silent.
Chase saw the white-fire corridor spring up to either side of the two girls. He saw
the hazy swirl of visible light behind them, and he swore himself; he knew what it
meant. The Necromancers didn’t intend to head back to their apartment for passports
and plane tickets; they intended to walk home, with Emma between them.
Allison would be a footnote. Allison, who stumbled. Emma stopped immediately, huddling
at her side; she lifted her face. He was close enough to hear her words. Close enough
to see the white filament around Allison’s neck as it melted. He sucked in air, picked
up speed, lightened his step as much as he could; he wouldn’t have much time before
the Necromancers became aware of him.
But he wouldn’t need it.
He gave up on stealth the minute he saw the green-fire globe form in the Necromancer’s
hand. He wasn’t going to make it in time. He wasn’t going to be able to drop the Necromancer
before he threw the fire.
“Allison!”
Necromancers didn’t spend years learning how to throw; aim, when it came to soul-fire,
didn’t matter. Blindfolded, they could still hit their targets. There was only one
certain way to douse soul-fire: Kill the Necromancer. There were less certain ways—but
Chase knew whom the soul-fire was meant to kill. And he knew that Allison had no protection
against it.
No protection but Emma and Chase. He knew which of the two counted.
He threw one of his two knives; it struck the man cleanly between the upper shoulder
blades. He made it count, leaping to grab the handle of the knife as the Necromancer’s
arms windmilled. Chase twisted the knife.
He yanked the blade out as the man fell forward, blood spreading across the new gap
in the back of his jacket. Chase looked up, then, to see that Allison was not on fire.
Emma was—but the fire, like the Necromancer, was dying. He grudgingly revised his
estimate of Emma’s usefulness.
The second Necromancer turned. The white walls on either side of the street faded
as he pulled his power back. He made no attempt to help his partner; he had no hope
of saving him, and they both knew it.
Instead, he ran. If he could make it past Allison and Emma, if he could make it to
the portal, he’d survive. He thought he had a chance. As Eric leaped past Chase in
the night streets, Chase grinned.
* * *
Allison’s skin was red where the white filament had twined round her throat. Her fingers,
on the other hand, were blue, and her hands were shaking. She’d managed to half-knock
her glasses off her face.
“Ally?”
“I can breathe.” Not without coughing, though; her voice sounded hoarse.
“Allison!” Chase had saved Allison’s life. On television, rescue usually came in the
form of someone a lot less blood spattered. Chase was, once again, wearing a variant
on the world’s ugliest jacket.
Allison lifted one hand; it was shaking. “I’m alive,” she said. “We’re both alive.
Where’s Petal?”
“Here,” Eric’s voice came from somewhere behind Chase; Chase was close enough it was
hard to see around him. Petal was whining, which meant he wasn’t dead.
“We need to get out of here,” Eric told them. He was staring down the road, and Emma
turned to look that way as well. The arch was slowly fading, its cold light giving
way to the night of streetlamp and road.
“Where did it lead?” Emma asked.
“To the City of the Dead,” he replied, without looking at her. Petal’s tail started
to move, and he set the dog down. The Necromancers hadn’t killed him. He glanced at
the two dead bodies that lay in the middle of the street. “Chase, give the old man
the heads up.”
Chase, however, was kneeling beside Allison. Allison felt dizzy and nauseated, but
she knew, looking at his expression, that this wasn’t the time for either. She smiled.
She forced herself to smile at him.
He grimaced and rolled his eyes. “Don’t even try,” he told
Chase saw the white-fire corridor spring up to either side of the two girls. He saw
the hazy swirl of visible light behind them, and he swore himself; he knew what it
meant. The Necromancers didn’t intend to head back to their apartment for passports
and plane tickets; they intended to walk home, with Emma between them.
Allison would be a footnote. Allison, who stumbled. Emma stopped immediately, huddling
at her side; she lifted her face. He was close enough to hear her words. Close enough
to see the white filament around Allison’s neck as it melted. He sucked in air, picked
up speed, lightened his step as much as he could; he wouldn’t have much time before
the Necromancers became aware of him.
But he wouldn’t need it.
He gave up on stealth the minute he saw the green-fire globe form in the Necromancer’s
hand. He wasn’t going to make it in time. He wasn’t going to be able to drop the Necromancer
before he threw the fire.
“Allison!”
Necromancers didn’t spend years learning how to throw; aim, when it came to soul-fire,
didn’t matter. Blindfolded, they could still hit their targets. There was only one
certain way to douse soul-fire: Kill the Necromancer. There were less certain ways—but
Chase knew whom the soul-fire was meant to kill. And he knew that Allison had no protection
against it.
No protection but Emma and Chase. He knew which of the two counted.
He threw one of his two knives; it struck the man cleanly between the upper shoulder
blades. He made it count, leaping to grab the handle of the knife as the Necromancer’s
arms windmilled. Chase twisted the knife.
He yanked the blade out as the man fell forward, blood spreading across the new gap
in the back of his jacket. Chase looked up, then, to see that Allison was not on fire.
Emma was—but the fire, like the Necromancer, was dying. He grudgingly revised his
estimate of Emma’s usefulness.
The second Necromancer turned. The white walls on either side of the street faded
as he pulled his power back. He made no attempt to help his partner; he had no hope
of saving him, and they both knew it.
Instead, he ran. If he could make it past Allison and Emma, if he could make it to
the portal, he’d survive. He thought he had a chance. As Eric leaped past Chase in
the night streets, Chase grinned.
* * *
Allison’s skin was red where the white filament had twined round her throat. Her fingers,
on the other hand, were blue, and her hands were shaking. She’d managed to half-knock
her glasses off her face.
“Ally?”
“I can breathe.” Not without coughing, though; her voice sounded hoarse.
“Allison!” Chase had saved Allison’s life. On television, rescue usually came in the
form of someone a lot less blood spattered. Chase was, once again, wearing a variant
on the world’s ugliest jacket.
Allison lifted one hand; it was shaking. “I’m alive,” she said. “We’re both alive.
Where’s Petal?”
“Here,” Eric’s voice came from somewhere behind Chase; Chase was close enough it was
hard to see around him. Petal was whining, which meant he wasn’t dead.
“We need to get out of here,” Eric told them. He was staring down the road, and Emma
turned to look that way as well. The arch was slowly fading, its cold light giving
way to the night of streetlamp and road.
“Where did it lead?” Emma asked.
“To the City of the Dead,” he replied, without looking at her. Petal’s tail started
to move, and he set the dog down. The Necromancers hadn’t killed him. He glanced at
the two dead bodies that lay in the middle of the street. “Chase, give the old man
the heads up.”
Chase, however, was kneeling beside Allison. Allison felt dizzy and nauseated, but
she knew, looking at his expression, that this wasn’t the time for either. She smiled.
She forced herself to smile at him.
He grimaced and rolled his eyes. “Don’t even try,” he told
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