Finally, the center of the door bows outward, pulling away on one side. The outside world comes rushing in through that two-inch-wide opening—sounds of metal on stone. An unholy scream. Lark’s aether signature, bright and burning in my nose. And another smell… sour and rotting.

I kick again, the opening grows. Twice, the door hangs off on one side. One more kick pops it free. I swivel around in the tight space, scrabbling for the sword strapped beneath the seat as I go. Wrench it loose. Crawl out onto the road with the sword held up, gulping fresh air.

Then I see what Lark has been up against.

An enormous demon made of boulders and green flame brings its joined fists down onto an aether dome. A mini version of the one at the funeral, but this one is just big enough for him.

Lark is there in the center, one hand held up, casting the shining blue-white shield around him. The demon brings its fist down again and again. Lark winces, but the shield holds.

His bandaged right hand—the one I broke—is tucked tight against his chest. His teeth are bared in fury and pain. He’s been fighting one-handed.

Oh God.

Two foxes flank him. They suck the shield away, forcing Lark to make it smaller and smaller while the demon’s anvil-like fists rain down, relentless.

“No!” I rush forward—but it’s too late.

The shield cracks, breaks, dissipates.

Lark rolls away—but not fast enough.

The demon’s fist sweeps down and up, backhanding the Merlin into the air. He lands on the asphalt forty feet away, body crumpling before it goes still.

Then the demon turns toward me.

Its eyes are two deep pits leaking smoke and emerald fire. It is shaped like a human, so a greater demon, an uchel, but one I’ve never seen before. This is a monster made of obsidian, the angriest and hardest parts of the earth, with glowing green joints. Its legs are four-feet wide and its jointed arms end in blunt fingers.

A wide slash of a smile tilts up in recognition.

“Awakened Pendragon,” it says, a note of satisfaction in its deep rumble.

I’m strong now. As strong as a Merlin at least, thanks to Arthur’s blood in my veins. But I need armor. I frantically pull at the air with my free palm, calling the aether around me. Drawing it in like I was taught. It bursts into bright flames, merges into a layer over my gauntlets, then flickers out. I pull again, focus through fear, but this time the aether simply flares into nothing. Not even a spark.

No, no, no…!

“Contain her,” the demon orders, and the foxes chitter eagerly in response.