“Come on, come on,” I mutter. My hands are shaking. Matches two and three don’t stay lit.
A staccato of gunfire breaks the stillness. The shots sound random—they’re firing blind, and I say a quick prayer that Bram is back in the trees already, concealed and safe, watching to make sure the rest of the plan goes off.
Match four catches. I move the bottle from between my thighs, touch the match tip to the rag, watch it flare up, white and hot.
Then I move out from the shelter of the trees, breathe deep, and throw.
The bottle spins toward the wall, a dizzying circle of flame. I brace myself for the explosion, but it never comes. The rag, still flaming, detaches from the mouth of the bottle and floats to the ground. I am temporarily mesmerized, watching its path—like a fiery bird, listing and damaged, collapsing into the undergrowth massed at the base of the wall. The bottle shatters harmlessly against the concrete.
“What the fuck? Now what’s the problem?”
“Fire, looks like.”
“Probably your damn cigarette.”
“Stop bitching and get me a hose.”
Still no alarm. The guards are probably used to vandalism from the Invalids, and neither a damaged floodlight nor a dinky fire is enough to cause them concern. It’s possible it won’t matter—Alex, Pippa, and Beast’s diversion is more important, closer to where the action is—but I can’t shake the fear that maybe their plan hasn’t worked either. That will leave a city full of guards, prepped, primed, attentive.
That will be sending Raven, Tack, Julian, and the rest of them into slaughter.
Without consciously deciding to move, I’m on my feet again, sprinting toward an oak close to the wall that looks like it will support my weight. All I know is I have to get over the wall and trigger the alarm myself. I wedge my foot against a knot in the tree trunk and haul myself upward. I’m weaker than I was last fall, when I used to climb to the nests quickly, daily, without a problem. I thud back down to the ground.
“What are you doing?”
I spin around. Coral has emerged from the trees.
“What are you doing?” I turn back to the tree and try again, picking a different grip this time. No time, no time, no time.
“You said to cover for you,” she says.
“Keep your voice down,” I whisper sharply. I’m surprised that she actually cared enough to follow me. “I have to get over the wall.”
“And do what?”
I try a third time—managing to skim the branches above my head with my fingertips—before my legs give out and I’m forced to jump back to the ground. My fourth attempt is worse than the first three. I’m losing control, I’m not thinking straight.
“Lena. What are you planning to do?” Coral repeats.
I spin around to look at her. “Give me a boost,” I whisper.
“A what?”
“Come on.” The panic is creeping into my voice. If Raven and the others haven’t already crossed, they’ll be trying to any second. They’re counting on me.
Coral must hear the change in my tone, because she doesn’t ask any more questions. She laces her fingers together and squats so I can wedge my foot in the cradle formed by her hands. Then she lifts me, grunting, and I shoot upward and manage to pull myself into the branches, which fan out from the trunk like the spokes of an umbrella laid bare. One branch extends almost all the way to the wall. I lean down onto my stomach, pressing myself flat against the bark, scooting forward like an inchworm.
The branch begins to sink under my weight. Another foot or so, and it begins to sway. I can’t go any farther. As the branch sinks, the distance between my position and the top of the wall increases; any farther, and I’ll have no chance of making it over.
I take a deep breath and move into a crouch, keeping my hands tightly wrapped around the branch, which is swaying lightly underneath me. There’s no time to worry or debate. I spring up and toward the wall and the branch moves with me, like a springboard, as my weight is released.
For a second I’m airborne, weightless. Then the wall’s concrete edge drives hard into my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. I just manage to hook both my arms over the wall and pull myself over, dropping onto the elevated pathway that the guards walk during their patrol. I pause in the shadows to get control of my breathing.
But I can’t rest for very long. I hear a sudden eruption of sound: guards calling to one another, and heavy footsteps jogging in my direction. They’ll be on me in no time, and I’ll have lost my chance.
I stand and sprint toward the alarm tower.
“Hey! Hey, stop!”
Shapes materialize from the dark: one, two, three guards, all men, moonlight on metal. Guns.