He swore as his back hit the floor, and a stack of magazines fell on top of him. I dove toward the bed. The floor beneath it was solidifying. The tunnel was closing. I could make it if?—
Ragnor grabbed my ankle and dragged me back toward him. “What are you?”
I kicked him, connecting with his forearm. What was I? “A friend.” Okay, not a friend. Not at all. “A friend of a friend.”
I kicked him again.
He grunted, then he twisted his hand, throwing water chains over me.
“Nice try. Dead men don’t have friends. Who sent you? Who else knows?”
The chains wrapped around me and tugged me toward the ceiling. He was going to hang me upside down. Wrap me in a water prison Houdini-style.
I sliced his knots, and the water disappeared. I hit the floor, soaking-wet, and scrambled toward the bed.
He swore and dove after me. I kicked back, and my boot hit his shoulder. He flinched and conjured a shrieking noise. I’d never seen anyone do this before. It sounded like amp feedback turned up so high it made my brain feel like it was exploding. My ears popped, and I felt a warm liquid—blood?—dripping from them.
I couldn’t think. It hurt. I pressed my hands over my ears and yanked at the notes vibrating in the air. Ragnor lunged at me. The shrieking stopped as he slammed me to ground.
A sharp ringing echoed in my ears. I could see his lips moving, but I couldn’t hear anything.
His hands circled my throat, and he spoke again. I could almost make out the muffled hum of his words.
“—monster . . . Bard sent . . . last words?—”
He thought I was an assassin sent to kill him and his sister. It was a reasonable assumption. Completely inaccurate, but reasonable. He didn’t waste time or effort conjuring; instead, he reached to the side and grabbed a knife that’d been underneath the second mattress.
“Luvic’s getting married tomorrow,” I said, my words strangely distorted in my ears.
Ragnor stilled, his muscles tensing, the knife gripped in his hand.
“He’s marrying Last Clark. He doesn’t want to. She’s going to kill him after the wedding. Don’t you think you should do something about it? He needs you. He needs your help.”
Ragnor stared at me as if he couldn’t decide whether or not I was real. His hand loosened on the knife. “What did you say?—?”
He broke off when the door burst open.
A violent wind screamed through the apartment. The magazines flew through the air, launching like mad birds in a tornado. The wind ripped at my clothes and swirled around me in a frenzy.
The door slammed against the wall, and Jacob stalked into the apartment. An old man rushed in after him.
My heart kicked against my ribs.
The wind died. The magazines fell to the floor, and the television teetered then smashed against the ground. The front door slammed shut and locked.
Jacob took in the scene in one glance: Ragnor on top of me, knife in hand; a line of blood circling my throat; Ragnor’s nose bloody and bruised.
Jacob changed in an instant. When he arrived, he’d been calm, ready to fight or to confront, but emotionally disengaged. The moment he saw the blood, the knife, and tapped my chest and felt an echo of fear, he flipped. He became a nightmare. The face that haunted conjurers’ dreams. He was terrifying to look at, but no one was looking at him but me.
“Raggie!” the old man shouted.
Celia? It had to be Celia.
Ragnor looked at the old man, then at Jacob, and shouted, “Wait?—”
Celia twisted her hand, and a venomous snake launched at me, its fangs driving toward my exposed throat.
I pulled the lark’s head knots, untying the snake, just as Ragnor dropped to the ground, screaming. He clutched his head in his hands, covering his ears.
