In the space between sleep and consciousness, the tail of a dream mingled with the present: You are my little monster, and I am yours, Eli said, stroking her hair as she rested her head in his lap on his bedroom floor, sunlight streaming in through the window, and the smell of something burning wrinkling her nose—

"Leave it to the damn methuselah to give me a trick key," someone grunted, tearing through the thin membrane of the dream.

Snow awoke to Hurgo standing outside her cell. Another man in matching prisoner scrubs was kneeling outside, his hands wrapped around the bars of her cage, elbows out, and a tight grimace stretching his perspiring face.

"Nearly got it," he said in that peculiar accent--same as Hurgo's--through gritted teeth, the veins in his neck looking ready to pop with the strain.

He wasn't wearing the face she remembered, but he had that untidy hair the color of a cardinal's plumage, the burning irises to match, and the same dark complexion like freshly turned earth soaking up a sunrise, and who else would pause with Hurgo to help her escape on their way to the exit? It could only be Tres. What she didn't remember was the insignia on his chest peeking out above his collar. She had never seen this particular one and yet recognized it for what it was: a transmutation circle. Tres gave one last, fierce tug on bars bending under his grip, and created a gap big enough for her to crawl through.

"Apologies," he said breathlessly. "I usually burn much hotter than this, but, the mad doc stuck me in a cryp-cryo--well, no need to get into it now," he said after a pointed look from Hurgo. Then, to Snow: "Come on through. Mind the sides."

Snow stared up into that molten gaze, Rath's words skipping through her head: A faery who's been tasked with hauling you back to the Holókaustos for a little bloodletting.

"Look. I know you must be out of your mind with indecision, us practically being strangers and all, but the fact that we're pressed for time is the understatement of—I'm told—the last seven orbits. The difference between the good and bad guys and gals," he added behind a hand like her feminist head would have exploded at the omission, "is probably a bit hazy--Hurgo's never been much of a persuasive narrator--" cue a derisive look from Hurgo, "but he and I are your door out of this seeping dung hole. There's no one else coming, princess. So, what's it going to be?"

The keycard, which appeared to have a splotch of blood on it, lay on the floor, forgotten.

"Rath gave you that key?"

Tres' lip twitched. "On a first-name basis with the methuselah, eh?"

Shouts and banging began to ripple down the corridor as the inmates caught whiff of an escape.

"Our opportunity, here, is denser than a pygmy and quickly losing its stripes—there's no time to stand about questioning your good fortune, understand?" Not awaiting a reply, he snatched up the keycard and strode through the glass door.

Hurgo gave her a sidelong glance on his way out.

Snow thought she knew why Rath had parted with the keycard, and while she trusted no one, she knew she needed help to escape this place. If it meant chaos once they were on the ground, she would deal with it then.

Wondering how anyone planned to escape the sky, Snow squeezed through the bars and took up the rear.

"Where are we going?" she asked after the third corner. They had yet to run into anyone, though there was a violent arc of red on the wall here and there as they hurried down the dimly-lit corridors.

"The control room," Tres said.

They hung another right and tore down another corridor that opened into a massive hall of white with towering columns, tall windows with glass inlays that let in glorious sunlight, more lights in crystalline cylinders that hung in midair, seemingly suspended by some unseen magic, and a red runner with golden thread that ended at an ornate door with golden flowers in bloom etched into cherrywood. Snow slowed to ogle and imagined soldiers gathered, toasting and drinking to the desecration of the faeries.

Not Tres. He made a beeline for the door that, like all the others, had no handle but instead a tiny white box mounted on the wall beside it. He scrutinized the keycard in his hand, like it had told a joke at his expense, before he shoved it into the box. Her heart skipped a beat when nothing happened, then, a faint click as the light flashed green. The door opened to reveal a red room with padded walls and gold stitching. Hurgo eyed the frame as if an angled blade might take his head from his shoulders should he dare step through. Tres all but shoved Snow into the room and hastily stepped in behind her. Reassured, Hurgo strode in third. The door slid shut and they all looked to the only feature in the room: A panel of black buttons inlaid with gold numbers. Tres pressed the number 1 and the button lit up at his touch. Not a single sound or sensation followed. Snow and Hurgo spared him a glance, but Tres didn't seem concerned.

"Stay behind me at all times, unless you know some violent talent of the mortal sort or have any Faen powers to speak of."

