When Percy carried Rue from the hall that night, her arm bleeding again through freshly torn stitches, he had been focused only on immediate damage.

By the time they reached the car, her breathing had shifted.

Her pupils had dilated beyond what pain alone justified. Her jaw had tightened in a way Percy had never seen before.

The reopened wound throbbed, but it was not the physical tearing that destabilized her, it was the memory of it.

Years ago, when mutated wolves had torn into her, she had ...