The interior of the armored truck smelled like a grave cold metal, stale sweat, and the iron tang of my own blood. I lay against the vibrating floorboards, watching the orange glow of the burning House of Wonders disappear through the small, reinforced slit in the rear door. Every time the truck hit a pothole in the winding dirt roads of the spice farms, a fresh wave of agony shot through my side where the Butcher’s blade had tasted my ribs.
"Esther, stay with me," Razack’s voice was a rough growl.
He was kneeling over me, his scarred face inches from mine. His hands, though trembling, were steady as he ripped open my shirt to get to the wound. The sight of him alive, breathing, his eyes burning with that familiar, desperate hunger should have been a relief. But the shadows on the roof,