They eyed her pointedly and she wondered whether they suspected what the methuselah had already known: that sometimes magic slipped out of her with abandon. She shook her head. Best for them to not rely on her unreliable powers that had yet to culminate into anything more than a convenient way to turn on the lights and enact insecticide. Besides, a girl should keep some of her secrets for herself.

"Hurgo's been a bit spotty with the transformations. Besides, we might need extra thumbs to land this thing," Tres added under his breath.

The hackles on the back of Snow's neck rose as the part of her hoping there was already some semblance of a grander plan in motion died. "So, the escape plan, we're winging it?"

His face wrinkled at the word. "What?"

The door slid open on another room and her question was forgotten. Somehow, they had traveled. The room was semi dark, spacious, cylindrical and blue, the air humid and thick with the smell of nature. Snow saw why as they descended three short steps: trees and exotic-looking plants, the likes of which she had never seen, grew close to the walls, dirt lined the cobbled walkway, and thin roots stuck up from between the cracks.

Again, Tres seemed to know the way as he bolted across the walkway to another door on the opposite wall. Another box. Another swipe of the keycard. Another hall, this one sterile white, that ended in a T at a set of double doors. Another swipe. Another click. She rushed in after Tres with Hurgo close behind, into another cylindrical room, blazing white with windows so pristine that it appeared nothing separated them from open sky, and bowled into the faery as he came to an abrupt stop. Snow gasped. He's hot to the touch, she thought, and peered around him to an audience of slack-jawed faces, ogling eyes and tinier windows that glowed with moving pictures. Her gaze lingered on Rath, who, for the first time in the short span she had known him, exuded an emotion other than mere contempt. He looked like a man bursting to shout surprise!

Beside him stood the most beautiful woman Snow had ever seen. The train of her shimmery gown was pooled before her, like she had come to a sudden stop only for the fabric to keep sliding across the polished floor, its plunging neckline, fastened in the front by a silver pendant, and lined with long, silvery feathers that extended out over her shoulders. Belts with an intimidating number of blades and black thingamajigs that looked like lopsided boomerangs crisscrossed at her waist. She looked like an elegant bird, a predator of the sky, and just older than the painted woman with the crown of white-gold tendrils Snow had seen in Elis' shop.

Highness. In her mind's eye, Snow gave a little bow.

Elsie's look of shock crumpled to rage, ruffling her neat demeanor. "Guards!" she shouted, spittle flying as she reached for her belt, but Tres was already moving.

He grabbed the wrist of the hand reaching for one of those thingamajigs, yanked it behind her, and quickly did the same with the other.

"She wasn't supposed to be here!" Tres shouted, glaring at Rath who had begun to circle the room at a preternatural speed, snapping necks like they were dandelion stems as the victims' butts, too slow to action, hovered above their chairs.

Snow felt bile rising in her throat at the popping sounds. He had killed half a dozen before the rest realized what was happening, and even they were clumsily in comparison to Rath's calculated movements, salvaging seconds before their heads spun.

"Get the door!" Rath shouted.

Tres looked to the entrance in time to see starbirds rush through. Elsie took the diversion as an opportunity to drive her head back into Tres' face. His nose spurted blood, but it was Highness who began to scream, a putrid stench scorching the air as her wrists began to smoke.

Hurgo fought the guards at the door, obstructing their path to Elsie--not as quick as Rath, but he held his own while Snow dumbly wondered what to do with her hands.

Tres sniffed at the air. "Highness, I can smell you cooking," he said in Elsie's ear, his nose bleeding into her hair.

"Hurgo, take over."

Hurgo grunted as he wrestled with a starbird he had in a headlock on the floor, the man's eyes bulging, face purpling before Hurgo gave one hefty tug and his neck audibly snapped. Hurgo rolled the corpse from atop his body and staggered to his feet to take Tres' place. When the faery pulled away, Elsie's skin went with him and what remained was an angry and bubbling red. She swayed with the pain but still managed to curse him through loose lips. Quick to the task, Hurgo took both her wrists and there was an audible snap as he tugged. The pain sent her to her knees only for Hurgo to haul her back up as she howled—

Hurgo shouted as something behind Snow caught his attention.

