by S. W. Clarke
“Secure him,” Nissa rasped, still channeling the suffocating magic around Rathmore’s head. It was the first time I’d heard her voice tonight. “Whatever you need to do.”
Florian’s hands flew out, and a pointed rush of air shot at Rathmore’s chest.
The half-demon swept it aside with his flames as his hands went out to Elijah and Isaiah’s arms. He yanked the two of them forward, flipped them to the ground in a move so confident, so effortless, it didn’t seem real.
But it was.
Then he stepped onto the bed, rising high over us, and gripped the broadsword, yanking it singing from its place on the wall. When he set both hands to it and lifted it high over Nissa, the flames from his hands licked down it like they were eating the metal. The whole room was illuminated with the flames.
Maybe ten seconds had elapsed since Rathmore had first set eyes on Nissa and smiled. And he was smiling when he brought the blade down singing.
Florian thrust Nissa out of the way, using his wings to pull himself back against the wall practically the moment he did so. Nissa’s concentration was broken, the air magic dissipating around Rathmore’s head as the sword cleaved through the space where she’d been, the end of it coming to rest deep in the plush carpet.
“So many rats,” Rathmore bellowed, the sword rising once more as his eyes surveyed. “So much stink.”
From somewhere I couldn’t see, Eva moaned. She was hurt—badly. And Isaiah and Elijah still hadn’t gotten back up.
This was worse than I could have imagined. He was unbelievably powerful—maybe even more than Umbra.
I couldn’t think about it now. I had one job, and my mind snapped to it.
We had conceived of eight contingency plans, and I knew without a moment’s thought it was time for the very last one: get the hell out of here.
Footsteps sounded on the staircase outside the bedroom. Hard, heavy, intense. Rathmore’s bodyguards.
Everyone, I said into the other guardians’ heads, the mission’s a fail. Get out of this room immediately and head back.
Rathmore was already stepping off the bed with the supreme sureness of a lieutenant, a leader, the sword swinging toward Florian, who leapt onto the endtable and shot out a tendril of air at Rathmore’s wrists—maybe to bind them or to twist them. Either way, the magic disappeared as soon as it touched his flames.
The broadsword shattered a lamp as it chased Florian, whose wings carried him high in a burst of motion. He was fast—almost as fast as Rathmore, who took his momentum around, swinging the sword down toward Nissa.
She scooted backward, scrabbling over the carpet to find her feet. And she would have, but not in time. I reached out, grabbing her arm and yanking her back.
Her hands went out, circling once more in the air, but Rathmore’s flames swept up his body, rising from him like a bonfire, ignoring all the other magic we threw at him.
The man had truly become a demon.
Liara grabbed hold of one of the twins and Mishka, helping them up. She shot lightning toward the other window—which we had never opened—and it burst in the same moment the bedroom door flew open.
Two formalist bodyguards with nightsticks stood on the other side. Both of them young men, both of them already evaluating the chaos.
Get yourselves out, I said to Liara.
But Eva— was all she had time to say before one of the bodyguards was on her, the nightstick swinging. She and the twin danced backward, lightning and air shooting out toward him.
Eva. She had flown to the window because of what I’d said to her. She still hadn’t risen, which meant it was high time I became the element of surprise.
What’s happening? Maise’s panicked voice said into my head, but I didn’t have time even to think an answer.
The other bodyguard had begun stalking around the bed toward Rathmore and the Whitewillows, who were doing everything they could to dodge the demon’s attacks. I understood by now they were providing a distraction to ensure the rest of us got out.
But that could only last so long against someone like William Rathmore. I knew that now.
I came forward, kicking the bodyguard’s hand with full force. The enshroudment dropped as I did so, and his eyes flashed on me, full of shock as the nightstick fell to the carpet.
I didn’t let him get a second look. My boot rose once more, higher, my hips swiveled, and I kicked him onto the bed. I followed that with flames, setting the man’s clothes on fire.
