I grind the heel of my boot into the floor and tear myself away from the orc-monster, my arm barely leaving his grasp with the skin still on it. The sleeve of my jacket rips, and I stumble and fall, rolling back out into the aisle and away from the shadow of the crates.

I brace myself, heart in my throat, barely able to keep still. But the darkness between the crates remains still. Unrippling.

"Alyndra," someone whispers.

The scream that didn't come before now bursts from my lips and splits through the silence. I scramble to my feet and face the voice, scanning the shadows for another orc. My fingers tremble against the handles of my knives at my sides. Ready to fight, scared to do it.

It's Macon that rushes toward me, his face serious, his voice low. "Well, there goes my idea of being quiet."

I don't acknowledge the relief that courses through me. Tearing my gaze from Macon, I glance over my shoulder and return my focus to the black space between the crates. The longer I stare, waiting for the orc to pounce on us, the sooner I realize there is really no one there. It's like he disappeared into thin air... or never even existed in the first place. My fingers trace over the mask covering my nose and mouth, checking to make sure I hadn't inhaled any of the Ether.

"I've been trying to reach you on the earpiece," Macon says, pulling me out of my thoughts. He pauses and cocks his head. "You muted my line, didn't you?"

Ignoring his question, I point through the dark. My whisper comes out as a hushed hiss of words. "An orc." I swallow. "He yanked me in there and knew what I was without seeing my ears. He smelled me—my blood."

Macon glances at me, his brow creasing with concern. "There's no one there."

"I know that. But he was, just moments before. I swear it." I don't want to admit that I've seen things in the dark before, letting my fears spill into reality, seeing terrors that are never really there. His judgment is the last thing I need to worry about. The orc was real—my arm still stings from his iron grip.

"And you're sure you didn't inhale any Ether?" Macon asks skeptically.

Proof. I have proof.

I grip the sleeve of my jacket and shake it at him, drawing his attention to the fresh rip on the shoulder seam, but when I look down at my evidence of the attack, there is nothing there. My mouth is suddenly dry of any explanation. Was it all just another hallucination in the dark?

The incoming clomps of multiple pairs of boots cuts off my confusion. I barely have time to react before Macon grabs my wrist and drags me into the same shadows I'd escaped from like I didn't just tell him there was a crazed orc in there. I struggle against him until the darkness between the crates drapes over us and there is no more room for movement in the narrow space.

Macon drops my wrist, but we remain where we stand, his body flush with mine, his warmth beckoning me closer to him in the cold embrace of the dark. My fear threatens to wrench me back into the aisle. Cement, I tell myself. You are cement.

Refusing to acknowledge the dark on my left and the nearing orcs in the aisle on my right, I stare straight forward at the small stretch of collarbone peeking out of the loose trim of Macon's shirt. If I were to look up at him right now, even through the shadow, I know I'd be greeted with his all-knowing smile. It's enough to briefly distract me.

But the chorus of boots clomp closer, escalating my heart into overdrive until nothing can divert attention from the growing dread in the pit of my stomach. I can still feel the crazed orc's breath on my face, his thick hands digging into my bones, his black eyes boring into my soul. How wasn't it real? I can't stop the shiver that takes over my body or the quick breaths that suddenly filled the space between the two of us. I bite my lip and curls my hands into fists, pressing back into the crates for support. The orcs are closing in, but their footsteps fade away as the rush of blood whooshes in my ears.

Something warm grabs my hand. I nearly scream again, but then fingers uncurl my fist and a palm softly slides against the burning crescents left behind by my fingernails. The tension in my neck loosens and her head falls back to look up at Macon, finding him already gazing down at me with a hidden expression on his face. He doesn't speak—he can't with the orcs running past us down the darkened aisle—but even if we were completely alone, he wouldn't have had to say anything. I can tell by the way he gives my hand a squeeze, he knows how deeply afraid I am.

The orcs vanish from the aisle. The pounding sound of their footsteps drift away, merging with the sounds of crazed laughter and screams in the distance. The north wall behind her is left quiet. The relief that fills me is like cool water, washing away the fear that lit my body on fire.

"Fifteen minutes," Gidget says in my earpiece, reminding me of the stakes and the time being wasted before the cams turn back on.

Macon takes notice. "So you hear her," he whispers harshly. "But you don't hear me when I'm trying to find you. You muted my line, didn't you?" He seems hurt and amused at the same time.