She turned, ducked at the sight of a hulking blur, and heard the air above her head sizzle as a guard thrusted a lightning stick in the space where she had been. He whipped his arm back for another go and Snow hit the floor, rolled, then scrambled and reached for the cattle prod at the waist of the guard whose neck Hurgo had snapped.

Everything slowed--she leapt up, adrenaline pumping, heartbeat thrumming in her ears; she ducked with ease as the man took another swing at her; he was bigger, clumsier, and couldn't avoid her stick as she brought it with both hands against his right kneecap; he went down, yowling, and she, already back in mid-swing, hit home on his left temple; the blow sent vibrations up her arms as his eyes rolled and she kept the rod in flight, flipped the lever and sent lighting up his leg as he spasmed; she kept her finger on the trigger until his head rolled on his limp neck; and with Gran bleeding out in her mind's eye wrestling for brain waves with thoughts of the man who killed the old woman between her legs, Snow bellowed an animalistic battle cry, raised the rod over her head, and brought it down on his with a resounding crunch.

Breathlessly, she stood astride the mess she had made until the smell of burning metal brought her gaze around to Tres, wrist-deep in the closed doors. A vision of stalwart determination, he was leaning into the doors, the metal reddening and melting through his fingers and around his wrists, his legs bent and face twisted with the effort. Snow wondered about the current success rate of their escape, since he appeared to be sealing off their only exit.

Highness' reinforcements could be heard throwing themselves against the other side. Luckily, the two guards still alive on the inside seemed averse to touching Tres. When one finally struck up enough courage to jab him with a lightning stick, Tres merely twitched and showed the whites of his eyes before they quickly swiveled back to his task. By the time the other moved, Snow was already in flight. She swung the rod and took his legs out from under him, then raised the stick like a battle axe as he sprawled and brought it down on his horror-struck face.

Snow heard her old name, the one she hadn't heard since the day her brother died, distantly, like it was coming at her through a tunnel as a silhouette stretched in the tail of her eye; this time, she would be too slow to defend herself, but Rath was quickest--the starbird's head snapped back, neck tearing, exposing his insides, which splattered across Snow. The man's feet dangled and twitched inches from the ground before the methuselah dropped him like a sack of potatoes and spat something snide. Snow was too preoccupied with the dead man's gaze boring into her forehead to hear what it was.

She looked around the room at all the heads tilted at impossible angles, and yet clouds still floated serenely in the distance, like the ship didn't need a captain at all.

She started when Tres' sweaty arm grazed hers. Heat no longer came off him in a wave. He was spent, his clothes soaked through with sweat and pale. He looked ill, but not as sick as Rath. The black veins had reappeared on his face as he strode toward Elsie, who stood a little straighter upon his approach and observed him with a naked abhorrence.

"Congratulations," she hissed. "You've proven yourselves the monsters the world knew you to be."

"Guess you should've monster-proofed your cages," Tres said.

Elsie gave a little smile. "That's the fortunate thing about incarceration at 15,000 feet; no beasties can escape without plummeting to their deaths."

"That's where I come in," Rath said, leaning in close.

The contours of her face hardened like stone, but she couldn't bring herself to look him in the eye. Rath stroked her cheek with the back of his hand and she jerked away, but Hurgo applied pressure to anchor her to the spot, making her cry out. And so, she was forced to suffer the methuselah with all the grace of a wolf stuck in a beartrap, staring down an archer with a cocked bow.

A loud bang resounded through the control room--the reinforcements had gotten something heavier than fists to assault the melded metal. Tres was the only one to pay his handiwork a dubious glance.

"Let's play a game," Rath drawled.

The raucous outside the door escalated; the guards had picked up the pace.

"We don't have time for this," Tres said between booms.

"How does Highness want to die?"

"Enough," Hurgo said, looking pointedly at Rath. "Let's land this thing, then you can have her all to yourself."

"She's a tumor," Rath said with all the calm that precedes a storm. "A malignant sickness that corrodes all it touches. No. I want her to die in the place she thought herself safest."

"Then get on with it," Tres snapped.

