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radio strapped to her shoulder.
    “I have one still alive in here, but I can’t hit him without hurting the woman.”
    “So try harder,” said a voice on the radio, and I thought that I recognized it, but I couldn’t tell from where.
    “I need backup,” the woman insisted. “He’s healing.”
    I looked down at my chest, watching as the long, bloody gash slowly sealed itself closed. Thick black grime dripped from the wound and sizzled on the floor: soulstuff, withered and dark. I tried to speak, but my lungs were still reforming; I felt the bitter sear of ash in my throat.
    “Please don’t shoot us,” said Rosie. She had no special reason to trust me, but she knew me better than these sudden invaders with guns and knives, so she stayed in the corner behind me.
    The fight in the hall had drifted outside, but I could tell from shouts and roars and impacts that it was still raging. I wondered what kind of man could stand that long against a Withered. I looked back at the woman with the gun, knowing she could kill me if she tried, and praying that my lungs healed closed in time to defend myself.
    And then the boy from the rest home appeared in the door, dressed in black like the others, and suddenly I knew why I had recognized the voice on the radio. Why was he here? What was going on? His eyes were alert and clever and dead all at once. He walked with a strange, almost trembling gait, as if restraining himself with every step, but I couldn’t guess from what. His eyes roved over the bodies on the floor, the bloody mess of my chest, Rosie cowering in the corner, all with the same predatory detachment. He looked at me for a moment, silent, then slowly lowered himself to crouch over Gidri’s body.
    “You drained them?” he asked.
    I frowned, confused. How could he possibly—
    “He can only drain dead bodies,” said the woman with the gun.
    “Obviously not,” said the boy, and touched Gidri’s throat with a pale finger. “If they were dead, they’d turn to ash. That means he incapacitated them, and draining their minds is the only weapon he has.”
    The man with the machete reappeared in the hall, covered with greasy ash and bloody splinters. The fight was over, and he’d won. I felt a new wave of fear. These were the ones Gidri had talked about, the other side of our shadow war, and they were far more capable than I’d imagined.
    “What are you talking about?” asked Rosie.
    The woman with the gun ignored her, keeping the gun trained tightly on my chest. “Protocol says we kill him no matter what—”
    “Protocol can wait,” said the boy, and looked at me with renewed interest, the way one would look at an insect pinned to a board. “These aren’t the first people you’ve drained without killing.”
    I felt a wave of shame, the deep, dark secret of a life I’d ruined, and I choked out an answer through my raw, ragged throat. “I never wanted to kill.” My voice was scratched and painful, but I forced the words out. “I thought I could . . . sustain myself without hurting anyone, but it was all wrong. I never meant to hurt him.”
    “Who?” asked the woman.
    “Merrill Evans,” said the boy, and I felt again the horrible sadness of that night, desperate and barely sentient, when I’d searched for a mind and found only my friend, and I couldn’t bear to kill him, so I’d tried what I’d thought was a mercy, and instead I’d damned him to a living hell. I sank to my knees, wishing I could forget, but this wrenching shame was the one thing I could never allow myself to lose. If I forgot what I’d done to Merrill, I might do it again to someone else.
    “I have a shot,” said the woman.
    “Wait,” said the boy, and turned to Rosie. “We’re with a special branch of the FBI, and we’re here to rescue you. We have an ambulance outside.” He gestured at the woman with the gun. “Will you go with my friend, here?”
    “Will you tell me what’s going on?” asked