I pull my gaze and hand away from him and straighten my jacket. He clears his throat, but I don't give him time to sputter out anything else, and dash down the dim aisle, desperation fueling my thin courage. I clear my mind of everything except for the metal parts they need to fix the zoomer.

Transfigurator. Motion-sensitron. Sonic-matrix.

The list replays over and over in my head, drowning out Macon's following footsteps behind me. The north wall stood directly ahead, only a few paces more.

But something catches my eye, making me stop even in the darkness. It is small and curved, resembling the knife of a handle with no blade, and glows an ethereal light from within. I can't look away even though I have to move on.

No. It speaks my name, sings my song, calls me home. It is everything I want. Everything I didn't know I needed.

"Ah, I see you've found a Starcatcher." Macon says, a humorous tune in his voice, breaking my trance.

It can't be. There's no reason for an ancient elven weapon to be sitting in a warehouse belonging to the House of Teeth. "Why would it be here?"

"Orcs collect relics too, remember?"

My years on the Earthscape didn't erase my knowledge of the Skyscape and the terrible power hidden in those clouds and diamond cities. I know the destruction this weapon could reap if in the wrong hands. I remember these things, which is more than what I remember about myself.

Macon must notice the worry in my eyes. "Don't sweat it. Starcatchers only responds to royal elfblood anyways."

He's right. The weapon would only crumble to ashes if attempted to be used by any other blood.

"You should take it," he suggests.

I whip my gaze on Macon. I can't steal something like this, something so majestic. But then I wonder what would happen if I leave it here and what hands the weapon will eventually fall in, if not mine. If I take it, will that be bad? Will it smear my plight of wanting to do good and be good?

Macon's words flutter through my head. Who would want to ruin something good with something bad? Actually, it sounds like fun. Would you like to test that out with me?

I try to ignore the thrill that spreads through my veins when I reach out and wrap my fingers around the cool pearl of the weapon. It looks small, but when activated will grow into an unbreakable magic staff, tipped with a blade the color of pale blue moon.

The magic bleeds into my fingers, remaining as a dull hum even after I slip the small weapon into the pack at my waist.

"Twelve minutes," Gidget says in my earpiece.

I turn and run, waiting for Macon to say something snarky about me stealing the Starcatcher, but he keeps his trap shut. Lucky for him. I might've broken my morals and killed him if he didn't.

Transfigurator. Motion-sensitron. Sonic-matrix.

I round the corner, escaping the darkness of the aisle. The metal zoomer parts line the shelves against the wall, glistening in the light like a treasure waiting to be found. At least this aisle's lights work. The unanswered questions of the darkness and the nightmarish orc I seemed to have imagined are an ever-present tingle along my spine, but I force myself to turn the worry off. Emotions are not made to disappear with the flick of a switch, but I don't dare wonder what will happen if the fears I keep locked away continue to blur into reality.

What will be the consequences? What will become of me?

My gaze travels along the racks of zoomer parts, glancing over the metal and the messily hand-printed labels beneath. I repeat the list in my head.

Transfigurator. Motion-sensitron—

My eyes stop on the middle rack, on a cube small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. The violet energy inside is dim, but still glows softly against my skin when I pick it up. The silver-tipped corners are cool pricks on my palm. The sonic-matrix.

Macon appears at my side as I shove the gigacube into the pack at my belt and zip it closed. "What else?" he asks quietly.

As I recant the list to him, something moves in the corner of my gaze and my throat closes up. Macon and I both turn to face the movement and spot a trio of orcs coming our way.

"Lorkins!" one of them screams. "They've come to rob us!"

"Nightstalkers!" another yells, ensuing panic among the others.

The largest one squares his gaze directly on me. He rubs his nose with the back of his hand, smearing orange Ether across his cheek. His black eyes narrow at me, his face twisting into fury. I don't want to know what his hallucination disguises me as.

Macon moves slightly in front of me, his fingers flickering with blue lightning.

I grab his shoulder and jerk him back. "No," I remind him. "We can't leave evidence that it was us."

"Not even a little shock?" he pouts. "Fine." He rolls his neck. "We'll do this the hard way."

In front of us, a mop rests in a bucket, the stick of it leaning against the end of one shelving unit. Macon bursts forward into a run and grabs the mop, flinging blackened water into the air as he lunges toward the orcs. The mop spins in his hands, circling the space around him, creating an improvised force-field that thwacks the first orc who tries to reach out and grab him. The orc stumbles back, reaching to cover his bleeding nose with both hands. Macon continues his assault, slapping another orc across the cheek with the head of the dirty wet mophead. He roars, black water dripping down the side of his face, and lunges for Macon, successfully knocking the mop from his hands.