Snow studied Highness, who kept curiously mum as they bickered about her fate. What little Snow knew about her had her thinking Elsie was the type who would want her own lecherous ideologies to be the last she ever heard, a martyr's speech to echo through her dismantled domain—

Another bang, but this time, an unmistakable crack singed their ears and all that came after happened fast—a grin lit up Elsie's face, Tres screamed an oath in what could only be Faen, and Rath moved with that speed that betrayed him something more than mortal. Elsie screamed as Rath bit down on her throat, Tres' demands died in his throat, and Hurgo's countenance slacked. He released her wrists and stepped back as she howled, pushing against Rath with her broken wrists as he gulped, hands gripping her shoulders, securing her in place until he jerked his head back, taking skin as he went. Blood splattered Hurgo, his face twisted in disgust. Her neck continued to spurt, her flesh dangling in meaty strips. She placed a hand over the cavity. Her mouth gaped, but no sound escaped, as she teetered on her feet.

Their waned sense of urgency experienced a surge when another crack as loud as thunder shot through the door.

Rath took Elsie's head between his hands, her blood running down his chin.

"You never looked more human than you do right now," he said, then let her go, and she dropped like a marionette that had had its strings snipped.

Rath put a finger in his mouth to pry something out of his teeth.

"Good one," Tres said disdainfully as he moved to stand between Snow and Rath. "You got her. Now we need you to land this thing, fast, or we' re all going to be reduced to crimson stains."

Well, actually--

The methuselah peered over Tres' head directly at Snow, making her skin prickly.

Hurgo had already begun to circle the room, investigating buttons and the moving pictures trapped in boxes. It occurred to her then that the banging at the door had stopped.

"No can do," Rath said. His voice had slipped back into that disinterested drawl. "I don't know how to fly this thing, never mind land it."

Snow couldn't see Tres' face, only his tired muscles trying to tense. She looked to Highness, watching her chest heave with every breath, her neck seeping, staining that pretty dress.

Hurgo laughed, a hollow sound.

"Then, what the hell was the plan!" Tres exploded.

"There was no plan," Snow said with eyes only for Highness. Elsie's gaze rolled to hers. "Not one that included you."

Tres had turned to look at Snow, and when he had, Rath had taken a swift step to Tres' right, the opposite direction in which he had looked over his shoulder.

"Don't!" Snow shouted as the methuselah slammed his fist into Tres' temple. The faery fell like a stone.

Hurgo snarled a bestial curse, but before he moved, Rath was at the front of the room. He brought his fist down on a glass cube and the button beneath it and a huge hole opened up in the floor to the sky, swallowing two bodies and sucking at the air in the control room. Undeterred, Hurgo leapt at Rath and they grappled while Snow watched clouds whisk by. She staggered, then slipped as she stepped into Elsie's blood. Panic rose in her quicker than a lantern illuminates a room. She told herself to make herself small, to lie flat like the bodies. Instead, she seized up with fear and clung to the floor with her toes.

Hurgo and Rath had their hands on each other's throats, but Hurgo was the only one purpling. When he went slack, Rath dropped him and Hurgo clawed at his throat, gasping for breath.

Snow's toes were cramping.

Rath grabbed a curved blade from a dead man's belt, hooked it over his shoulder and cut a deep, vertical gash along the right side of his spine before he changed hands and did the same on the left. Black blood seeped down his back and legs in ribbons as he dropped the blade and moved around the hole in the floor toward Snow.

A resounding crack made Snow lose her footing as the reinforcements finally smashed through to the control room. She quickly regained it only for Rath to rush up behind and push her. Snow's stomach lurched as her feet left the ground and she suddenly felt nothing but open sky. She was so frightened that she forgot to scream. Sunlight pierced her eyes and tears streaked up her face as clouds rushed by in a white haze. Her bladder nearly emptied when she felt hands grip her outstretched arms, though she needn't look to know that it had to be the methuselah.

Snow thought she had known fear, but when she shot through that last tier of white, the fright that struck her like a rusty nail to the sternum once she caught sight of the ground was almost enough to make her black out. The small, indiscernible shapes grew larger at an alarming rate as the hands on her arms seemed to be experimenting with various grips, and her mind, running like egg yolk on a hot rock, couldn't make heads or tails of why it would matter how he was holding her when her skull exploded up into his face. It made her curious enough to look up right before a black cape, no--wings, shot out of his back and her arms were jerked upward with such force that the right one left its socket. Black spots splashed across her vision and she finally screamed. His fingers dug deeper and deeper into her arms as their shadow, a malformed blob with flailing legs and wings, got bigger and bigger on a red sea of tall grass.

What a beautiful place to die, she thought a split second before crash-landing between the earth and the methuselah.