Chapter 40

Chapter

Forty

Malcolm .

I recognized his magic long before my pain-muddled brain processed the sight of his face, or the fact he'd landed on me with one hundred percent of the weight of an adult man, or that I was simultaneously so freaking mad at him for risking himself like this, but also so relieved to see him that I would have cried if I remembered how to do that.

He rolled off me, knelt at my side, and cupped my face with both hands so he could look me right in the eye. Alice , he said, or I thought he said. I still couldn't hear anything. Alice, I'm here , he mouthed. His expression was extremely grim. I probably looked pretty rough.

Weird that he wasn't sharing thoughts with me. Maybe we couldn't do that here. That figured.

I'd only ever gotten to touch him while we were in the Broken World, where ghosts were more corporeal than in our own world. For ninety-nine percent of our time together, I couldn't so much as touch his hand, much less hug him, and vice-versa. Even so, I loved him with all my heart.

Though I'd gotten a taste of what it would be like if Malcolm were alive while we visited the Broken World, I was utterly unprepared for seeing and feeling my best friend really and truly in the flesh for the first time. Even if this privilege only lasted as long as we remained here, it was worth every bit of suffering to feel his touch. I leaned against his hand to soak in his warmth. He hadn't yet grown cold with the emptiness of this place.

Malcolm got me sitting up, then with surprising strength he hauled me to my feet. My limbs felt heavy as lead, and the ground heaved with the approach of whatever creature Little referred to as the Keeper. Malcolm kept us upright by bracing himself and locking his arms around me. I sagged against him, my head on his chest. The buttons on his shirt pressed into my cheek. What a simple joy to feel that sensation.

My happiness was short-lived. As suddenly as the rumbling had started, everything went silent and still, like a deep breath before a scream.

Little threw his head back in maniacal laughter I couldn't hear over the ringing in my ears.

The darkness around us exploded into fire and a thousand whirling, writhing arms or tentacles, each with a different monstrous head at its tip, all screaming.

Orange coals and fire fell like rain, pelting us from all directions and sizzling in the black dirt. Malcolm attempted to protect us with his magic. When that failed, he resorted to trying to shield me with his body as he half-walked, half-dragged me away from Little. The pain of my own burns barely registered, but Malcolm's agony seared me through our binding.

Over my shoulder, I saw the creature's arms darting toward Little a half-dozen at a time so each monstrous mouth could snap its teeth at his body. It was hard to tell from a distance, but it looked like the bites took out mouthfuls of flesh as other heads mimicked Little's laughter and screams.

Unfortunately, my hearing was coming back. The sound of the Keeper made my teeth ache and my stomach heave .

Every time I tried to speak, nothing came out. I feared madness would overtake me unless we got far enough away from the Keeper and its prey to escape the terrible cacophony.

Malcolm and I stumbled across the dirt as fast as my rubbery legs could move, but the creature seemed as vast as the darkness. The falling coals and fire did grow less frequent as we put distance between ourselves and Little—enough that Malcolm was able to move us out of the way of most of the burning debris.

My legs went out from under me. Only Malcolm's arms kept me upright.

"Hang on, Alice," he shouted, his mouth next to my ear. Hearing his voice gave me enough strength to stay on my feet. "Carly's going to haul us back together."

When? I wanted to ask, but my mouth wouldn't form words anymore. I'd lost the ability to speak.

A little at a time, I was fading away. As much as the Underworld had sensed I'd crossed the veil between life and death more than once and tried to keep me, Tartarus knew I didn't belong here. Only monsters belonged here.

If I didn't get out soon, Malcolm would return empty-handed.

Malcolm held me tighter, as if he also knew I was fading. "Time is different here," he told me in answer to the question that probably showed in my eyes. He was so grim his face seemed all hard lines and shadows.

How much time had passed back in my own world since I'd fallen from the Hensleys' bathroom?

A coal hit the side of my head and bounced off with a sizzle I heard but didn't feel. Malcolm tucked my head under his chin. We'd stopped walking at some point but I hadn't noticed. At least the rain of fire and coals had dwindled to almost nothing.

