sought shelter from the demons.
Drust stands by the edge of the water, observing the stone, for several minutes, muttering more spells. Then he stops and looks at me, smiling tiredly. “A lodestone,” he says. “A reservoir of ancient magic. Very powerful. We think the Old Creatures used stones like this to mark the position of our world, so they could find their way here from the stars. The Old Creatures have drained most of the remaining lodestones of their power, but they either missed this one or deliberately left it charged for one reason or another. Brude found it and used it to open the tunnel. We’ll turn it against him now.”
“Is it safe for you to stop?” I ask nervously, glancing back up the tunnel.
“For a moment,” Drust says. “The spells I’ve cast are at work on the walls of the rock, Brude, the…” He nods towards a point beyond the island. Staring hard, I see the mouth of a second tunnel in the rock on the far side of the pool—but the walls of this tunnel are made of red webs and strips of flesh.
“That’s the tunnel to the Demonata’s world?” I ask.
“Aye. On their side a demon master has undergone a transformation like Brude, creating that tunnel. The lodestone links the pair. It’s been absorbing magic from Brude and the demon master, uniting their forms, slowly knitting together the fabric of the two tunnels. The lesser demons have been able to squeeze through during the process. When the tunnels become one, the masters will be able to follow their servants to our world. If that happens, mankind is finished.”
“What if a demon comes through when you’re casting the rest of your spells?” I ask.
Drust pauses. “I won’t be able to stop. You’ll have to fight it.” He runs an eye over me. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” I lick my lips, mouth dry from the heat of the tunnel and cave. “Goll and Lorcan are dead. Connla too. I removed his protective spell. The demons killed him.”
“Good,” Drust grunts. “And Bran?”
“I don’t know. He was alive when we entered the tunnel, but there were so many demons…”
“If I make it back, I’ll look for the boy,” Drust promises. “If he’s alive, I’ll take care of him.”
He straightens, casts his tiredness off and steps into the water, starting on the next set of spells. I stare at the island of bones for a second—impossible to tell if they’re human or demon, or a mix of the two—then step in after him. Despite the heat of the cave, the water’s cold, but not as cold as the sea was. No need for a warming spell. I wade after Drust, eyes on the lodestone and bones, morbidly wondering if he’ll leave my bones there, on top of the pile, when he’s done.
The water’s shallow, no higher than my lower thigh. It doesn’t take us long to reach the island. When we’re there, Drust climbs up on to the mound of bones. The bones are brittle and many snap under his feet. He takes no notice, continues with the spells, clambering his way over to the lodestone, beckoning me to follow.
The glow in Drust’s hands has changed from blue to a pinkish red. The bones—especially the skulls—look as though they’re aflame. I try to keep my eyes off them as I crawl to where Drust is kneeling, hands stretched out on either side of the lodestone, ready to clasp it when the moment’s right.
As Drust casts spells, I move slightly to one side of him, so I have a clear view of the tunnel to the Demonata’s universe—I want plenty of warning if a demon comes through. But the monsters on the other side don’t seem to be aware of the threat, or else they can’t cross quickly. Nothing stirs. No shadows or sounds.
I find myself thinking about the bones and lodestone. Who set them here? The stone was put in place by the Old Creatures, but did Brude stick the bones underneath it? Have they been left by demons? Or are they the work of the Old Creatures too? Did they sacrifice people to create this place of magic, as Drust plans to sacrifice me?
Despite my unease, I can’t help studying the skulls, wondering if these people were killed on the surface or if they died down here. Were they volunteers? What were they thinking in their final moments? Did they go bravely to their deaths, as I hope to, or did they crumble at the end and scream for mercy?
Drust’s voice rises, disturbing my thoughts. His hands close upon the lodestone, drawing gradually closer as he slips deeper inside the intricate web of spells. I listen to his words, and though they’re hard to decipher—he’s speaking so quickly!—after a while I catch a few of them. He’s on one of the final spells. It won’t be much longer. If I want to offer up any last prayers for myself, I’d better do so now, before—
Drust cries out. His hands fly wide apart, then dart to the small of his back. My eyes shoot down and I spot a dagger sticking out of his flesh, handle quivering, buried to the hilt. I whirl, summoning magic, expecting Connla or a demon.
But it’s neither.
It’s
The boy stands at the edge of the pool, arm extended—he threw the knife. His face is curiously blank.
My heart leaps. Has Bran’s innocence been an act all along? A spy in our midst, playing us for fools, waiting for the ultimate moment to strike? Impossible! Nobody could have been that convincing an actor. But there he stands, hand outstretched, dagger buried in Drust’s back.
Drust topples aside and sees Bran. He yells with astonishment, then groans with pain. I falter. I want to unleash a spell, drive the boy—the killer—back, destroy him if I can. But it’s
“Why?” Drust gasps.
Bran blinks. He frowns at Drust, then looks at me—and bursts into tears. “Flower!” he cries. Starting forward, he wades sluggishly through the water, arms flailing, displaying none of his customary lightness of movement.
“Bec!” Drust croaks. “Stop him!”
“No,” I sigh, letting the spell die on my lips, understanding by his tears what has happened. “It’s all right. He won’t do any more damage.”
Bran makes it to the island of bones, wailing and sobbing. He throws himself at me, yelling “Flower!” again and again. I catch him, let him bury his face in my chest, and hold him as he weeps, stroking the back of his head, murmuring quieting words.
After a few seconds I look over his head at the wounded druid. “He heard us on the cliff,” I whisper. “He knew you planned to kill me. He couldn’t let that happen. In his own crazy way he loves me. He hasn’t done this to sabotage your plans—he did it to save me.”
Drust grits his teeth with desperate anger. “The idiot! Doesn’t he know what will happen if—”
“No,” I interrupt calmly. “He doesn’t. I’m his friend, maybe the one person in the world he feels close to. He only knew that he didn’t want me to die. Don’t blame him. He couldn’t control himself.”
Drust’s expression softens. “Aye,” he chuckles. “I think you’re right. It’s not much comfort to us, but…” His eyes flick to the lodestone. He reaches for it, then winces and remains lying on his side. “I can’t do it, Bec.”
I go cold. “You must!”
He shakes his head. “It’s not too late—the spells will work if resumed quickly—but Bran has wounded me deeply. I haven’t the strength to continue.”
“You must!” I shout again. “You have to try! Don’t just lie there and give up!”
“I’m not talking about giving up,” he smiles sadly. “
“And sacrifice Bran?” I ask quietly, dreading the answer.
“No, you fool,” the druid snaps, more like the Drust of old. “Why kill two when one’s already half dead? I’m finished. Even if I could cast the rest of the spells, I’d never make my way back to the surface. You need to take over, complete the spells, then slit my throat and let my blood flow over the lodestone.”
I stare at him stupidly.
“There’s no time for gawping,” he growls. “I’ll last a few more minutes with luck, but not much longer. Do it, Bec. Say the spells. Kill me. Spare your people the wrath of the Demonata. Then save yourself and Bran.”
That final word jars me into action. Bran’s risked all to rescue me. I can’t repay him by stranding him here, to perish at the hands of the demon masters when they come. Unwrapping his arms from around my shivering frame, I push him back, smile to show everything’s all right, then shuffle up beside Drust.
“What do I have to do?”
“Do you know where I stopped?” he asks.
“No.”
