“You must make it to the gate, McKenzie. You must!”

Instinct screams for me to get inside the building, but I trust Kyol with my life, so I stop fighting and glance over my shoulder. Arrows still fly through the air. A few seconds after they leave the rebels’ bows, they’ll become visible to normal humans, so if a fae misses his target or doesn’t hit a fissure, people will see the bolts embed in trees or the ground or skidding across the cement. None of the students are reacting, though. The rebels are being careful.

I take a small step forward. Some of the Court fae have fissured to the rooftops to fight; others remain on the ground, darting in and out of their fissures in smooth, defensive dances. They’re drawing the rebels’ attacks, but it’s a long way to the gate. They’ll tire before I get there. Some of them might die. Kyol might die.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, reading the concern in my expression. He cups my cheek in his hand. “As long as you’re safe, I’ll be fine.”

I bite my lip and nod. Of course he’ll be okay. He’s the king’s sword-master. He can take care of himself. Besides, the fae will need me if any of the rebels are illusionists. Only a human with the Sight can see through that magic.

Ignoring the stares students throw my way, I take a deep breath, grit my teeth, and run. Kyol and I have worked together for ten years—we’re tuned in to how the other moves, how we think and react—so when a rebel charges straight toward us and Kyol doesn’t turn his way, I know he can’t see him.

“Ten o’clock. Now!” I say.

Kyol swings as ordered, forcing the rebel to parry. Touch breaks a fae’s illusion, so as soon as their weapons clash, Kyol can see him. His blade cuts into the rebel’s arm three moves later, but it’s not a killing blow. The illusionist fissures away.

Kyol returns to my side. I flinch when an arrow almost hits him, flinch again when another one whizzes past my face, disappearing into another Court fae’s fissure. I want to duck and dodge the rebels’ attack, but that will slow us down and draw even more attention from the humans. I’ve already lied my way through one psychiatric evaluation; I don’t think I can lie my way through another.

We sprint past the library. Ahead, a metal fence blocks off the construction site to the new engineering building. I veer left to go around it, but a wall of fissures forms in my path. Six fae appear. All rebels.

I tell Kyol their number. None of them must be hidden by illusion because he doesn’t hesitate. His blade carves through the air as he charges the rebels, but he can’t occupy all six at once. Two of them break away from the others and move toward me.

I turn and run. To hell with going around the fence. I leap up and grab its top. My tennis shoes struggle for a foothold in the metal links, and the wire cuts into my palms. I manage to pull myself over the top, but I land hard on my right hip. Ignoring the sharp burst of pain, I scurry back to my feet and sprint forward again. When a fissure opens in front of me, I almost run into it, but Kyol steps out, stopping me. Saving me.

He extinguishes the fissure and then shoves me behind him. Metal clanks against metal as he takes on my pursuers. I dash under the exterior scaffolding and through the doorless entrance to the engineering building. The construction company’s already erected the interior walls on the first floor. I run through what will be the common area, almost make it to the other side, but five fissures open in a semicircle in front of me.

Five rebel fae appear. I’m no military genius, but this is clearly an ambush. I’ve been herded here, lured like a sheep to the wolf’s den.

“McKenzie.”

Even if the fae in the center of the group hadn’t spoken, my attention would be riveted to him. He’s tall, taller than Kyol, but not as thickly muscled, and his silver eyes, while intense, have a lighter, livelier hue to them. He’s wearing a poorly made, dark jaedric cuirass over a once-white tunic, loose gray pants, and scuffed black boots. His golden-blond hair looks like it’s been chopped off with a knife or, perhaps, the sword in his hand. Despite his haphazard appearance, he’s confident, he’s alert, and he’s completely focused on me, his prey.

“McKenzie Lewis.” A bolt of blue lightning flashes down his neck. He cocks his head slightly. A moment later, his sword-point dips and something changes in his posture.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

I follow his gaze down to a dark stain on my purple cami. I press a hand against my stomach. It’s warm, wet.

“ Are you hurt?” the rebel asks again.

No. I’m not. I don’t know where the blood came from. No one’s touched me. No one but Kyol . . .

Kyol. Oh, God. He’s hurt.

I spin toward the exit, trying to get back to him, but two rebels move to block my path, their swords held ready to strike.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” the fae’s leader says. “I’d like to talk to you.”

He takes a step toward me. I take a step back.

“Look.” He sheaths his sword, then holds his hands out, palms up like he’s harmless.

Screw him. I won’t let them take me. I sprint for my only remaining escape route, the metal staircase in the building’s northeast corner.

My backpack bounces as I run up the steps. I reach the second floor before I hear the rebels coming after me. I pause to consider my options, realize I have none.

“Shit!” I have nowhere to go but up, and once I’m up, I’ll have nowhere to go at all. I sprint to the next floor because I don’t know what else to do. I can’t turn around. I can’t stop. They’re right behind me.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

My legs are burning by the time I reach the fourth level. I can’t make it up the next flight of stairs so I run across this floor instead, watching my feet as I step over stacks of two-by-fours and through the wooden frames of the building’s future walls. The sun’s set. It’s dark, but I’m able to make out the outline of a piece of machinery in what will eventually be a hallway. I duck down behind it, praying I’m out of sight in time.

Soft footsteps walk across the cement.

My hair clings to my face and neck. I swipe it out of my eyes and search for some way out of this. There’s an opening at the end of the hallway for what I assume will be a floorto-ceiling window. An orange plastic safety fence runs across the gap, and seven or eight feet away from the edge of the building is the white, moonlit arm of a tower crane.

Seven or eight feet. Can I jump that?

“You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”

I flinch at the voice. He’s close. He knows I’m here.

I grit my teeth and refuse to panic. I don’t think the rebels will kill me immediately. They’ll try to use me. They’ll try to turn me against the Court, make me read the shadows. They probably won’t hurt me until they’re certain I won’t cooperate. I should have a few seconds to make my move.

I wipe sweat from my face and focus on the crane outside the building. Seven or eight feet. I have to jump that.

I don’t give myself time to second-guess my decision. I sprint the distance to the plastic fence, scramble over it—

“No, wait!”

—and jump, but the rebel grabs my backpack.

I slip. I scream.