I slip back from the cleft, heart pounding louder than my footsteps. Silent toes. Shallow breath. The others wait in the dim glow, eyes fixed on me.

  “There’s a column moving through the tunnels,” I whisper. “Women with rifles—and warbots. Searching. Sweeping. Fifteen minutes—maybe less.”

  Frankie rises in a crouch. “How many?”

  “Lots. I didn’t stand there and take roll.”

  “Right,” she huffs.

  “We need to hide.” I’m already packing. “Jenny, Lenora—grab everything. Move!”

  Jenny spins, yanking underwear off the line and stuffing it into her bag. “Where are we going?”

  “Behind the falls.”

  “No way,” grumbles Frankie, cramming gear into her pack. “I can see clean through that water.”

  “Not if we go around the bend.” I cinch my straps tight.

  Lenora hefts Tess’s limp body over one shoulder, balancing both packs in the other arm as she splashes into the pool. “Our footprints—”

  “Got it!” Jenny calls. She twirls, arms out, fingers flicking—water spirals in from the cavern edges, weaving a glimmering sheet over the mud.

  Frankie grunts, taking Tess from Lenora and slinging her over her shoulder like a sack of grain. The jawbone club clatters at her hip. “I trust you, girl.”

  “Go,” I whisper.

  I resettle my pack—bad idea. My toothbrush, comb, and makeup flop straight into the mud with a pathetic plop.

  “Frack!” I bend to scoop them up… and my keys tumble from the top of my pack, hitting the ground with a miserable clink.

  For a long moment, I just kneel there, dripping, clutching my muddy gear like a cavewoman hoarding treasure. Then I glare up at the stone ceiling. “Pockets?! Is that too much to ask?”

  I sprint after my friends and dive through the falls. Water crashes over my head—deafening, freezing, blinding. Strong hands grab my wrists and haul me onto the narrow stone shelf behind the torrent.

  We slip around the bend one by one—everyone but me. I stay close to the floor, pressing flat, letting my hair spill wide to break up my outline. I smear more mud across my face, dulling my glow, hiding my pale skin.

  A strip of fabric snakes from my shoulder, trying to tidy me. “Don’t you dare,” I hiss. It freezes, quivers, and retreats like a scolded child.

  Shadows waver through the waterfall—tall, thin, refracted shapes. Even through the roar, I can tell the footsteps apart: organic, not mechanical. Human. Female voices, muffled and sharp, echo against the stone.

  Then they step into view.

  I gape. You’ve got to be kidding.

  They’re naked. Not wounded, not panicked—just strolling like it’s perfectly normal. Only shoes.

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  I glance at the scratches on my arm—minor abrasions from climbing up here. Underground life makes you rough around the edges. But these women? How are they not shredded, bruised, bleeding?

  Are they immune to pain… or just idiots?

  “They’re around here somewhere.”

  “Not in here.” Rita kicks mud. “Hell, Bess. It’s a swamp.”

  “The footprints lead to this cavern.”

  “Animal prints. Zillions of ’em.”

  “Rita, the robots confirmed activity. Trace footprints, blood, fingerprints.” Bess glances back toward the tunnel. “The sentinels say they didn’t go past the cleft.”

  Rita spits. “Where’d they go, eh? Why we chasin’ ’em?”

  “Catalina says she needs them.”

  “Needs ’em? What for?”

  “She needs them for part of her plan.”

  “The guys?”

  “Yes. The men too. She wants their genes.”

  “Now? Na. Store ’em.”

  “You heard our orders—alive and intact.”

  “Waste,” Rita snorts. “Crazy witch.”

  “Careful,” Bess mutters, lowering her voice. “Not everyone here’s deaf. You know how rumors travel.”

  Rita grins, teeth flashing. “Let ’em talk.”

  They fall quiet. Water thunders past. My nerves buzz so hard I’m almost vibrating. I inch back—just an inch—when Bess stops and points.

  “Hey. What’s that?”

  Rita crouches, boots squelching. Together they lift a strip of dark green leather from the mud, gold stitching glinting faintly under their lights.

  Tess’s old skirt.

  Shite.

  They share a long look before Bess murmurs, “Keep searching. I’ll get the others—and the drones.”

  “Warbots won’t fit.”

  “No, but their probes can run a deep scan.”

  “If—”

  “Yes, if the Inanna AI allows them inside her temple.”

  Bess turns to go, slogging through muck. Twice she slips, cursing each time, until she looks more like a pro mud wrestler than a soldier. Rita kicks through the crust of mud covering our old campsite, scattering ash, bones, and the faint outline of where we’d slept.

  Moments later, women pour from the crevice in a steady stream—dozens, maybe more. Every shade of skin, every body type, every kind of hair. All clothed only in shoes. Dusty, scratched, abraded, and thoroughly pissed, they slog through the muck like the tattered survivors of the last apocalypse.

  I close my eyes and breathe slow, deep, deliberate. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. It barely helps. My pulse drums against my ribs, loud enough I swear they’ll hear it. A drop of sweat cuts through the mud on my temple and stings my left eye. I bite the inside of my cheek and hold still.

  I should slip back to the others. Every instinct screams it. But I have to know what they find.

  It doesn’t take long. Boots scrape. Tools clink. I flinch at every sound. Over several slow minutes, they uncover everything we left behind—the hollows in the floor where we tanned hides, the half-buried racks, scraps and strings from my leatherwork, all the little traces we thought we erased.

  “They were here for days. Maybe a week,” says Bess.

  “Making clothes,” Rita spits, as if the words themselves taste foul.

  “How long?” Bess shouts to the women scouring the cavern.

  From the far side, a petite brunette—hairier than an Irish Wolfhound—dangles a pair of scissors. My scissors. Damn it. I put those in my pack.

  “Pro shears from Gretta’s store,” she calls. “They left in a hurry.”

  Bess scans the cavern, eyes sweeping the mud and stone. “Look for another way out.”

  “Water,” Rita snaps, pointing toward the top of the falls. “In.” She jabs toward the far end. “Out.”

  “Rhea, Solenne,” Bess orders, “check it out.”

  I know exactly what they’ll find. I might feel sorry for them if they weren’t hunting us. Rhea’s about to earn a flying lesson off the ledge above me, and Solenne… whatever’s making noise down the outflow tunnel? Bad. Maybe fatal. No amount of money would convince me to walk that way.

  But to reach the upper shelf, Rhea—the Irish Wolfhound—has to pass within inches of my perch. She slips into the pool, sleek as an otter despite the hair. Before I can crawl halfway back, her fingers are already groping along the stone lip.

  I freeze, coiled tight, ready to strike if she spots me.

  She hauls herself up beside the wall. Maybe she’ll keep moving. Maybe she won’t notice the opening—

  Her boot slips inside. She stops.

  Time stops.

  Oh, shite.

  If she sees me—if she speaks—we’re dead. My friends, my family, all of us.

  A hairy arm probes the rim of my cave. Half her chest appears, then her face.

  Her eyes bulge. Our gazes lock. Her mouth opens—

  Shite.

  I lunge, feet scrambling on slick stone, shoulders driving forward. Impact. Her legs buckle. She slips.

  Her face flashes past mine—shock, confusion, panic—

  CRACK.

  Her chin smashes the ledge. The sound is final.

  She’s gone.

  “Rhea!”

  A chorus of screams erupts, followed by thunderous boots.

  And that’s when I remember where I’ve seen that face before.