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smirked and punched Ryder in the shoulder. “Nervous, loverboy?”
    â€œCan it,” Ryder said.
    Oliver rolled his eyes and gave my rope a final tug. “Be careful with the depth of the laceration, Micheline. You’ll be losing more blood than normal in your position.”
    With a nod, I turned and eased over the balustrade, planting the soles of my feet against the boards.
    â€œYou’re sure about this?” Oliver asked.
    â€œPositive,” I said.
    â€œOnly fools are positive,” Jude said.
    â€œJust do it,” I said. Ryder and Oliver grabbed the rope, and carefully, I let go of the balustrade and allowed them to lower me upside down over the water. Blood rushed to my head, making spots dance across my vision for a few moments. The water swelled and slipped just a few feet below me, and I wrapped my free ankle around my bound one for balance. Memories from the first hunt rushed me: The man’s corpse hitting the water below with a splash; Brutus barking; the scissorclaw’s blue ghostlight splashing on the walls; its claws tearing past my body in a near miss. This time would be different—this time, I’d be ready.
    One by one, the boys slipped away from the balustrade. Ryder lingered so long, frowning, I had to shoo him away. We’d chosen my position strategically: I needed to look injured and vulnerable but give the boys a clear shot from several hidden vantage points. Oliver and Jude would be sniping, while Ryder tucked away close by, just in case things went south. I’d draw my gun if I spotted the necro, signaling the boys.
    Here goes nothing . I unsheathed the knife at my back, placed it against the palm of my left hand, and took a deep breath. We have to kill this thing , I told myself, feeling the blade’s icy edge against my skin.
    Do it.
    I sliced my palm open, deep enough to get blood dripping off my fingertips. Wincing, I sheathed my knife and let my hand hang down. When my blood struck the water, it turned black. Plip, plip, plip. My pulse went pound, pound, pound inside the wound. I let my body hang like dead weight, but kept my senses sharp. If I brought the Embarcadero down, my succession would be assured. Guaranteed, even. And I would be famous for more than my last name.
    Ten minutes passed. C’mon, you big bastard. I’m the girl who got away, and you’ve got to be hungry by now. Twenty. Darkness eddied through the fog.
    â€œWe’re running out of time,” Oliver said into the comms. “The pro crews are going to be here in fifteen minutes. Do you see anything, Micheline?”
    I shook my head slowly, knowing Oliver would see.
    â€œThis is stupid, guys,” Jude said, but the words were hardly out of his mouth when a shard of blue ghostlight caught my eye, rippling up from underwater. I put my good hand on the butt of my gun, wondering if my eyes played tricks on me.
    â€œMicheline?” Oliver asked.
    A second flash of light rose through the water. I yanked my gun from its holster and flicked the safety off, every muscle in my body tensing.
    â€œIt better not be a sea lion,” Jude muttered, his rifle clicking in the background. “‘Cause PETA’s going to be all over our asses if we shoot—”
    â€œShut up, mate,” Ryder said.
    I relaxed my gaze, waiting for the smallest movement, waiting for the necro to betray itself. The water bulged, pushing a ribbon of flotsam and jetsam beneath me. The foam lit up blue; my breath caught.
    There you are, you bastard.
    The scissorclaw burst from the water, claws spread, right into my sights. I fired, my bullet striking the necro’s left cheek. With a snarl, it turned aside and dove back into the water, its black-lit form racing under the surface.
    I fumbled for my comm with my injured hand. “Get me out!” I half shrieked, keeping my gun trained on the water.
    â€œHold on!” Ryder shouted. The rope heaved me higher, fast. I swung