“Like a giant oven mitt,” Anya said with a nod of approval.

“Except made of metal,” Andrew said. His nervous knee redoubled its bouncing. “Which conducts heat.”

“Then it’s a good thing the fire isn’t hot,” Jonathan said.

Staring down at the gauntlet, he could see his face reflected in the silver. Shiny with sweat, hair mussed. He didn’t look like someone who could save the world. He looked like someone who hid during climactic battles and waited to die. If he was being honest with himself, he’d been a coward his entire life. His earliest memory was hiding inside a toy chest at his third birthday party while all the kids his parents had invited played pin the tail on the donkey without him. For nineteen years, he had hidden. First alone. Then behind protectors like Warren.

There was nowhere left to hide.

Jonathan didn’t deserve to live in a world he wouldn’t fight to save.

He stuck his hand into the gauntlet and flexed his fingers. Nothing magical happened, unless you counted the glove not immediately falling off as magic. Which wasn’t entirely out of the question. Jonathan had small hands, but the gauntlet fit comfortably. Did the armor have some kind of one-size-fits-all spell on it? Or maybe the gauntlet really was just an ordinary historical remnant and had once belonged to a diminutive knight. People had been shorter in the past. Jonathan had often fantasized about going back to a time when his height would be closer to average.

Using his metal-clad index finger, he scooped up one of the handles of the urn and crept toward the sarcophagus. Praying the gauntlet provided enough protection from the cursed fire, he closed his eyes, thrust his hand into the coffin, and scooped. It didn’t feel like anything except dragging a clay jug through the empty air. His stomach sank.

Then he heard Anya and Andrew gasp. Opening his eyes again, he joined them. The sarcophagus was empty. The inside of the urn was pitch-black and shimmery. The hellfire blocked his view of the Ninja Turtle at the bottom of the pot.

Shock made him light-headed. He had to fight to keep hold of the urn.

It had worked. His plan actually worked. His plan, no one else’s.

“Quick,” he said, shaking the urn at Andrew. “Close it!”

Andrew smashed the stopper into place. The three of them sat staring at the urn. Anya reached out and poked the side. She seemed satisfied with the result.

“Time to run,” she told Jonathan and Andrew. “Ready?”

After pocketing his knife, Andrew slid on the backpack and tightened the straps so that it rode up near the nape of his neck. Jonathan lobbed the messenger bag at him.

“What am I? A pack mule?” Andrew whined.

“Would you rather carry Hell’s Own Herald?” Jonathan snapped.