Macon glances back at me, his eyes finding mine with a shrug of his shoulders as if to tell me he'd tried. The orc raises his fist and clocks Macon so hard that he flies back onto the ground, sliding across the slick floor. I rush forward. Macon groans and looks up at me, his jaw discoloring, already beginning to bruise. He tweaks it left and right as if making sure it still works.

The orcs all step forward, including the one with the shattered nose. The biggest one with arms bigger than me reaches behind him, unsheathing a volter that buzzes to life. The long baton glows green with deadly electricity. Time seems to slow. He drags the tip of his volter against the ground as he walks toward us, emerald sparks dancing across the floor.

"Ten minutes." Gidget's voice is a clicking tock in my ear.

Macon was right. We should've aborted the mission. I'm not going to say that part out loud though.

"Any clever ideas?" Macon asks, rising to his feet. He sways, then straightens himself.

"I don't know if I'll be able to top the mop," I answer as I slip my knives from my belt and flick on their violet volts. "But I do have these."

"Sorcery!" the orc with the broken nose yelps. The other two continue farther, unphased by my electric purple knives which look like toothpicks compared to their weapons.

If I think too much about it, I'll never move and I'll be struck down with one swipe of a volter, so I don't think, I bolt forward. I leave my inhibition behind and let my instincts take over. I feel like an elf when the nearest orc swings his volter and I spin away on the balls of my feet, quick enough to leave him wondering how he missed. I dodge around him to meet the next orc, and he's there to greet me with his legs set and arms out, ready to snatch me up.

Again, I don't think. I throw myself forward onto my knees, slicing my volted knives across his thighs as I slide under him. The ground trembles beneath me as he drops to the floor, twitching from the electric shock and groaning from the charred slashes I left behind.

I turn around, my gaze finding Macon's wide eyes. One moment the air is still, the next a loud crash echoes from the front of the warehouse. I'm suddenly hit by one of the orcs, breath gusting from my lungs when I hit the floor.

The crash. What had caused it? And where the hell was Tiny? I'd told him he could stay back, but I didn't expect him to completely desert us.

The uninjured orc hovered over me as I rose to my elbows. I rear my leg back, ready to kick him away with the heel of my boot. His black eyes narrowed at me, trying to see through the Ether haze that masks his senses to hide the real me lying on the ground in front of him. I quickly roll out of the way and hop up onto my feet.

Macon rushes over to my side, but I step away slightly. It's not like I need him. I can take care of myself. I've proven that after all, haven't I?

"What was that crash?" I ask as we both slowly back away from the orc.

"Shit if I know," he answers. "But Raxal seems to care more about us right now."

"How do you know his name?" My suspicion nearly wipes away all of the accumulating worry.

"I might've had a run-in with him before," Macon says through the side of his mouth. "But does that really matter right now?"

I glance at the towering orc. His tusks are two of the widest and sharpest I've seen. Black eyes gaze between the two of them as if he is confused, but then his face firms with brutal resolve as he raises his volter into the air again. He takes one step toward them.

"I'll be damned if I let any lorkins steal from this house!" Raxal yells. Luckily, his hallucinations from the Ether still mask our true identities. But our time is still running out, and his mind-trip won't last forever.

A low, buzzing hum rises from somewhere in the warehouse. I have no idea what it could be, or if it has anything to do with the crash we'd heard, but whatever it is, it's heading toward us.

Something blue flickers in the corner of my vision. I glance down at the lightning dancing around Macon's hands, ready to be unleashed. His tattoos glow beneath the bottom of his face mask that is tucked into the collar of his shirt.

"No," I whisper. If he leaves burns behind, it will ruin everything. This heist can't be traced back to us or our shot at the race will be gone, the prize vanishing like blown dust from our open, reaching palms. We'd be lost forever in this city with no way out.

"Do you have any more bright ideas then?" he asks, letting his lightning fade to a soft glow.

I glimpse down at my blades. I could use them again to protect myself, even if it means putting Raxal down. But the idea of it is an unwelcome cloud of unease that makes my skin crawl. Is my freedom worth more than the life of someone else?

The orc looms closer.

"If you don't do it," Macon whispers with his glowing hands in fists, "I will."