That ought to keep him a while.
When I came around the far side of the bed, I found Eva. She lay only partially conscious with a shard of Mishka’s ice sticking out of the center of her chest, her fingers set around it like she’d meant to yank it out but hadn’t found time to before the bloodloss had overcome her.
I knelt by her, pulling her arm up and over my shoulders, rising. We’re getting out, I said into her head, though I got no acknowledgement if she’d heard me.
When I rose, Rathmore’s voice rang through the bedroom. “Witch,” he called, but it wasn’t the word that made my heart ice over. It was the way he’d said it: with a little thrill, like all of this was a game. “I knew you’d be here. You can’t resist a little violence, can you?”
I didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t even take my eyes on the far window, through which Liara helped the twins and Mishka to escape.
Behind me, I smelled burning cotton. Heard the yells of the bodyguard I’d set on fire.
Ahead of me, the bodyguard who’d been fighting Liara was just now reorienting himself to the battle between Rathmore and the Whitewillows.
I only had one goal: Get Eva out.
Before he could get his bearings, I stretched my arm toward him, palm out, and sent so much fire his direction, I couldn’t even see him anymore. That is, until he leapt out of the way, crashing into the armoire with a groan.
Good enough for me.
I pulled Eva forward; but her feet dragged. Fortunately she was light, and then Liara and Elijah’s faces appeared at the window, wings moving. They reached out, and I helped Eva into their arms.
The moment they’d pulled her through the window, Nissa and Florian both called out into my mind: Clementine!
I spun around, instinctively ducking as I did. Rathmore had managed to wade his way past the Whitewillows, and the flaming sword now arced low above my head, its heat billowing over me, making the air shimmer as the tip carved into the wall of the bedroom, eating through paint and wood and stone.
And above me stood the demon. He was pleased as punch.
“Fight me, you bastard,” Nissa yelled, a whip of air lashing out toward him, the grip of it in her hand. It broke on the back of Rathmore’s head, to zero effect.
The man didn’t react at all.
“Show me,” he said down to me, one hand reaching for my neck. “Show me your power, witch. Or die.”
My face went hard, lips tightening in preparation to spit something back at him like old Clem would have done, but my body was already in motion. I couldn’t let him touch me. If he touched me, he’d be able to find me anywhere in the world.
I evaded his fingers, leaning back as my hands found the windowsill behind me. Liara, I said, catch me.
Not again, came her groan.
“Pairilis síoraí,” I whispered at Rathmore, and before I could see its effect, I threw myself with a yell out the window.
Strong hands caught me halfway down, and with one swing, Liara and one of the twins leveraged me over the brick wall. They dropped me on the other side of the wall, where Loki hopped down to meet me in the alley. And where Liara and Keene were kneeling over Eva, who lay on her back.
“Get her out of here,” I said. “Get her to Neverwink, both of you.”
Liara glanced up at me. Instead of arguing, she just nodded. That was how severe Eva’s injury was. “Let’s go,” she said to Keene.
The two of them braced Eva at either side, and then they took off into the night to the point of power
we’d agreed on as our evacuation point—the River Ness.
“Clem?” Akelan said, emerging from the shadows behind me.
I glanced at him, nodding. “Don’t worry about me. Find the others and get out of here.”
Without a word, Akelan broke into a jog down the alley toward where Maise and Paxton were posted. When he’d disappeared around the corner, a bang sounded from the second story of Rathmore’s home.
I turned, staring as flames shot out both windows. Nissa and Florian flew from one of the windows ahead of them, spinning in the air to slow themselves to a hover.
Are you all right? Nissa said down to me. I could almost hear the grief and anxiety in her voice—no doubt due to Eva—but she smoothed it over with a guardian’s officiousness.
I’m fine, I said. You?
Florian and I have some burns, but we can fly. Head toward the river—we’ll follow.
What a nightmare of a mission.
