling!” my father says, his face red again. He was one of the forty-nine survivors, including Circ and Hawk, of the Killer attack. Evidently their group was the only unlucky one. All of the other hunting parties came back with minimal deaths, all from the horns and hoofs of tugs.

“I have a name!” I spout, surprising even myself. I’m talking back to my father more’n more these days, which is probably stupid, but I can’t seem to help myself. He makes me so angry, madder’n a Cotee who watches its dinner get swooped away by a sneaky vulture ’fore it gets even one bite.

“Your name should be Brainless,” Father says.

“Roan, go easy,” my mother says. I look at her, surprised, but she’s expressionless. She’s never stood up for me. I always get the feeling that she wants to, but either she’s too scared or too smart to do anything.

My father whirls on her, momentarily taking the pressure off of me. “How dare you! I’m trying to save our daughter from herself. She could have been killed today. And you will address me as Greynote, Woman.”

In my head I hear it as my father wanting to be called Greynote Woman, or perhaps Greynote the Woman. A snigger escapes my lips, bringing his attention mercilessly back to me, his eyes blazing.

“I have a name, too,” my mother says, her voice no more’n a whisper. My initial shock at her interference turns to amazement. What’s going on? It’s like me and my mother’ve both had enough of it—all of it. My father’s punishments and anger and outbursts. And now we’re fighting back as best we can.

My father’s head bounces back toward my mother. He takes two strides until he looms over her, at least a head taller and twice as big. For a moment he reminds me of the Killer and I have the urge to rush him from behind.

“Enough!” he snaps. “From both of you. Woman, you will leave this instant or I will make you leave.” I admire my mother’s nerve as she stares at him, holding it for two moments longer’n I woulda had the guts to do. When she breaks her gaze, her eyes meet mine, flash I’m sorry, and then she walks out the hut door.

I’m determined to plead my case ’fore my father turns on me again. “I was only trying to—”

“I said enough, Siena,” my father says, surprising me by using my name for the second time in as many days. Averting his eyes, he stalks around the edge of the hut, drawing flaps of tugskin over each of the three windows. Next he’ll go for his snapper, I know it.

“Father, I—”

“Stop. You not only put yourself in danger, but the entire village too. We simply cannot have pre-Bearers running around trying to be heroes. If you die, you cannot be in the Call, can you? Siena, you will Bear a child when you turn sixteen, nineteen, and twenty-two, just like all the other girls. You understand?” His voice is lower, less angry, almost petulant.

I nod, even while thinking, It really is just about breeding, ain’t it?

“I’ve tried the snapper, I’ve tried threatening, I’ve tried everything I can think of. There’s only one option left. You’ll spend a day in Confinement.”

~~~

’Cause my day in Confinement won’t begin until tomorrow, I go to find Circ, a final rebellion ’fore Father punishes me. I don’t even try to hide where I’m going, but Father doesn’t try to stop me either, because there’s some big important Greynote meeting he hasta prepare for and I’m suddenly the least of his worries.