In the distance, the Keeper and Little continued to laugh and scream. I'd run out of pain and fear and even the ability to feel satisfied by Little's torment, but Malcolm was here and Carly wouldn't let us down. At least I still had hope .

I closed my eyes to rest. When I opened them again, Malcolm had gone very still, and he was looking at something over my shoulder—something in the opposite direction of the Keeper and its prey. I managed to turn enough to see what had caught his attention.

It was a figure in a hooded cloak, carrying a tall wooden staff on which hung a black heart on a hook. Black magic crackled along the edges of the necromancer's cloak and the length of their staff. And unlike our magic, theirs would work perfectly fine here in the realm of the damned.

The figure raised its head enough for me to see a gold mask and a pair of red eyes glowing under the cloak's hood. The mask covered every part of their face except those eerie eyes. Why a mask? So I couldn't see their face and use the memory in some kind of spell? Or because I might have seen them before? Or just to be dramatic? Necromancers did tend to be more theatrical than most other magic practitioners I'd met.

The necromancer raised their right arm and pointed at me, and then at an empty hook on their staff. Well, that was a clear threat, as if their mere presence wasn't enough. Little was off the necromancer's hook now—quite literally—and thanks to Carly's stake he couldn't be reclaimed by the necromancer. So now the necromancer meant to replace Little's heart with mine.

I still had no ability to speak, and barely enough energy to move, but I managed to lift my unbroken left hand and extend my middle finger just long enough for them to see it before my arm fell back to my side.

A laugh rolled across the black dirt. It wasn't accompanied by a seismic wave and it didn't come from a thousand monstrous heads, but I liked it less than that of the Keeper. The necromancer's baritone laugh was distinctly male and far more seductive than it had any right to be.

I'd learned early in my life that the most dangerous monsters didn't look like monsters. They looked nothing like the Keeper. They were beautiful, with easy laughter and charming smiles, and they wore designer clothes and shared funny anecdotes over cocktails or beers while they fantasized about sinking their fangs, teeth, or claws into your soft belly.

Even in my deteriorating condition, I had the vague, half-formed idea that when we returned to our world, I wouldn't be looking for this man in some dark alley or a crumbling house in the woods. Something about the way he stood and watched us told me I'd find him in broad daylight, sipping coffee at a sidewalk café or working in a corner office downtown.

"Alice Evelyn Worth," the necromancer intoned. His voice and black magic wrapped around me as sinuously as a serpent and squeezed. He'd made my name a spell.

Reflexively, I broke his spellwork with my blood magic. Over the stink of Tartarus, I caught the scent of necromancy—damp earth and rot—as the spell fractured and dissipated.

The necromancer laughed again, as if amused by my ability to defend myself. That spell hadn't been all that powerful. He'd tested me, played with me. It was a tease, and a promise, and a threat.

Malcolm held me more tightly and glared at our adversary.

"You owe me a heart, Alice," the necromancer said, his tone conversational. "I'll be coming to collect my debt."

Did I know that voice? Was there a reason my instincts had told me this man felt at home in the sunlight and worked in a posh office?

No, I didn't know this man, I decided. But I might know of him.

Meanwhile, Malcolm was having none of the necromancer's threats. "We owe you something , but it's not a heart. We owe you one of those ." He hooked his thumb back toward the Keeper.

The necromancer chuckled. We were just giving him all kinds of reasons to laugh down here. Come to think of it, had anyone ever laughed in Tartarus before, other than Little's maniacal howls?

That was the kind of question one might have when one was about to fade out of existence while trespassing in Hell's subbasement .

Something tugged at my insides, as if a rope tied around my middle had suddenly become taut. And so help me, I might have been hallucinating, but I could have sworn I smelled blueberry scones.

Somehow, the necromancer must have seen or sensed Carly's magic too. "I'll see you both again soon," he said. The mask hid his face, but I heard a smile in his tone. I had enough of myself left to hate him for it.

"Not if you don't see us coming," Malcolm said coldly.

In the next moment, we were gone, with the Keeper's laughter, Little's howls, and the necromancer's chuckle ringing in my ears.