The force slams me into the muddy ground and pain jolts up my spine, but I manage to keep the scrap raised. The lightning rebounds off the metal and smashes into the smoke beast’s belly. It’s yellow, feline eyes widen, and a second later it explodes into millions of tiny ashes that glow as they flutter through the sky.
I sit there, stunned and gasping. I killed the creature. But the pit in my stomach still feels deep enough to drown in. If the lightning is powerful enough to kill Lesage’s monsters, Desgrez and my sisters are doomed.
Don’t think like that. They’re still alive, which means there’s still a chance.
I stagger back to where Desgrez lies, grip him beneath the arms, and drag him onto the Pont Neuf. The man is heavier than an ox. I barely manage a hand’s breadth with each tug. Ribbons of aqua lightning continue to fly back and forth beneath the clouds, striking all around us. Chunks of rock and mortar whir through the air like throwing knives.
There’s no way I can carry him. Not fast enough to outrun Lesage’s magic.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, thinking of all the fights he picked on my behalf, of all the nights he went without sleep, teaching me how to toss a dagger and throw a punch. He’s the brother I never had, and even though he’s barely three years older, he’s far braver and more capable than I’ll ever be.
If our roles were reversed, Desgrez would find a way—get us to safety. The least I can do is continue trying until the smoke beasts devour us or Lesage buries us in a coffin of verdant flame. I steady my grip and brace my arms to tug again, but something rustles behind us.
I spin and draw the rapier, ready to slaughter whoever—or whatever—stands between us and freedom, but my hand falters.
It’s a girl.
A lone girl, wearing an oversized purple Shadow Society cloak. If she’s supposed to be guarding the bridge, she’s doing a piss-poor job of it—leaning against the wall and wheezing. Her face is haunted, and she looks from Desgrez’s stiff, glowing body to the colorful streaks of light exploding overhead.
“Move!” I yell. Another smoke creature with a blunt snout and massive curling horns has drifted dangerously close; the gray water of the Seine boils and pops beneath the bridge. Scalding steam ripples through the chilly spring air.
“You’ll never outrun them,” she whispers.
“I’m sure as hell going to try.” Green ash flutters down, kissing our cloaks with a hiss. The beast’s growls shake the struts of the bridge.
She bites down on her lower lip and looks back across the bubbling river—at the ghostly Louvre, at the fire and lightning and chaos. “He’ll die without treatment.”
“Where do you think I’m going?”
“Not the kind of treatment you can give. Not against Lesage’s magic.”
Lightning strikes less than a length behind me. Fragments of stone explode into the air, strafing my arms and hat. Her eyes widen and she retreats.At last.But when I move to go around her, she grits her teeth, tucks her frizzy hair behind her ear, and rushes toward me.
I fumble with my weapon, but she brushes past me and lifts Desgrez’s legs. The rapier falls to my side. “What are youdoing?”
“Getting us across the bridge and into the nearest alleyway.”
“What?”
“Moveunless you want to be scorched!”
It feels like a trap, but her voice is so fierce and her gaze so intense, I sheath the blade and lift Desgrez by the armpits. Then we scramble across the bridge into the muddy, cramped passages of the Île de la Cité.
We slink along, unnoticed—with so many injured, it isn’t even strange to be carrying a body—until we reach a tiny chapel, half hidden by larger edifices. The girl nods to enter. I’ve never been the religious type, and Desgrez would sooner die than have a member of the Shadow Society pray for his soul, but we haven’t a better option. The larger churches are sure to be occupied by priests.
I squint at the sudden dark as we fumble into the nave and trip on a wayward hymnal. The girl gestures to one of the benches, and we carefully lay Desgrez out. His body glows unnaturally beneath the gothic archways and unlit niches.
The girl reaches into her bodice and extracts a small leather pouch from between her breasts.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“We need to work quickly,” she says, readjusting her bodice, though it doesn’t help. She’s a breath away from spilling out. She rips the sack open with her teeth and dumps the contents onto the bench. “I need fire, a bowl, and your blade.”
A hysterical laugh bubbles up my throat. “You can’t expect me to hand over my weapon.”
“I am trying tohelpyou.”
“Why?”