I was about to wrap my enshroudment around me when a voice cut through the air, so commanding I felt frozen to the spot.
“Witch!” Rathmore bellowed, his tone almost as unignorable as Ora Frostwish’s when she’d hexed me. His frame appeared in the window facing over the alley. “Don’t run from me.”
Nissa flew over my head. Go.
I spent a moment staring, transfixed, up at Rathmore, who’s eyes narrowed on mine as the flames rose in the room behind him. He didn’t even care that his own bedroom—his own bodyguards—were on fire. He only cared about fighting me.
Below me, Loki pressed against my leg. “Clem.”
That snapped me out of it. I turned, starting down the alley the way Akelan had gone when I heard a thud from Rathmore’s yard.
What was that? I said to Nissa.
Nothing good. She remained overhead, gazing back. Rathmore’s out of his cage.
The enshroudment’s fire danced from my hands up my arms—and then a form vaulted over the brick wall and landed in front of me at a crouch.
His sword flamed, lighting up the alley. And he stared at me with dire intent. “Lèirsinn,” he whispered, and I could see the magic leaving his mouth, dispersing into the air. It was black—black as his eyes.
Air magic? I had time to think before the fire spread from him to the entire earth, even right under my feet. It was everywhere—white-hot flames on the asphalt, the grass, the overgrown wall.
“Loki!” I yelled, but when I sought him out, he had disappeared from his spot by my feet. He was simply gone, and everything beneath me was on fire. The flames hissed as they licked at my boots, but they didn’t burn me.
Rathmore straightened with an almost leisurely slowness, his black armor gleaming, the fire casting dancing shadows across it. “It was you I saw on the platform with Maeve,” he said. “That red hair. It’s unmistakable.”
“How did you know she was on that train?” The question surprised me; I didn’t realize it had been rolling around in my mind until this moment, when I couldn’t stop it from escaping.
“Once touched, a demon always knows where to find his prey.” He started forward, armor clinking, the sword held low and to the side. “And Maeve and I, we clashed long before you.”
Chapter Thirty-One
I needed the enshroudment. But it wasn’t there.
For the first time since I’d begun to learn Umbra’s enchantment magic, the enshroudment simply wouldn’t respond to my impulse. No fire up my arms or around my body—just Rathmore’s fire, everywhere. Even along the brick wall, up the sides of his house, like he’d set a match to the whole world.
It was impossible. But I could see it happening.
Lèirsinn. The word echoed in my mind, unfamiliar but not totally foreign. When William Rathmore had spoken it, everything had changed. But I didn’t know why. Or how.
I tried to turn—hell, to lift my feet—but they were soldered to the ground. I couldn’t even take a step away from him.
A low rumble sounded. Rathmore’s chuckle through his helmet. “Show me your power,” he said again, “or die.”
I couldn’t use the enchantment. When I tried, I couldn’t even light a flame on my fingers. Loki was gone, and my feet were useless weights.
But the Spitfire was still there.
It called to me. It wanted part of this, and it wanted the Backbiter’s power in its hand.
Of course—I still had the Backbiter. When my hand reached into my cloak, I found its coolness there, its solidity. My chest tightened, but not with anxiety—with the Spitfire’s anticipation.
I had something to fight the demon with.
When I lifted it out, the chain dropped to the ground, the flames hissing where it touched them.
Rathmore’s eyes dropped to the chain, followed its length up to my hand. His eyes darkened with pleasure through the visor of his helmet, and he nodded once. “So Ora wasn’t mistaken. Here you are with Murkwood’s weapon. Let’s see what you’ve learned.”
His sword lifted, and he surged forward, yelling.
With the Backbiter in hand, I gave myself over to the Spitfire’s will. And the moment I did, my feet worked again. I leapt into a somersault, slashing out with the weapon as I did.
The chain connected with Rathmore’s legs, and he finished his slash with a clang against the asphalt, the fire blown aside as the street crumbled. The chain had no effect, and he barked a laugh. “A witch who doesn’t know the first thing about her weapon. Again!”
