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I push her hair out of the way, and I see it. Hidden in her forest of fiery hair is a patch of matted blood . . . and a pair of puncture wounds.

“Saints,” whispers Ollinde.

“She’s infected,” Lonan says. “Pick her up. Get her out of here.”

I loop my arms under hers clumsily and stand. Hugo lifts her feet. “Where are we taking her? The infirmary?”

“No. We’re locking her in one of these cells.”

“What?” I nearly drop her.

Lonan steps close to me, eyes glinting viciously behind his wire frames. “Listen to me, Fontaine. She’s infected. In minutes or moments she won’t know herself. She will only know hunger. And then she will attack each and every one of us. There’s no help for her now. We have to lock her up.”

“We can’t just let her become one of them.”

“She already is.”

“How can you possibly be this much of a coldhearted bastard?”

He lowers his face closer to mine, imposing himself on my space, and grips my wrist in his hand. “Like this,” he says. “Put her in the Saints-damned cell.”

I can’t accept it. I look down at Poppy, my best friend, my roommate. If my anchor was a person, it would be her. This is worse than anything I’ve faced tonight.

“No,” Hugo protests. “There has to be a way. We can stop it. There’s got to be a cure.”

“We’re not even sure that’s what’s happening to her,” I argue. “It could be any number of things.”

“You’re both in denial,” Lonan barks. “Put her in a cell or I’ll put you both in one with her—now.” I look up at Lonan then. His jaw is set. Those sleepless eyes are cold.

I set Poppy down and stand toe to toe with him. Something pained flashes in his eyes as I draw close enough to find the sharp flecks of umber in his dark irises. “I would rather die than abandon her.”

His gaze is unblinking, fierce, merciless. “And I would rather die,” he says, “than let you.”

I hold his gaze, refusing to back down. The energy between us is hot as fire, sharp as either of our blades. This is a strange duel, half threat and half pleading. We’re locked together, neither of us willing to back down.

Until Hugo points his anchor at Lonan’s throat.

It’s a spear with a wicked curved point, the anguished faces of fiends and imps carved into its handle. And around the head, leather straps dangle with shells, beads . . . and a lock of Poppy’s curling auburn hair. He’s had it there for years, and I always thought it was a sweet and sentimental thing. Now, it’s more like a threat and a vow. Odd how quickly love can turn vicious.

The golden glow of the spear casts shadows up Lonan’s face as he glares down at Hugo. “Larose?” he asks.

“Doom her, and I will carve your skin from your meat.” Hugo’s nostrils flare, and his lip curls in fury.

My stomach drops. I’ve never heard Hugo talk like this, but the savagery in his eyes is something new as well. I have no doubt he means what he says.

But then amber light meets gold. Orla’s stiletto knife crosses with Hugo’s spear over Lonan’s shoulder, stern anger carved on my stepsister’s face. Not for the first time, I wonder if there is something more to her fierce loyalty to Lonan.

“My problem isn’t with you, Malebranche,” Hugo says to Orla. In seconds, we’ve dropped to the formality of surnames. We’re a cohort. We’ve fought together for years, and this is what the Ridding is doing to us.

An emerald set of talons curl around Orla’s shoulder, and Ollinde says, “You’ve made this our problem, Larose.”

“Stop it,” I demand. “Everyone put your damn weapons down.” I can’t believe I’m the one calling for restraint.

Ollinde glares at Hugo. “Put it down, Larose.”

“Not until he promises to not give up on Poppy.”

“You can’t change what has to be done,” Lonan says. He hasn’t touched his sword. Not an ounce of fear shows on his face. “Think, Hugo. You have to rely on your reason. Whatever you’re feeling is fuel for the Dark. The Ridding looking for ways to sway you—make you afraid, make you rage. It’ll use sentiment. It’ll use love. Any softness inside you will be weaponized. Let go of your feelings and think.”