Tendrils of darkness—like smoke made of emptiness and hunger—wrapped around Gretta’s ankle. She leapt back, and pain flared in her lower back. Back problems? During a demon fight? Seriously? Avoiding danger at fifty takes more than reflexes—it takes an ice pack and a miracle.

  Meg slammed her club through the thickest shadow, and the building shuddered. The darkness surged forward, unbothered.

  “I don’t think we can fight them,” Gretta said.

  The fear wasn’t just instinct—it radiated from the shadows, heavy and suffocating.

  A sob behind her made her turn. Gammy, the broad-shouldered goblin waiter, stood frozen beside Bool. He had green-gray skin and wide, frightened eyes, and tears streamed freely down his cheeks.

  Bool, long-limbed and ghost-pale, looked like someone had sculpted a drowned girl out of river mist. She flicked her silver hair back with a scowl, unimpressed by the apocalypse. As a sulky and an immortal alchemist of immense power, she might never have had reason to fear anything.

  “We’re trapped,” he whispered. “The guests tried to flee, but there’s something out there.”

  Rowan flopped out of bed with zero grace.

  Bool leaned in—an immortal unfazed by demon shadows in their midst. “I can see why you took his clothes.”

  Meg circled a shadow that was coalescing—taking on a shape that wasn’t quite human. She raised her club. “If you like that sort of thing.”

  “Focus,” Gretta snapped.

  “I am,” Bool said. “He’s your roommate?”

  “You might want to stand back,” Rowan said, steadying himself. “I’m about to do something very stupid.”

  “Ex-roommate,” Gretta said.

  “So, he’s available?” Bool asked.

  Rowan plunged his hand into the darkness, and his skin began to boil and shift. His eyes were gone, replaced with globes of shifting smoke.

  Bool leaned in. There was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “We should do something.”

  Meg slammed her club down again—still nothing. “We need a new plan.”

  “I don’t do plans,” Rowan said through clenched teeth.

  “Clearly,” Meg said.

  “Very spontaneous,” Bool added.

  Gretta stepped between the advancing shadow and Gammy, who was cowering on the floor, arms over his head.

  “Not helping,” she muttered.

  “Uh oh,” Rowan whispered.

  The whispers swelled—then recoiled from him, like shadows shrinking from a flame.

  The stillness snapped. All at once, they surged toward Rowan.

  “I can see why he dies a lot,” Meg said.

  Rowan’s back arched, and he screamed—a piercing, layered sound, like three voices shrieking through one throat. The shadows plunged into his open mouth.

  “We need to run,” Gammy whispered.

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  Gretta didn’t take her eyes off Rowan. “Meg, take Gammy and Bool. Get out of here.”

  “And leave you alone with the shadows?” Meg asked. “Not happening.”

  “I’ll stay,” Bool offered.

  “I won’t be alone,” Gretta said. “And you can’t fight them anyway.”

  Meg raised a brow. “You can?”

  Rowan writhed on the floor. Smoke curled around him, and his body stretched in impossible ways.

  “A club won’t help,” Gretta said. “This is about willpower.”

  Gammy scrambled for the door. Meg sighed, grabbed Bool by the shoulders, and herded her after him into the kitchen. Bool didn’t resist and, for once, didn’t offer a quip.

  “Come on. Dew’s about to give him moral support, and nobody needs to witness that,” she muttered.

  Gretta knelt, careful to dodge Rowan’s flailing limbs. His eyes—alien and unblinking—stared past this reality.

  “You there, Rowan?” she asked.

  “I’ve got them,” he whispered. “I can’t hold them. You should run.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, moron,” she whispered back.

  She laid a hand on his forehead. He was burning up. “Why’d you let them in?”

  Smoky patches began forming on Rowan’s skin, spreading like poisoned veins, becoming black in huge, creeping patches. The sun was now shining through the window, and Gretta could hear the hooves of fleeing customers.

  Rowan turned sightless eyes toward her. “I forgot to buy creamer.”

  What might have been a tear fell from Gretta’s cheek. “I know.”

  Rowan lifted a hand, and his fingers turned to ash and drifted away. “I think I’m getting better. It doesn’t hurt.”

  “You need to release them. They are destroying you,” Gretta said.

  “The demons need to be returned to purgatory.” He coughed, and ashes came out. “It’s the only way to save Abby.”

  Abby, the Wild Mother, goddess of nature, and Gretta’s aunt, still needed saving. The gods were still dying?

  “How did you bring them back to Purgatory last time?” Gretta asked.

  “I had to become my own reality—to hold them inside me,” Rowan said. “Had—” he coughed more ashes “—to be in the Void.”

  Rowan’s hands were completely gone—so were his feet—drifted away like smoke.

  “Lathiel,” she whispered, invoking healing. Magic surged through her fingertips—only to vanish on contact. The darkness devoured it faster than she could give. It was like trying to fill a broken cup with a firehose.

  “Thanks,” he whispered. “Think I’m fine now.”

  His skin was nearly completely black, and even his torso was beginning to flake away.

  Inspiration hit Gretta. She grabbed his shoulder and pulled both of them into the Astral. The colors of her bedroom washed out to grays. The sounds of people and smells of the kitchen vanished.

  In the Astral, Rowan was a being of translucent blue energy. His form had never been entirely stable, but was more or less human. He had always been beautiful here.

  This time, he was more of an amorphous energy than anything. Gretta had to force herself not to recoil in shock as the skin she had been touching became more like ethereal blue gelatin. There was a streak of something brighter blue within him that she didn’t recognize. A foreign magic not truly part of Rowan. Older. Powerful beyond anything she had witnessed. And deeper in, she saw the writhing mass of demon energy—at least ten malign forces, fighting for escape.

  You cannot speak in the Astral. There is no air, and the sounds you pick up from reality are more of a magical perception than that of hearing. She tried to will him to understand.

  Her strength to remain in the Astral was failing fast, as it took her an enormous effort to be there for even seconds.

  She prayed not to the Wild Mother but to Rowan. Please, Rowan, I need you to hold on.

  The writhing mass of blue energy stilled. Gretta?

  Hold on! She put every ounce of her own will into those two words.

  Her ability to hold them both in the Astral was failing. They were on the cusp of falling back into reality.

  The threads of smoke froze. Rowan’s glow and that of the streak of blue light both strengthened. His shape shifted, becoming more human. The streak of blue light became a walking stick he held in one hand. His other hand was holding hers. The black smoke collapsed into a pinhead of space locked in a prison of swirling colors.

  Suddenly, she was no longer holding them in the Astral, but he was holding both of them there. He pulled her in and hugged her.

  He was smiling. Why didn’t you run?

  She squeezed his hand. Because you wouldn’t have.

  He smirked. Now who’s a moron?

  She tightened her grip. Still you.

  Gretta didn’t know what kind of god Rowan was becoming. But he hadn’t let go.