The Spitfire growled, and I was in agreement.
I found my feet, got in a low, wide stance as he turned toward me. When I saw him angling the sword in a sidelong arc from the left, I dashed under it, slashing out once more with the chain. This time it connected with the chest piece of his armor, but it didn’t make a ding.
His chest piece. The thought came to mind: How—and when—did he change into armor? There hadn’t been time.
But I didn’t have a moment to allow it to process, because he was swinging again, still on the approach.
I danced backward, evading the sword, swinging my body and the Backbiter. Once I had to meet his broadsword with the rod held vertical, and to my surprise, the Backbiter held against his force, the two weapons kissing before his momentum threw me back again.
Even as we fought, my brain still processed three things: Loki’s disappearance. The armor. The strange word Rathmore had spoken. There was something to all of them.
The Spitfire fought on, lashing and hissing and evading, the Backbiter singing out as the broadsword sliced toward me again and again. My body moved with feline grace as, deep inside, Rational Clem processed.
One question kept coming back to me: Where the hell is Loki?
And then it hit me: Loki would never abandon me like that.
The other pieces fell into place as soon as that piece of logic clicked. If Loki would never abandon me, and he had disappeared, then there was no explanation for the instantaneous fire stretching as far as I could see. There was no explanation for why I couldn’t use my enchantment magic or move my feet.
And the clincher: Rathmore hadn’t had time to change into armor.
This wasn’t real. None of it was real.
William Rathmore was fucking with me.
It is real, the Spitfire countered with a hiss, covetous of this fight. You feel the heat, the wind off his swings.
No, Rational Clem said. This world isn’t my world.
The battle went on inside me even as it went on outside me, the Spitfire and Rational Clem arguing with one another until, in a moment of supreme will, I took over. I gained control of my limbs, and I forced my body to be still.
This would be the test. The real test of things.
My hands lowered. I dropped the weapon, straightening as I did. Staring into his dark eyes.
They were just like his son’s.
When Rathmore swung at me with his sword, he meant to take off my head at the neck. I kept my eyes open, forcing them to remain on his.
The moment
the sword touched skin, that world fell away.
I was in the alley, and the world wasn’t burning. Loki still pressed against my leg, and he was saying, “Clem! Wake up. Goddamnit.”
I jolted, fixing on William Rathmore. He still stood where he’d landed when he’d vaulted over the wall.
“You hexed me,” I whispered.
Finally, I understood: Lèirsinn. He’d whispered it like Frostwish had taught me to whisper hexes. It had sounded unfamiliar because it wasn’t a word I knew, but it was a language I had heard before—had spoken before. It was Faerish.
He’d hexed me.
I didn’t know how, but William Rathmore had hexed me.
His chin lowered, lips parting, but before he could speak again—could hex me again—I’d wrapped the enshroudment around me and Loki. And then we were sprinting down the alley, away, far away from Rathmore, whose voice chased me into the night.
“Run as Maeve taught you. And don’t you dare return, witch, until you learn to use the powers you’ve been gifted.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
When Nissa’s voice came into my head, I was halfway to the river. She kept asking me what had happened, why I had gone stock still—apparently she had witnessed it from on high—but I only asked: The others?
They’re through, she said.
Which meant I could leave. I could get out of this place.
I didn’t say a word until we were also through the veil, back on the academy grounds with Umbra. Safe—home. Away from the demon.
The last time I’d been this shaken up was the night my mother and sister disappeared, ten years ago.
By the time I was ready to say anything, Nissa and Florian had been consumed by their worry for Eva. They’d flown past me toward the infirmary, where Eva had been taken by Liara and Keene.
I didn’t know where the other guardians were, except that they had made it through.
“How long did I stand there?” I croaked, keeping my eyes ahead as Loki and I made for the infirmary. “In front of Rathmore.”
“A few seconds.”