I knew she was close, could feel the anger of her soul. But she was not behind that magic wall, not in that magic cage.
That was what Mad Mat wanted me to think.
Lorde was still mostly frozen. She managed to scratch at the floorboards, whining softly.
The thump rang out again, a boot hitting the floor from beneath the boards.
Lorde dug again.
The horror was swift. Mat had buried Lula under the house.
If I put my hand on the book, it would knock me out, exactly as it had two other times. I would not be able to save Lula.
“I haven’t failed to kill you,” Mad Mat said. “I haven’t wanted you dead yet. But today, Brogan Gauge, is your lucky day.” He flicked a finger again, and the book hovered closer to me.
Mad Mat hadn’t touched the book once. Even back at the Junk Hunt—there had been a glow of power protecting his hand.
“You can’t touch it,” I said. “The book chooses who owns it, who can touch it, who can use it. It doesn’t want you.”
The god scowled. “I am not such a fool as to leave my mark on this book. Not until it’s open. Not until it’s unlocked. Then. Then I will rip out each page and devour every spell. Their power will be my power.”
My left hand lifted without my permission, my skin frozen and burning as if it were covered in ice and fire.
“If I wanted to touch it,” Mad Mat said, using my hand like it was his own, “I would.”
My breath hissed through locked teeth, as I breathed through the pain.
“But you, you are so much more convenient.” Mad Mat’s left hand drew forward from behind his back. “This, so much more satisfying.”
A beautiful brass mouthpiece, the one that had looked so out of place on the trombone, shone in his hand.
Eunice’s stolen reed. I heard the song and magic of it now that it was not attached to the trombone, soft and low as an owl’s croon, the roll of a distant drum, the bass echo of universes brushing against each other as they spun across the void.
“Goodbye, for the last time, Brogan Gauge.”
My hand stretched, fingers straightening toward the book.
Lorde dug furiously at the hard floor, and the little rabbit darted out of the room.
Good,I thought.At least Abbi ran. At least she’ll be safe.
The thumping continued, harder now, Lula slamming the boards with all her strength. Lorde barked and barked.
“Hey!” A small voice, but strong. A child’s voice, but ancient. The rabbit. The moon.
No, I thought, tried to yell, my voice clogged with pain.Run!
But Abbi did not run. She stood, a luminous blue-white light surrounding her, ink-black shadow at her back.
“I see you, Atë, I canseeyou in him,” she said. “Your magic is frayed and weak. Easy to break. So I’m going to break it.” She lifted her fist and threw something small and rectangular at the god.
It was a tin-coated box, the harmonica, flashing copper, pewter, gold, through the air. That’s what she’d run for. She’d retrieved the harmonica from the duffle.
That wasn’t all she’d retrieved. She gripped her mortar and pestle, grinding the magic that lapped the edge of the bowl, speaking in the language of power that lifted to her command.
The harmonica wailed as if a great wind pumped through it, and transformed into barn owls, dozens of them, moon faces screeching and hissing, talons extended. They dove at the god’s face.
“Enough!” The power in the god’s voice stopped the owls mid-flight and reduced them to ribbons of smoke and moonlight.
