“I believe you’re already familiar with the N41A drug,” Frederick continued blithely. His voice was farther away. The bastard was leaving us. “It will achieve what my spell failed to. Don’t follow me, don’t use fire on me, and both of you stay where you are until I’ve left the area.”

Jackson tried to take a step, and failed. He swore and raised a hand, but his fire did little more than splutter across his fingertips. It certainly didn’t chase after Frederick, as he’d no doubt intended. N41A was the fast-acting drug used by PIT to restrict those with talents such as telekinesis and pyrokinesis. Sam had used it on us both when he’d dragged us down to PIT’s headquarters for questioning. And it had certainly worked—up to a point, anyway. It did restrict my flames, but only because I’d been so low in energy that I hadn’t dared risk returning to my natural fire form. Though I’d never actually witnessed an occurrence, I’d certainly heard enough tales of phoenixes’ lives being snuffed out simply because they’d risked such a shift.

That wasn’t the case now. I might be bone tired, but that wasn’t exhaustion. I flamed, becoming spirit rather than flesh, and instantly burned the drug from my system.

Jackson had grabbed the gun from his belt and was now firing in Frederick’s direction. The bullets pinged off the dome, protecting him in much the same manner as the flames had earlier.

Jackson cursed and shoved the gun back into its holster. “Go get the bastard for me. I’ll head back to the—” He broke the sentence off and frowned.

I instantly regained human form. “What?”

He hesitated, then waved a hand. “It’s probably nothing. Go, before the bastard gets away.”

I shifted back to spirit form and raced after Frederick, moving so fast, flames trailed behind me like a comet’s tail. But the night around me was gaining form and coming to life.

That presence I’d felt—the presence that had felt so wrong—was red cloaks. They surged out of the shadows, a howling mass of putrid, rotting flesh and hair. Some of them came at me—dove through me—and ran on, not seeming to care, their skin and hair and clothes on fire.

They weren’t after me. They were after Frederick.

There was a squeak of surprise from up ahead; then magic surged. An instant later, a howling wind hit us. It battered my flames, forcing me to slow, and sent the cloaks tumbling. Bits of flesh and blood and god knows what else went flying, and I realized then that they didn’t just smell rotten, they were rotting.