“You belong to Death,” says the Emissary in a voice like smoke rising from a fire. Like steam hissing from the lid of a pot. “And we will take you back.”

“I don’t think so!” shouts Jacob, flinging himself in front of me. He looks back over his shoulder, arms spread wide as if he can single-handedly keep the monster at bay.

A smile flickers at the edge of Jacob’s mouth. “I can slow it down,” he says, turning back to face the Emissary. “Run.”

Maybe he can slow it down.

Maybe he’s strong enough to face the Emissary.

Maybe he can buy us time.

But I’m not leaving this place without both of my friends. I grab Jacob’s wrist and pull him away from the creature. Grab Lara’s hand, and together, we run.

The world at our backs is dark, but the road ahead is lighter. If we can just get off the Bridge of Souls. If we can—

“Where are you going?” rasps the Emissary, and there is an awful amusement in that hoarse voice. As if there’s nowhere to go, as if the bridge doesn’t run both ways.

The Emissary lifts one hand, bone talons pointed toward the sky—if there is a sky in a place like this. And suddenly the bridge beneath us ripples and sways. Thin black ropes shoot up from the ground, reaching for us, wrapping around our ankles and wrists. I twist free of one, dodge another, but the third coils around my calf and the fourth catches me around the stomach. I stumble and fall, hitting the bridge hard. My camera wedges up against my ribs, knocking the air from my lungs, and Lara’s red backpack goes skidding several feet away.

It stops near Lara herself. She’s on the ground, too, fighting as half a dozen ropes try to pin her down. Jacob alone seems immune to the black threads. He kneels beside me, tearing at the brittle ropes as the Emissary makes its slow way toward us.

I tear free of the last rope, but the monstrous reaper only chuckles.

“You cannot run from us,” it says.

And the thing is, I know it’s right.

This is a fisherman, and we are the fish. We have to break the line.

“Jacob,” I say, lunging for the red backpack in the middle of the bridge. “Get Lara!”

He’s already there, at her side, ripping out the ropes like weeds as they climb around her. Instead of running, I unzip the bag and turn out the last of the ingredients from the banishing spell.

The pouch of grave dirt is almost empty.

A few spoonfuls of oil slosh in the bottom of the bottle.

A handful of stones and the box of matches tumble out, and I scramble for them, too.