“Empty Graves,the Duke of Chicago book two,” X said. He tossed the book to me, and I caught it awkwardly. “Soon we’ll call itEmpty Pages.”
Pages eighty-six and eighty-seven were now blank.
Koshka hissed, and I swore violently.
“Rainy, darling,” Duke said, scandalized. “Where did you learn that word? Down the docks? Wherever it was…say it again.”
With a casual wave of his hand, X knocked the can of gasoline onto the floor, where the liquid swiftly spread.
“X,” Duke pleaded, “I’ll stay if the girl and her cat can go.”
“They can go,” X said. “I’m not stopping them, only you.”
“Koshka, run for it,” I ordered. “Find another witch. There has to be one somewhere in this town. Maybe the one who cursed the Cubs.”
But Koshka stayed and so did I.
“Noble, if misguided,” X said. “There might be stories worth dying for but not this historically inaccurate and poorly written nonsense.” He gave the can a kick and more gas splashed out.
Our eyes watered from the stench. Koshka gave a soft cry of distress. I tried tucking his head into my coat to protect him from the fumes, but I would never be able to shield him from the flames.
“Duke, I need you to do me a favor,” I said through my tears. “I need you to knock the gun out of his hand—which we both know you can do—then get to the Lombard Hotel by Montrose Beach and catch up with Edith King.”
“That’s two favors, actually,” Duke said, ducking his head into his collar. “And I’m not leaving you behind.”
“We’ll be fine,” I said, although I wasn’t sure if it was true.
“No, they won’t,” X said, patting his pockets. “Now where’s my lighter?”
The fumes were making me cough, but I forced myself to speak.
“Ignore him, Duke. You have to go. Now. You have to finish the story. Listen,” I said. “I’m nobody. But you…you’re the Duke of Chicago. Even decades after your books came out, they’re inspiring people, entertaining them, comforting them. And I know because I’m one of them, all right? I fell in love with your books when I was sixteen, and I still love them. It’s why he hates you,” I said, pointing to X, “and when people like that hate you, you know you’re doing something right. Please…I’m begging you, finish your story.”
I met his eyes, imploring him, willing him to leave me behind and get his story back on track.
He looked at me and a strange expression crossed his face, one even his own author might have struggled to describe, but it seemed as if some kind of seismic shift happened behind his dark eyes.
The floor began to quiver under my feet. The windows rattled in their frames. Hats fell from their mannequin heads.
A different four-letter word escaped my lips. Duke’s too. Then X’s.
“What is happening?” X said as dust filled the air.
“You’re the one who told the Duke he was fictional. Now he’s self-aware, and he’s taking over the book,” I said. I’d heard of this happening. Writers had complained about it for centuries, about characters taking control of the story, but I’d never seen it in action.
“I am?” Duke yelled.
“Yes! And you need to stop it!” I told him, lurching sideways. Koshka jumped out of my arms and ran for cover in the doorway.
“I can’t!”
A ceiling tile crashed near X, who jumped away from the falling debris. That gave Duke the chance he needed to grab the gun from the Burner’s hand. Duke raised it, planning to coldcock X.
“Si vis pachem, para bellum,” X chanted. He flicked a silver lighter on and disappeared into a puff of smoke.
“Damn,” Duke said. “I was hoping to crack his skull. Rainy, what do I do?”
The earthquake grew stronger. I fell to my knees as the hat shop crumbled around us.
