Chapter One

“Eve. Don’t move.” His voice is low and hoarse in my ear.

A moment ago, my fingertips grazed the back of his neck as we kissed. My other hand curved over his large shoulder and pressed firmly into muscle. It was the first time we had stopped walking since escaping Compound Eleven, the first time we had even acknowledged each other, because for the past hour we have been too preoccupied and too overwhelmed.

Too mesmerized.

I think it’s the feeling of earth beneath our boots that is to blame. That and the twinkling night sky overhead. We’re used to concrete below and concrete above. But more than anything, it is the staggering realization that the heat won’t kill us after all.

But in time, our pace slowed and we held each other, we kissed, celebration thundering like laughter in our ears. Then he went still.

Now his tendons stiffen. They lock him in place.

He murmurs to me again, “Don’t move.”

The stars overhead offer enough light to see that he stares at something over my shoulder. His gaze is steady and his mouth is tight. I think it is the closest thing to alarm that his face can register.

Around his neck, my hands curl into fists, ready for violence—always ready for violence. My stomach binds. For a fleeting moment, I feel like I am belowground again.

I start to laugh the thought away, but then I hear it. The rustling of leaves, a gentle yet poignant indicator that we are not alone. An image flashes in my mind of guards decked in protective suits dragging us back by our ankles, guns trained on our temples…

No. It is impossible they know of our escape.

Except nothing is impossible.

We thought it was impossible to survive aboveground, then we stepped outside. And so against Wren’s words, I turn.

I turn and see something I have never seen before, something completely unexpected, completely foreign to those who dwell in tunnels below the earth’s crust. “An animal?” I mutter, and as I do, the large beast’s ears twitch. Like it knows it’s being talked about.

My arms drop to my sides; otherwise I am still. Back straight.

It stands in a clearing twenty feet away, and if it weren’t for its beady eyes that catch in the moonlight, it wouldn’t be noticeable at all. It would fade into darkness. I stare at it, partly with fear that is inborn. But also with awe.

If only the beast weren’t so vaguely yet distinctly threatening…

Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe my muscles could defeat it. Or maybe it is a gentle beast.

But I know that can’t be true, and Wren knows it, too. Silently, his hand wraps around mine. He pulls me backward: one step, two. The beast watches us retreat, then its heavy skull lifts ever so slightly. It takes two steps forward.

Now I can see its paws, and I see they are the size of Compound Eleven’s dinner plates. Curved knives line each one.

“Should we run?” comes a strained voice that I barely recognize as my own.

In my peripheral, Wren shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” Once more, he tugs at my hand. So once more we retreat like we’re walking barefoot on glass, and this time the beast is still.

This time it doesn’t follow.

Suddenly I am hopeful.

Off in the distance comes a sharp cry—one of the birds that calls this strange world home. The beast’s ears flick, and I swallow.

Another two steps back we go.

This is good; this is very good. Soon we will slip out of sight, nothing but a distant memory. And, more importantly, nothing but a distant memory to the guards of Compound Eleven, too. They will not drag us underground after all.

Nothing will.

And then the heel of my boot hits something hard along the ground. One of those roots that seems to grow out of the trees, maybe, or the lip of a rock. I catch myself before I tumble.

Still, it’s jarring. Still, my pulse tightens. It must have been jarring for the beast, too, because something has changed.

Now its head is lower than a second ago and its ears flat. Now a sound reverberates from its stomach, bubbly and guttural at the same time. Now my heart pounds twice as loudly as before.

“We need to—” Wren begins urgently, but there’s no chance to finish.

The beast charges.

Immediately, our muscles spring into action, propelling us away, hurtling us into a sprint for our lives. Twigs snap underfoot as we shoot into darkness, up a small hill, then down a steep slope littered with narrow trees. We are fast, our bodies built for speed.

But Wren’s legs are longer than mine; he is faster. Under the glow of the moon, I see his head shift in my direction; I see his gait slow.

As his hand reaches for mine, I scream at him to keep going.

Maybe he listens. I doubt it, but maybe. I wouldn’t know, because something strikes my back with enough force to break my neck. A fraction of a millisecond passes after impact, then I am facedown. My fingernails wedge with dirt. My forehead opens on a jagged rock.

On your feet, Eve.

Before I was fearful, an advantage to the beast. No longer. Now I am on the defensive.

But then it pulls itself onto its hind legs, and it’s taller than even I am. Half a second later, a mitt outfitted with blades slashes at me, and I swing backward in time to hear it slice the air, my innards barely spared. A heartbeat later, I punch it square in the nose.

I’m used to the feeling of a human nose squashing under my fist. I’m used to the sound it makes and the stinging of my knuckles. I’m used to the look of shock and panic shooting into my opponent’s eyes. This is different.

There is no dull crack of bone, and there is no shock, panic, or pain. All that happens is that the blackened lips of the beast pull away in obvious anger and as they do, they reveal a terrible sight. Yellow daggers, some of them long as my ring finger.

This is not an opponent I can defeat.

There is no sense in punching or kicking. There is no sense in rooting around my boot for my blade. This creature is already equipped with blades. And speed. And strength.

Just as when I stare down the barrel of a gun, I am completely powerless. My gut sinks.

The gun.

Instead of rooting around my waistband for my own weapon, I launch myself at the beast and throw my arms around its neck, tuck my head against coarse fur. This is the safest spot until Wren can shoot it. Otherwise it will gore me with its claws, gut me with its teeth—all before I can pull the trigger.

I hold on with all my strength and scream at Wren to shoot. I hold on, but barely.

It resists my grip as fiercely as I fight for it. It jerks and shakes and through it all, I wait for Wren. He must be near. He must be.

He must have the gun cocked.

He must.

Where is Wren?

I can’t hold on for much longer. And as the thought passes through my head, its paw is beneath me, my grasp is wrenched free, I am thrown onto my back so that the inky night sky is spread out before me.

The sound of fast, heavy footsteps…then my vision is clouded by blackness.

…

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