A blast ricocheted through the room, echoing off the walls. Something punched through the Ourobas, leaving a smoking wound behind. Jittering, twitching, the Ourobas gave an unearthly shriek and vanished.

Lucie’s axe fell to the floor, where it stuck, blade-down.

Cordelia scrambled to her feet. She could see the others all turning to stare at a spot just behind her. There was smoke in the air, and the unmistakable smell of cordite.

Gunpowder.

Cordelia turned slowly. Behind her was James, his arm extended, a revolver gleaming in his right hand. A wisp of smoke rose from the barrel. His gaze locked with Cordelia’s, and he slowly lowered the gun to his side. There was a look in his eyes she could not read.

“James,” said Anna, brushing dirt from the sleeves of her gear jacket. “Explain yourself.”

“Christopher made it,” Matthew said, breaking the shocked silence. “He wanted to make a runed gun that could fire. But only James can shoot it.”

“Are you sure?” Anna said. She approached James, holding out her hand. “Let me try.”

James handed the gun over. Anna pointed it at a window and pulled the trigger; everyone winced, but nothing happened. She handed it back to James with a curious look.

“Well,” she said. “That is interesting.”

James looked at Lucie. “It might work for you, as well,” he said. “I’m not the only one—you know.”

But Lucie held her hands up, shaking her head. “No. I don’t want to try, James.”

“But you ought, Luce,” said Matthew. “What if Christopher could make a second one? Think what we could do against demons with two of them. Two of you.”

“Oh, all right,” Lucie said crossly, and went toward James, taking the gun from him. As he started to show Lucie how to use it, Cordelia took the opportunity to move away from the others. There was her sword—Cortana, gleaming like lamplight among the rubble and dust. Cordelia bent to retrieve it, touching the hilt tentatively, half expecting it to burn her again.

Nothing happened. With shaking hands, she sheathed the sword. She could not help but remember the moment at the Wentworths’ when she had reached for Cortana. It had stung her palm. She had not thought about it then, but the memory was vivid now.

She glanced down at her palm. There was a red mark across it, almost in the shape of an L, where the crosspiece had burned her. Had rejected her.

But Cortana is my sword, whispered a small voice in the back of her head. It chose me.

Could a sword of Wayland the Smith change its mind?

With a shudder, Cordelia returned to the others: they were crowded around Lucie, who was shaking her head and handing the revolver back to James.