The water coming out of the sprinklers stopped acting like water; it rose up, straight up, arrowing directly into the clouds.

Escaping.

The sprinklers kept spinning, hissing out pressure, but only a little water made it out, and it seemed like natural stuff.

Claire yanked her foot free of the gelatinous substance with a squishing, squelching noise, and realized that a lot of the grass had dried off around her—the draug had taken most of the water with them. There was still some moisture, but it was just that. No draug.

They were running away from what she’d used.

She picked up a handy stick and poked at the rubbery mass that had been the draug …. It was heavy, solid, flaking into bits, and it smelled dead and rotten.

She stood up, sealed the bag, and gave Michael a big thumbs-up as she settled the hat at a better angle on her head. “I think that’s proof of concept,” she said. “Now we just have to get the stuff out of here.”

“Turn off the sprinklers!” Myrnin said, elbowing Michael out of the doorway. “Go on, shoo!”

“The draug took off, Myrnin, didn’t you see it? How often do you see drops go straight up?”

“I’m not coming out until you shut the valve.”

Chicken, she thought, but didn’t say. He was right, of course. Maybe they were lying in the pipes, waiting for a delicious bite of vampire. She would have been only a snack, but Michael and Myrnin would be a sixteen-course meal.

“Stay there,” she said, and jogged on around the side of the shed. Finding the valve was surprisingly easy; turning it off wasn’t so much, since she didn’t have vampire strength, but she managed to twist the wrench a couple of times until the valve snugged tight.

Overhead, thunder rumbled.

Claire looked up; the clouds looked dark and heavily loaded now with rain. The draug, back in their transportation, she supposed. They could come down again, anytime.

But what about Magnus? Could he travel that way, or was he different? She felt like he was, somehow … he could transform to liquid but he had more mass to him. He was more there, more real than the others. They were like pieces split off of him, but connected to him. That was how it felt, anyway.

A shadow blocked out her view of the clouds, and she pushed back the awkward cowboy hat to look up. It was Myrnin. He offered her a hand up, and she accepted it. Her gloved hand still felt gritty from the powder. There wasn’t a single speck of moisture on it. Even when she swiped it over the still-moist ground, nothing stayed on the plastic without being absorbed.

“It works,” she said. Somehow she sounded surprised, as if she’d been standing in the doorway watching instead of actually doing it. “Myrnin—it really works.”

“Yes,” he said. There was a look on his face that she couldn’t understand at all. “Take that hat off. It ill becomes you.”