She saw the black-haired figure too late to hide. She froze, the fabric of the boy’s tunic falling from her fingers. Daylight was fading; maybe it wouldn’t see her, maybe . . . .

The man screamed like a wounded beast. Lhias scrambled upright, her wings surging under the cloak without her willing it. She pummeled down the urge to flee and faced him, her body hot as flame with emotion.

“Come and get me!” she shouted. “Bring the whole city down on me! It would take all of you to have enough thought in your heads to catch me.” Her voice felt thin to her own ears, but the stones themselves seemed to moan in response. The Paranthians were listening.

The man lurched forward. His halting steps became a charge. She had meant to wait until he was almost on top of her, but her twitching heart sent her scampering for the side of the building. By the time she reached the first step, a dozen others stumbled into the courtyard, orienting on her.

Holding the cloak tight, she forced herself to remember to breath. She spun on the crumbling steps, a delicate dance on treacherous footing—one that wanted all her concentration—but her pursuers made that impossible. She squeaked as fingers latched onto her cloak and wrenched forward. The fabric ripped, and she fell on the landing with a crack. Stone fragments showered over her.

She half-crawled, half-vaulted across the strip of stone—all that remained of the second story. She risked a look back and saw that her pursuers had multiplied: the stairway was crowded, two deep on most of the steps, and behind them, were even more . . . .

Fear made her dizzy. The world spun and seemed to fly without her. She jumped, darted, hovered without wings before she landed on the next chunk of masonry. She turned a corner and was yanked back against the wall.

Lhias yowled, fearing the worse. But, she soon realized that she was not held in a savage grasp: a jagged stone had simply snared her cloak. The cloak refused to be freed with a single-handed tug. Overhead, a scrawny old woman loomed, swiping a gnarled claw at her, forcing her to switched to a two-handed grip. She pulled harder and tumbled backward.

She smacked the back of her head against the nearest wall. Her eyes quickly focused and met those of the old women. Deadpan, cold, absent, and yet, somehow enraged. The women’s mouth opened wide with soundless scream and slashed at Lhias’ eyes.

She ducked the bony hand and pelted to the last staircase. Plunging gaps lay between the steps. She vaulted them without pause, landing hard on each stone.

The mob’s snarling filled her ears as she reached the top. She could see all of Paranthia below, like toy blocks broken and scattered. She turned toward the courtyard and saw a few straggling humans pushing up the lowest stairs. No more were coming for her.

They swarmed onto the tower. She backed up to the edge, resting her heels and waiting. There were so many of them they could have torn her into a hundred pieces. All she had to do was throw the cloak off and she could flee . . . .