“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust. Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.

  “You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday. A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you.

  “You will only observe with your eyes and see the punishment of the wicked. If you make the Most High your dwelling—even the Lord, who is my refuge—then no harm will befall you, no disaster will come near your tent. For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.

  “You will tread upon the lion and the cobra; you will trample the great lion and the serpent. ‘Because he loves me,’ says the Lord, ‘I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honour him. With long life will I satisfy him and show him my salvation.’”

  It is not in God’s nature to lie. It is human to doubt. Rheina had promised to deliver him if he remained faithful. Yet faith felt fragile. Hugging himself, Maselli crawled into Ezra’s bed and shut his eyes, whispering the lines until sleep finally claimed him.

  The world outside had grown cold, as though he were the only one alive. The marker spells at the entrance were fading, their faint grey glow barely holding. He tried carving more triangles with his knife, but as expected, the new ones lay lifeless. The old engravings had already drained the surrounding magic. If only he had astaphite, he could have drawn strength from that instead.

  Different scenarios played out in his mind, all of them ending with Franka breaking free from the spell. Franka would resume his hunt, and the people below would almost certainly die. The thought kept him awake, wondering what Ezra might be doing. Was she waiting for his return? Did she already know that he had failed?

  Solitude didn’t suit him. Talking to someone—even if that someone was undead—was better than being left alone with his thoughts. Gemma stood exactly where he had left her, back straight and motionless. Flies settled comfortably on her still face.

  Maselli edged closer to the boundary of the triangle and sat cross-legged on the floor, facing her. She flicked her eyes in his direction but gave no other sign of acknowledgement.

  “May I sit here and talk to you?” Maselli asked. “I’m bored.”

  With a sigh, Gemma brushed the flies from her face and lowered herself opposite him, mirroring his posture. Her skirt slipped back, exposing her bare thighs. It was improper, but the undead cared nothing for decency.

  “What do you want to talk about?” she asked.

  “How about the afterlife?” he suggested. “I know for a fact you were a good person when you were alive, so you must be in heaven. Do you remember Marian? The old hag, stingy with her pies.”

  “She baked them for her husband every day. Called him Old Soldier, claimed he fought in the Great Oppression. But she was a liar.”

  “She was a good baker, though.” Maselli inhaled sharply. “I remember her pies cooling on the windowsill, and the wind carrying the scent to us.”

  “I saw you sitting on the stairs one afternoon, clutching your belly,” Gemma said. “I asked if you’d like a bite of Gran Marian’s pie. You said yes, and I got it for you.”

  “You’re being modest, Gemma,” he said. “What you did was legendary.”

  “I don’t remember exactly what I did.”

  “You went straight up to her, fell on your knees, and begged for forgiveness. Old Marian had a heart of stone, but even she was shocked. She asked what you had done, and you spun a story about flicking snot into her pan of flour. Gran turned green, retched, and told her husband—he retched too.”

  Gemma laughed. “Did I really do that?”

  “Yes. And you asked to make amends,” Maselli said. “You offered to eat the pie and every other pie made from that ruined batch of flour. She was mean enough to let you, but you never had to eat it alone. You shared every slice with us. Gran found satisfaction in watching so many people choke down something she thought was horrid. And for us, it was the most delicious pie we’d tasted.”

  She was still laughing.

  “Honest to God, I looked up to you,” Maselli said. “I wanted to be crafty, just like you were.”

  “Does that make me a good person?” Gemma mused. “I gave you pie because I wanted your brother to notice me. My intentions weren’t entirely good.”

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  “It didn’t make me any less full.”

  “True,” she said. She seemed always on the verge of tears, yet held them back—as though afraid her tears would dissolve her face.

  “Who brought you back to the Living World?” he asked quietly. “No soul in heaven returns to torture the living. Is there a heaven at all?”

  “It does not exist,” she said. “Neither does hell. Nothing comes after death.”

  “It’s terrifying to imagine myself no longer existing,” he said. “I would rather believe in heaven.”

  “Doesn’t that make you gullible?” she asked. “You know the truth and you hide from it.”

  “Your truth does not have to be my truth. What if I find heaven because I believe in it? You found nothing because you did not believe there was anything after death.”

  “What have the Six done for you?”

  “Nothing yet,” Maselli admitted.

  “Franka believed Hexism was an indoctrination tool used by the government to keep us submissive to the rhens,” she said. “Here he comes.”

  Franka approached, dragging a body along by the hair. He stopped at the barrier and pushed the body’s head into the marker field, leaving the rest slumped in the hallway. Maselli stared eye to eye with Danica’s hovering corpse. Broken fingers—someone else’s—sticking out from her eye sockets.

  “Please…” a voice whimpered. “Please, please, I’ll do anything. Don’t kill me, please.” A bone cracked, followed by a scream. Franka hauled another person to the entrance and began snapping off her fingers, one after another. Two were already missing—likely the ones wedged into Danica’s eyes.

