HE LOOKS AT me, the blue of his eyes blissfully cool after what feels like a lifetime of blinking into magenta lights, then he sighs and lifts the pistol. “I’ve never shot one before.”

“Hopefully, you won’t have to.”

We cross the display room and steal up the stairs—backs pressed into the wall. Upstairs is a warren of corridors. We pass several entrances, each revealing its own tale; rebels rounding up Gems, foot soldiers bound and gagged, young Imps looking disheveled. Door after door, tale after tale … no girl with red hair.

We creep up a second, smaller flight of stairs. Sweat dribbles down my neck and beads between my breasts, and the beat of the drums exactly mirrors my pulse, making me feel invaded, like the house has somehow wormed its way into my arteries. A long corridor sweeps away from us, cast in the light of a dying apricot bulb. We must be in the attic, the ceilings sloped and low. I suddenly feel thankful for the continual thump of the drums, sure our steps fall heavily against the boards as our desperation climbs.

I notice that these doors remain closed and undisturbed.

“There’s nobody here,” Ash whispers.

We’re turning to leave when a squeal catches my attention. My eyes pivot to a nearby door. I press my ear against the wood and hear a young girl sobbing. I glance at Ash. He cocks his pistol, and with no further thought, we barge into the room.

We enter a darkened chamber. A purple net hangs from the ceiling, surrounding a four-poster bed. Candles glimmer on the walls, the air laced with oil and sweat. The girl with red hair sits on the bed. The neck of her dress has been slashed, revealing the sphere of her shoulder, and I can’t help but notice the tremor of her bottom lip. The nose of a shotgun presses into the side of her head. At the end of the shotgun sits a Gem—shirt unbuttoned.

His gaze locks onto Ash. “Something’s going on, I can hear the gunfire. Let me go, or I shoot the Imp.”

Ash raises his gun. “Where are you going to go? The house is teeming with rebels, and they’re seriously pissed.”

I step closer to the Gem. “Give us the girl or he’ll put a bullet between your eyes.” My voice remains strong. He doesn’t see that beneath my clothes, my skin is coarse with goose bumps.

Ash glances at the girl. His eyes momentarily dip to the space where her hands should be, and his aim wavers. The Gem seizes his opportunity, turning his gun so it points at my chest. But this time, I don’t freeze. This time, I’m filled with rage. My body responds before my brain. I knock the gun from the Gem’s hand. The sudden movement must startle Ash, because he fires, the noise fracturing the air. The Gem yelps and clutches his shoulder.

I clasp the girl’s arm, no thicker than a bird’s leg. “Follow me.”

We dash downstairs, scanning the empty rooms—furniture tipped over, carpets glittering with glass fragments, bedsheets stained with blood. No signs of life—Imp or Gem. We stumble into the display room. Again, only ghosts remain.

“Go home,” I say to the girl.

She nods, tears gathering in her eyes. “Thank you.” She scuttles from the room.

Ash and I stand alone, listening to the music and the sound of our own breath. His hands tremble and the gun knocks rhythmically against his thigh.

“Where have they gone?” I finally ask. In canon, the rebels freed the concubines and left the Gems behind—battered and humiliated and unlikely to open another Imp brothel for a very long time.

“The Coliseum,” Ash says. “Thorn told us to take the Gems to the Coliseum.”

I don’t bother asking why, I already know the answer—I’m the clumsy fool of a butterfly who put the idea in Thorn’s head after all. A convulsion grows at the base of my spine threatening to empty my stomach as I remember my earlier words: They deserve to dance on the gallows and know how it feels.