The buzzing hum is now so close it is a roar. Suddenly, we're blinded by a flash of light as a truck slams through the aisle next to us. Tires squeal against the cement floor as the driver slams on the breaks, white smoke leaving behind the smell of burnt rubber. The truck jolts to a stop directly in front of Raxal, only a sprite dragon's breath away from nailing him into the rack of zoomer parts against the wall. He stands scared stiff for a moment before his volter falls loose from his hand and clatters to the floor, the green electric volts dying out. His chin wobbles between his two huge tusks. Then, as if he suddenly realizes a monstrous atrocity stands in front of him, he turns and runs in the opposite direction like his life depends on it. The wounded orcs scramble after him, their hands holding their injuries as they hobble away.

"What do you think the Ether made them see?" Macon asks, his gaze scanning the truck. His scarred brow perks as he waits for my answer.

"More importantly," I interject. "Who's driving our truck?"

I recognize the choppy paint job and the dented bumper that is hanging on by the edge of a screw. As if on cue, the driver's window rolls down.

"Tiny?" Macon and I shout together.

Tiny is hunched over in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel like they are iron cuffs. His black eyes glimmer with excitement.

"I—I did it," he says between breaths. "I did it! Can you believe it? Me! I did—"

The back doors of the truck suddenly slam open and Tiny jumps in his seat. Zero leaps out from the back of the truck in a white flash, his teeth bared, his gaze sweeping the area for enemies. Gidget follows behind him and steps around the side of the truck, toward Macon and I. Gidget glances down at her watch.

"We've got five minutes," she says with a shake of her head. A tight curl falls in front of her face, but she blows it away, turning her gaze on me. "This wasn't the plan. How are we going to get out of here before the cams come back on? This whole heist has gone to shit."

"Not yet it hasn't," I say, patting the pack at my waist. "I have a sonic-matrix. We can snatch up the other parts while Tiny gets the truck turned around."

Tiny looks left and right, then in the rearview mirror. Uncertainty drains the triumph in his eyes. "O-Okay. I'll try." His voice hitches, turning his last statement into a question.

Gidget nods and Macon grumbles something in agreement before the three of them spread out across the parts racks. The different shades of iron, metal, and chrome on the shelves blur together as I survey the collections. The labels become harder to read, the scribbled handwriting becoming more and more indecipherable the longer I look.

Transfigurator. Motion-sensitron.

I have to calm down or else I can't think straight, can't see straight. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. I imagine the warmth of the sun against my skin, melting away the insecurities that keep me trapped in fear.

When I open my eyes, I see clearly again. My heart levels out and I focus on the parts in front of me.

"I've got the transfigurator!" Gidget squeals from the far end of the rack. She dashes for the truck with the cone-shaped coil in her arms.

Pressure mounts on me like a ticking timebomb. Finding the remaining part before it is too late seems nearly impossible amid all the junk. But just when I'm about to give up and move onto the next rack, two slim bars catch my eye. The silver is so sleek, my pale blue eyes reflect in them as I lean in closer. I don't need to read the label to know what they are. I grab the motion-sensitrons and turn to the others.

"Let's go!" I yell. "I've got them!"

I race toward the truck, which is now facing the direction it came from. Gidget and Zero are already there and Macon climbs in right after. He turns around and holds out his hand to help me inside the back cab.

I hesitate, glancing at Macon's open palm. When he'd offered his hand on the rooftop of the warehouse, I'd taken it. When he'd grabbed my hand in the darkness, I hadn't pulled away. In just one heist he'd already learned too much about me. He knows what I'm afraid of and he knows what secret I held in in the pack at my waist. I tear my gaze from his hand and grab the door handle instead, pulling myself inside the truck. I keep my gaze away from him even though, his curious eyes are on me.

"Gun it!" Gidget yells to Tiny as Macon pulls the doors shut behind me with a bang.

The truck jerks forward, making me stumble into the wall. I throw myself into one of the seats and try to catch my breath as we drive through the destroyed aisles and the gaping hole in the warehouse garage door.

When we drive out into the city with no tail following us out of the green lights of the Emerald District and into the blue lighting of the Cobalt District, I finally let myself exhale in relief. We did it. Our ragtag team of outcasts actually did it and survived.

Hope becomes a wind that lifts my spirits tall, cooling the fire of fear that had taken me hostage for so long. The Starcatcher burns in my pack, begging me to hold it in my hands, the pearl cool on my fingers, but I won't worry about that just yet. For now, I'll let myself bask in this win before the next loss comes to blow me down again.