  Once, Maselli had believed Lesley might be the one Jeromy would marry. Perhaps Franka thought this the best way to provoke him. As long as Ezra and Mari were not involved, he could endure it.

  BOOM!

  As the hours passed, the entrance became blocked by a wall of mutilated corpses. The barrier weakened further, until only one glowing triangle remained. From behind the wall of bodies, Gemma said, “Franka is gone for now. Someone is approaching Blackwood, and he’s gone to deal with them.”

  Maselli could not answer her. The faces of his loved ones, trapped in perpetual torment, had killed any desire for conversation.

  A low hum grew louder in the distance. He stood, bracing himself for whatever was coming. The spell protecting the entrance shattered. The stacked bodies tumbled to the ground. Gemma did not attack him; she leaned over the balustrade instead, eyes searching the sky.

  Lights. Winds. Henrikian might.

  An aircraft swept in over Blackwood, slick and black like monstrous beetles. They circled the village at blistering speed, doors opened to reveal Red Corps soldiers with rifles mounted and ready. Miller’s call had reached the capital after all.

  Franka waited in the open, staff in hand. Round and round the aircraft went, their circles tightening, their speed falling. Rifles angled down at him. One command, and they would shred the demon to pieces.

  Waiting. Waiting. Fingers clenched around triggers. One more moment—

  For the love of God, shoot him!

  Franka slammed his staff into the dirt.

  One soldier dropped from a hovercraft, then another, then another, their bodies smashing apart on the ground below. The craft themselves faltered and hurtled earthward, steel shells spiralling down. Maselli could bet the pilots ley slumped over their controls.

  The shockwave hurled dust and twisted machinery into the air. Smoke, fire spread like a storm, bodies strewn useless in the wreckage. Franka spun his staff and stomped the ground, cloaked in the chaos he had summoned. Why was Maselli not surprised? He felt no remorse at all. Fighting the urge to shrug and crawl back to bed, he lingered at the wall, waiting to see if the story was finally over.

  Through the haze, a voice roared—fury given sound. Violet eyes glowed in the storm: an ascender’s eyes. Gemma darted to Franka’s side.

  A figure tore through the casing of an aircraft. Vortress Gallant. His violet gaze burned with rage, teeth bared, nostrils flaring. He wore the green-and-black of a Gaverian, his left shoulder with the violet epaulette.

  With a snarl, Vortress crafted two long staffs. “Si! Si! Santacla Versio! Lusci! Andoradoria! AAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!” he roared, streaking through the air like a violet bolt. Franka surged forward to meet him, and their clash shattered the grounds. Essence exploded, violet and black colliding, rattling the walls until Maselli’s teeth quivered.

  Vortress was faster, bloodier, relentless. His strikes landed with brutal precision, driving his staffs into Franka again and again. He slapped Franka a great distance away and crafted a chain gun, the belt of bullets draped across his chest. The rounds ripped into Franka, tearing him apart in chunks.

  The demon faltered, sinking into the dirt. Vortress abandoned the gun for a massive blade glowing with violet energy and charged—

  Gemma slammed into him. She sank her teeth into his neck. Vortress screamed, clawing at the dirt, his fingers carving a triangle. Light erupted from the ground. Gemma shrieked, clutching her eyes.

  When the flare died, Maselli steadied himself and looked again. Vortress had Gemma pinned, his grip twisting one of her arms until it snapped. Her howl split the air, but still she snarled, teeth bared, undaunted by the pain. Vortress did not falter. He spoke into the device clipped at his collar.

  A staff whizzed through the air, catching Votress off guard. Franka’s strike slammed into his chest, driving the air from his lungs and forcing him to release Gemma. She spun free and sank her teeth into his knee. The Gaverian buckled, cursing as he clawed at her grip. He never saw Franka charging, each stride faster than the last, until they collided headlong into a nearby hovercraft. The impact hurled them into the depths of the forest, trees shuddering in their wake.

  Bright and dark lights tore through the woods as they tumbled. Votress vaulted out of the forest canopy, soaring into the night sky. A figure shrouded in shadow, its huge round eyes glinting, rose to meet him. Votress twisted midair, crafting a cannon in his hands. The weapon hummed—then burst, unleashing a violet wave of plasma that smashed into Shados below.

  Meanwhile, Gemma staggered to the forest’s edge. Her body shuddered, warped, and split into the black hound—skin stretched taut over bone, as dark and twisted as her master.

  Maselli bolted from the apartment, taking the stairs three at a time. He plunged into the swirling dust storm. Heat scorched his face, but he pressed forward. An explosion thundered close, knocking him off his feet. His chin tore against the coarse ground as he coughed into his elbow, fighting for breath.

  Shaking it off, he stumbled toward a body half-buried in sand—a fallen soldier. His eyes darted to the tunnel entrance, then back to the corpse. He flipped the soldier over and rummaged through his gear. A knife. He ripped it from its sheath and rose just as another scream split the storm—a scream of agony.

  Maselli froze at the tunnel’s mouth, knife trembling in his hand. Could he stomach what waited down there?