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A deafening roar shatters the air as Chain-Chewer lunges forward in a blur of black stone and shadow, his jaws snap inches from Matthew’s face, dripping saliva that hisses against the concrete.

But I barely hear it. Because behind me, Malachi lets out a genuine sound of agony. He grips my shoulder, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but his other hand flies to his own chest, clutching the tunic right over his heart.

“Malachi?” I gasp, the world tilting.

“The blood-bind,” he grinds out, his teeth clenched against the wave of fire lashing through our blood. “It's... it's snapping. You did it. But we need to move. Now. Before the backlash floors us.”

The sound of sharp, furious footsteps echoes through the cavernous building, cutting through the wails of the damned like gunshots.

“Where are they?” The voice is shrill, imperious, and terrifyingly familiar. “I know they’re here! Get them, now!”

Veraxia.

Outside the pen, the red guards halt their patrol, heads snapping up in unison, turning toward the source of the noise, and then slowly, they turn toward the open gate of Row Twelve. Their batons hum to life, crackling with lethal, violet energy.

“She's here,” Malachi growls, grabbing my arm and whistling sharply for the hound. “Run.”

My boots skid as we scramble through the bodies and out of the pen, leaving Matthew cowering in the shadows of his own making. Chain-Chewer leads the charge, a boulder of muscle and teeth, bowling over a soul who gets in our way.

“There!” a voice screeches.

Two guards materialize directly in front of us.

“Malachi!” I scream as a cold, crimson hand clamps around my upper arm and I’m yanked off my feet, my toes dragging uselessly.

Malachi roars, turning to strike, but the second guard catches him. A baton cracks across his silver jaw, sending a spray of blood into the air, but he doesn't go down. He fights like a rabid animal, snarling, thrashing, trying to tear his way back to me.

Veraxia steps into the light, her eyes burning with a malice that promises an eternity of torment.

“Found you, little fuckers,” she purrs, raising a hand to command the guards. “Hold him. I want to watch him bleed.”

My vision goes static, like an old television losing signal. I look down at my hand, the one the guard is gripping, and it looks translucent. The edges of my body are blurring, turning into smoke. I feel light. I feel untethered. The sounds of the wailing souls, the growling hound, the crackle of the batons—it all sounds like it’s coming from underwater.

Malachi’s eyes widen in pure panic he sees me dissolving. He knows what it means. The anchor is gone. I don't belong here anymore.

“No,” he yells. “Not yet!”

Ignoring the baton striking his ribs, he lunges, and with a roar of exertion that shakes the catwalk, he breaks the hold just enough to crash his body against mine.

He grabs my face with bloodied hands, and crashes his mouth to mine.

It’s a kiss of desperation. It tastes of blood and ozone and the terrifying heat of a star going supernova. He kisses me like he’s trying to breathe his own soul into my lungs, trying to anchor me to him by sheer force of will.

But I’m already slipping. The static swallows the world. The cold grip of the guard fades. The heat of Malachi’s mouth is the last thing I feel.

And then I'm gone.

Chapter 39

Malachi

The universe, as a rule, abhors a vacuum.

I, however, abhor the sudden, cacophonous absence of my little summoner with a hatred that defies the laws of thermodynamics.

One second, she was warm, solid matter—a chaotic collection of soft skin, grief, and that maddening scent of peaches. The next, the contract ended, taking blood-bind and her with it.

The air in the room rushes in to fill the Eden-shaped hole with a force that rivals a bomb detonation. The screams and wails of the Grey Archives are overwritten by a swirling blizzard of parchment and rags of clothes. Overhead, the fluorescent tubes shatter in unison, raining glass down on us like confetti.