Arabella burst out of the surrounding buildings and into the ring of paved stone that surrounded All Saints’. The edifice bristled with pinnacles and turrets. Lancet windows and pointed arches were black against its moonlight-bleached grey. It looked not so much like a place of worship, but a fortress.
It was the most beautiful sight Arabella had ever seen.
The stone crackled underfoot, green sparks fountaining all around her. The bats chittered their alarm and fell back. She nearly wept with relief.
If only the shadowy mass would also retreat.
She glanced over her shoulder just as it flowed across the paved stone. The hiss of warning runes did nothing to deter it.
Arabella pressed her mangled arm to her chest and pushed on through the wards. Pins and needles pricked her all over, intensifying with every step.
Better than falling to that thing back there.
Her progress slowed to a trudge. Shivers ran through her, threatening to tear her apart. Vitality bled out of her, leaving her more exhausted than she could ever remember being.
“Fight back…” she whispered to herself. “Don’t… give up.”
Her knees jellied and gave way. She collapsed in a heap of flowing soul-substance. For one horrified moment, she thought she would liquefy. Grimly, she held on to her sense of self.
At that moment, her hunter gathered itself into its insectile shape, front arms curved into wicked blades, and leapt.
Arabella flinched and closed her eyes. Dear God-Father and Risen Lord and Saint Margrethe…
She fully expected searing pain.
It didn’t come.
Arabella opened her eyes.
A warrior stood between her and the shadow creature. His armor gleamed a dark grey as he took the creature’s blow with one gauntleted hand. With his left hand, he swung a sword that seemed to be made of ice fire.
It sliced cleanly through one of the creature’s front legs. The phantasm raised a howl that stripped every bit of warmth and courage from Arabella. She couldn’t have moved an inch.
It didn’t affect the warrior at all. He wielded the sword in a series of blazing movements, cutting the creature, driving it back. The monster rippled, became something with fiery eyes, huge paws, and claws several inches long.
The sword melted in the warrior’s hands, covering both fists with a starry glow.
He punched the creature, hurling it across the courtyard. It scattered into a million inky droplets.
Arabella gaped.
Then he turned and walked over to her. “Got yourself into trouble, didn’t you?”
Arabella stared up at Trey. “L-lord St. Ash.” She couldn’t keep the awe out of her voice—the title wasn’t just for show, after all.
He grimaced. “I told you to call me Trey.” The armor vaporized into nothing, and the glow concentrated around his left hand, lengthened, and dimmed into the shape of a dull fog-grey sword, blurry at the edges.
He looked tired and annoyed and disheveled, not at all like the warrior from a moment ago.
He’d hidden that side of him again. Arabella pursed her lips, putting the observation aside for future contemplation.
“I thank you for your timely intervention, my lord.” Arabella started to rise and winced as the movement sent a flare of pain throughout her.
Trey’s gaze sharpened as he took in her sadly malformed arm, still seeping. “You all right, scamp?”
“Of course,” said Arabella faintly. The agony had dulled to a kind of sawing throb. She told herself it was better.
If only she could believe it.
“Let me see it.” A frown bit deep between Trey’s eyebrows. He turned the sword in his grasp, stabbing downward in one fluid movement. It hung in the air, not moving, when he let go of it.
“It’s quite all right,” began Arabella, backing away.
“Enough of that foolishness, please,” said Trey. He put one hand on her shoulder, the other on her wrist. To her surprise, his grip was warm and solid. Gently, he turned her arm a little this way and that. Arabella clenched her nonexistent teeth.
“Hurts?”
“Perhaps a little,” she admitted.
“What did this?” He probed her not-flesh with cool fingers that almost numbed the ache.
“A bat. One annoying, shrieking bat.” She couldn’t keep the disgust out of her voice.
“Shrikers.” Trey nodded, as if he expected that. “Nasty teeth.”
“Indeed,” said Arabella fervently. His frown had deepened. Her heart sank. “What is it?” she asked, not really wanting to know.
“Infection. Look.” He moved her arm again—carefully—to show her the place where her substance was puckered into ridges so dark a purple they were almost black.
Arabella felt that unfair twisting of her insides again. “How bad is it?” she whispered.
“It won’t kill you any time soon,” he said, with no irony whatsoever. “But you need purification and you need it fast. Luckily, you don’t have far to go.” He gestured towards the cathedral.
Arabella glanced at the edifice. Now that she wasn’t running for her life, she could make out the shimmer of runes laid in the stone traceries of the windows and the decorations on the pinnacles. Some even lurked deep in the buttresses.
“Is it safe?” she asked doubtfully.
“Not completely. But I think you have a good chance.”
Arabella regarded him, trying to read more into his lack of expression. She remembered the prickling of wards when she crossed the stone yard. She tried to imagine what it would feel like intensified ten or a hundredfold.
It was not a pleasant thought.
“Better get going,” said Trey. “It’s coming back.” His gaze was back at the edge of the courtyard, among the dark buildings.
Shadows writhed and came back together into a heaving charcoal mass.
“What is that thing?”
“Barghest.” Trey took up his sword again, not looking, the gesture easy and practiced.
“I thought they were big black dogs!” There was nothing canine about the form the barghest took, all angled legs and sharp blades protruding from the blob.
“They’re whatever shape they want to be.” He threw her an impatient look. “What are you waiting for?”
“I feel bad about leaving you to face it on your own,” she confessed. After all, she was the one who’d stupidly run out into
