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Allie’s.
    Deploy the parachute, Grackel says.
    â€œNow?” I break a nail fumbling with the buckle. Why the hell is the oh-shit lever out of arm’s reach? “I thought it was supposed to open on its own?”
    You will overshoot if you wait.
    I finally work the clasp free, spring up, and tug the lever. The parachute unravels with a loud whoosh . I stare at the ceiling. There is no backup. Preston said we wouldn’t need one. Of course, he also said we wouldn’t need to manually deploy—
    The whip-snap of fabric expanding and catching wind sounds a glorious melody. Then the crate jerks up, and I slam to the floor. Pain blasts my kneecaps, fades as the feed from the bottom camera settles enough to show a concentrated cluster of cat eyes staring back at me.
    We’re right over the town.
    But drifting.
    East.
    Toward wilderness and water and death.
    I spring up and hurl myself at the opposite wall. The lights of Dillingham continue to disappear off the screen. I try a dozen more times. My efforts only succeed in igniting a fiery ache in my shoulders.
    â€œCover your ears,” I tell Allie, drawing my gun. I load the chamber and fire. The explosive noise of gunshot rattles through my head, and there’s now a small hole in our crate.
    Useless. The lights continue to wink out. Almost gone.
    Hold on, Grackel says. I spot a flash of red on the LCD and reach for the handrail as she smashes into the crate feet first. We hurtle sideways. I lose my grip, stumble backward, and collide with the edge of the jump seat.
    My ribs crack; I scream. A million tiny sparks ignite behind my eyes. The squeal of talons on metal shrieks through the crate. We lurch to a steady descent, and I tumble to the floor, gasping for breath.
    After my vision clears and air slips back into my lungs, I check the LCD. The bottom right screen shows streetlights and empty roads and quiet buildings awaiting our late-night arrival. Grackel’s a hazy red glow on the adjacent screen. She flaps toward the shadowed teeth of mountains in the distance.
    I examine Colin, grimace a smile. He somehow managed to make it through our joyride none the worse for wear. Grackel was right. Battered, terrified, but we’re alive, on course. Should land shortly.
    As I gain my feet, Allie breaks into a hysterical wail. I try to ask her what’s wrong, but my words come out a groan. I’m staggering toward her jump seat to comfort her when I hear the rumbling purr. Barely audible behind the ringing in my head, the hiss of wind, and Allie’s cries, but distinct and terrible. It is a sound I hear often in my nightmares.
    Real?
    I look at the LCD. Several pairs of fiery orbs dart across it. Headed in the same direction as Grackel.
    Grackel, dragon jets are after you.
    Painted black, invisible to dragons. Designed for speed, stealth, and execution. A couple can take down a bright Red in under a minute. Grackel’s old, not very fast to begin with, and she must be exhausted from the night’s flight.
    Do not worry about this one, human. Arabelle is safe. Contact Randon when you are ready, she says, ever calm. Until then, you are on your own. Be brave.
    â€œThank you,” I whisper to the LCD, then shut it off.
    â€œGrackel’s stopped talking to me. It’s my fault, my fault,” Allie says between hiccupped sobs as she worries at the silver dragon pin clutched between her hands.
    â€œIt’s not your fault.” I press my forehead to hers. “Nothing is your fault. She’s just conserving her energy. She’ll find shelter in the mountains. The jets can’t fly there.”
    â€œBut the helicopters can, yes, yes.”
    I shake my head, remembering the dragon-hunting gunships and ax-wielding soldiers who decapitate old Reds far too well. “Grackel’s a smart one. I bet you all the money in my go bag that she outlives us all.”
    Allie sniffles. “That’s a silly bet. How am I going