Whoosh. Hiss.

The gentle susurration of waves drew Cora from leaden sleep. She stirred, gasping at the pain even such a small movement spiked through her. For a frantic moment, she thought she’d lost all function in her arm. But when she rolled onto her side, blood poured back into the limp with a fizzing, stinging pain that still seemed dull compared with the slow, agonizing ache that radiated from every limb.

Her mouth was dry. Her lips cracked. Dirty hair that stank of smoke draped her face.

Cora winced and came into a sit. Her clothes were blackened and charred, especially her sleeves and hems.

When she moved her head, something felt wrong. With tentative fingers, she touched her scalp and worked her way down.

Her hair didn’t reach past her shoulders anymore. It ended in a cripsy, uneven line that brushed against her neck. Some of it had been burned off close to her scalp, and that skin was tender compared with the rest.

Tender. She almost laughed, and coughed deeply and painfully instead. She felt like she’d been driven over by something that had fire instead of wheels.

Still too weak to stand, Cora pushed herself onto hands and knees and made her way to the beaconing rectangle of pale light.

A haze hung outside, as if thin clouds had veiled the sun, and a deliciously cool breeze swarmed over her skin, leaving a prickle behind.

A man lay face down in front of the door, one hand outstretched. Beside him, a little further away, lay Lars.

Their clothes were singed in places, sheared off in others. Red, weeping wounds showed on those exposed patches of skin.

Lady lay to one side, silent and unmoving as the men. She had fared little better in the explosion; her fur had been singed in streaks, and she had a gaping wound along her right side.

Where was Finn? Cora’s eyes scanned the porch, but she couldn’t see him.

No.

She spun around, ignoring the pulse of pain this shot through her body, and scrambled back inside as quickly as she could without passing out.

Smoke layered the floor in the living room like a downy grey blanket, shifting reluctantly when she scrambled through it.

She immediately saw the body. Her throat closed around a sob as she crawled forward. The floor was still warm, and that trickle of heat made her skin pulse in warning.

There was nothing but blackened skin and seared flesh on the person’s back. Hair had been singed off, and flames had eaten away at the scalp until only pink bone showed through.

Nausea brought bitter bile surging into her mouth, making her shudder.

She paused, closing her eyes and tamping down her nausea until it flickered away. When she opened her eyes again, a figure stood a few feet away, ash-black robe barely discernable.

Bone clicked on charred wood as Santa Muerte drew near. Cora scrambled back, falling with a yelp of pain on her ass as she tried to kick away from the ethereal figure.

La Flaca studied her for a moment, two faint reddish dots where her eyes should have been, and then bent over the burned body.

Crispy skin flaked off as Santa Muerte’s skeletal hand dragged the corpse onto its side, before letting it fall onto its back.

Cora squeezed her eyes shut, shivering violently as she tried to force away the agonized grin on Zachary’s hardly recognizable face.

La Flaca was gone when she dared open her eyes again. Zachary’s body lay on its stomach, undisturbed.

But she did not need to turn that body over—she knew it was Zachary’s, and he was dead.

Finn was nowhere to be found. Cora did her best to stop crying, no matter how soothing those cool tears were on her cheeks, and rummaged through the house for a first aid kit.

She found one just as it began raining.