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I step into her, forcing her arm up. It takes one flick of my hand for the pin to unlatch and the belt to open up. The armor slides off, hitting the floor.

“Mean to you?”

Her face flames. “Never mind. Thank you.” She retrieves the armor and sets it on the dining table, then pulls out the book about the gods and curls into the corner of the sofa with it.

I position one of the wooden chairs from the table by the apartment’s front window, giving me a clear view of the street below and the next intersection just beyond.

Some of the people have cleared out, but every now and then a new group will saunter past. I make sure to keep the drapes mostly closed with just a crack on the end for me to survey below.

Dorothy opens the book on her lap and the spine cracks with age.

When she pulled it out earlier, I immediately recognized the cover. It was written by a divine scholar, one of the few mortals allowed to meet in private with the gods back before they abandoned us. She transcribed their stories, some of them steeped in mysticism, some rooted in our land.

While Dorothy reads, I watch outside, tension thrumming through my body. I’ll have to dose soon, but my supply is getting low. Before Ana left, Dorothy asked for Oil and while it was clear the provost did not want to deal in illegal drugs, she promised to look into it. But I’m not confident in her ability to procure what I need.

There are a few suppliers here in the Hollow, but only one of them I trust not to rat.

The question is when do I go to him? And how long do I wait? Do I trust Ana not to reveal our position? One thing working in our favor is her belief in Dorothy and the fortune teller.

An hour passes. I drink rum from my flask, then Oil from my canteen. My vision gets a little fuzzy around the edges, but I persevere. Everything is beginning to ache. I take another long swig of the rum.

My metal fingers grow stiff.

Fucking hell.

Dorothy rests the book, pages down, on her lap. “I wish I had a joint.”

Her voice, the soft rasp of it, the languid hunger, distracts me from my affliction. “A what?”

“A joint. Weed. Where I’m from, it’s a plant that you smoke to take the edge off and I could really use it right about now.”

“You smoke?” I can’t hide the disbelief in my voice.

“Yes. Why? Are girls not allowed to smoke here?”

“No. I mean … of course they can. But I didn’t peg you for someone who indulges.”

She pierces me with a look. “I know how to indulge.”

Her words are thrumming with unspoken suggestions. I raise a brow. Yes, I am intrigued.

“We have nothing here called weed, but nightshade has a similar effect.” Using my good hand, I pull my cigarette tin from my pocket and toss it across the room to her. She catches it easily, and my earlier assessment of her, that she’s a useless, defenseless creature, starts to pale.

Perhaps I was too sharp. No, I know I was. She stabbed the Witch of the East with a kitchen blade, then made the Witch of the West disintegrate into ash with water that poured out of her hands.

She is not useless nor defenseless, just inexperienced.

Pressing the latch on the canister’s side, the lid pops open, revealing a row of hand-rolled cigarettes.

“Lighter?” she asks and I toss her that too.

She places a cigarette between her lips, then cups her hand around the end, protecting the flame as it flares to life.

The stroke of bright orange against her face brings to mind the sharp heat of the sudden fire in the forest and worry gnaws at me. She’s more than just inexperienced; she’s dangerous.

But there’s no time for training. I just have to hope she doesn’t light me on fire.

She pulls in a breath, fills her lungs with smoke, and lays her head back.