"Move faster—it's almost dark," a sharp voice hissed as dirt-slick hands dragged me free.
"She's waking," another man snapped. "Check her teeth. If she's soft, toss her with the rest."
"Don't—" I croaked. My voice was rough and small, like someone else's. I spat mud. "Not dead."
"Shut up," the second man said, laughing. "Dead girls don't scream."
They hauled me upright. The world pitched: mud, stacked bodies, the metallic stink of old blood. A hand groped for the ring at my finger. I shoved it into the man's face.
"Take your hands off," I said. My jaw moved. My tongue obeyed but the sound surprised me and the tallest looter staggered back.
"You hit me!" he swore. He reared like a drunk and lunged.
Instinct snapped through me. I wasn't the same girl who had died in Harbor City, but instincts are stubborn. I grabbed the loose dagger the man had dropped, jabbed without thinking.
The blade found the drunk's side. He made a wet sound and dropped his hand. Other looters froze. For a moment there was nothing but the hiss of breathing and the fall of a distant cart wheel.
"She stabs!" one said, and then every hand reached for me at once.
"Back!" I barked. "Back!"
They obeyed. Not because of my size—I was small and filthy—but because I had stepped beyond the heap and into their space with something they did not
