Kenneth had loved Sloan Sinclair since he was three, and now he was going to get her killed. The hunters' torches bobbed through the trees below the crystal cave. He counted six lights. Then eight. Sloan crouched beside him at the cave mouth, her face lit blue by the crystals inside. She had come here to guard her twin's secret, and Kenneth had followed because he always followed her. He wanted her to trust him. Right now she trusted her knife more. "They're not leaving," Sloan whispered. "They want what's inside." Inside, in the glow, a baby white liger lay curled on the stone. Its ribs moved too slow. A single flower rose beside it, its petals shimmering with pale light. Lyric knelt over the cub, one hand on its fur. Kenneth had met Sloan's sister only twice. She looked like Sloan built from softer clay, same freckles, gentler eyes. "They'll take him," Lyric said. She did not look up. "They'll take him, and he'll die without the flower." Sloan's hand tightened on her knife. Kenneth saw her plan before she spoke it. She would go out there. She would draw the hunters off with herself as bait. "No," Kenneth said. "You're not the bait." She turned on him, sharp. "You have a better idea?" He did. He hated it, but he did. Kenneth pulled off his denim jacket and wrapped it around the flower. The light dimmed under the cloth. He handed the bundle to Lyric. "There's a cabin," he said. "Northeast, past the ridge. Log walls. I built the door hinges myself last summer. Take the cub and the flower. Go now, both of you." Sloan stared. "And you?" "I'll bring the light back out here, in the open, and let them chase it." He nodded at the glowing bundle. "They want a glow in the dark. I'll give them one going the wrong way." "They'll catch you," Sloan said. "Maybe." He met her eyes. "But they won't catch you." For one second she did not move. Then she pressed the wrapped flower back into his hands, uncovered a single petal, and let it shine. "Run fast, Ken," she said. Her voice cracked on his name. He ran. He broke from the cave to the left, jacket flapping, petal blazing between his fingers. The torches swung toward him at once. Shouts. Boots crashing through brush. He led them down the slope, away from the ridge, away from the cabin, away from Sloan. He lost them at the frozen creek and doubled back through the dark. His lungs burned. His hands were empty now; the flower was safe with the cub. He reached the cabin near dawn. Sloan opened the door before he knocked. She did not raise the knife. She grabbed his jacket and pulled him inside, and she held on. "You came back," she said. The hunters had lost the trail. But they had seen his face.