Ruins

She rolled her eyes. “Who am I kidding? I’m not this stupid.” She stood up. “There are other Partial factions I can talk to; I’m going to go find one that doesn’t dismember their enemies and use their body parts as decorations.”

Kira turned to leave, but from her new position she could see a foot down on the dock; a foot that seemed to still be attached to a body. She stopped. If she could get a glimpse of what the corpse was wearing, that might give her a clue as to who had killed him, and which side he was on. She looked again at the arrow and the graying hand. Morgan’s people don’t use arrows. But it might not be the Ivies either. She groaned. It doesn’t matter who the dead body is—I need to get out of here, now—

And then the foot moved.

Kira swore under her breath, gritting her teeth and staring at the grisly dock. If someone was alive, she had to try to help him . . . but the dock was beyond the tree line. Everyone on the lake would be able to see her. She still didn’t know which part of the lake the Ivies lived on, and which other groups might be here fighting them. She tried to turn and go, but she couldn’t do it. If this victim was alive, he needed her help. She checked her handgun, making sure she had a full magazine and a bullet in the chamber, and crept forward.

The lake glistened in the morning light, the sun to the east—putting her in the opposite position than she’d been in last night, fully exposed and blinded by the bright flashes on the water. She took another step forward, her eyes darting wildly. Had something moved in the trees? On the water? She held her gun with trembling hands, trying to reassure herself: This isn’t an ambush. They cut off the man’s hand and then left. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.

Right?

She reached the trail that passed in front of the dock; probably an old hiking trail kept clear by deer or foxes. She looked left and right, crouched on the edge of the narrow clearing, but the forest was thick, and the trail curved away in both directions, limiting her view. She looked back at the body on the dock, half-hidden by a stand of trees but coming slowly into view as she moved forward. The leg moved again, feebly, but she could swear it looked deliberate—not the random twitching of a dying nervous system, but a purposeful movement. The man was alive, and maybe even partly awake.

She stopped at the edge of the trees, standing silently behind a trunk. One more step and she’d be in the open, visible across the full width of the lake. “If I ever see Dr. Morgan again, I’m going to punch her in the mouth,” she said softly. “‘Opposed to medical experimentation’? That’s really all you could say about these people? Not maybe ‘psychopathic savages murdering people on a haunted lake’? That’s not worth writing down?”

The leg moved again. She saw another movement in the corner of her eye and spun around, her training and adrenaline taking over, her pistol sight locking in on the motion. It was just a branch, swaying in the wind.

She stepped out onto the dock. She could see the whole man now, sprawled out, clutching his arm stump with his one good hand. He wore the standard gray uniform of the Partial army, just like all of Morgan’s soldiers. Crusted blood mixed with bright red smears of flesh. She stepped around the arrow, linking to the struggling man as she came closer: PAIN BLOOD HELP ME HELP. The wide lake stretched out before her, disturbingly idyllic next to the gruesome scene. She slid her handgun back into her pack and knelt down by the man, probing his neck for a pulse. He jerked when she touched him, but he was too weak to move away.

“Don’t . . . ,” he croaked.

“I’m here to help you,” she said, ripping a strip from his tattered clothes. She wrapped it tightly around his wrist as she spoke. “Do you know who did this to you?”

BETRAYAL, said the link. The man tried to speak, but his voice was cracked and raw. BLOOD.

“You have to tell me,” she said. “Was it the Ivies? Where are they? What are they doing?”

“It was the . . . Blood Man.”

“The Blood Man?” Kira tied off the bandage and started probing the rest of his body for wounds. There was too much blood to have come just from the wrist . . . and then she found it, a gaping hole in his gut where blood mixed with viscera. She reeled back at the stench. “This stab wound perforated your intestine,” she said, swallowing her disgust. “You need antibiotics.”

“The Blood Man,” he croaked. “They serve the Blood Man.”