Ku’Sox’s words echoed over the dead earth between us, chilling me. Light glowed from the crater that Trent’s and my magic had made, and in the slashes of angry light, Ku’Sox smiled, shadows making him harsh. “You can’t kill me, even with your elf slave,” he said, the rock sliding from under his feet as he stood. “The collective won’t help you. And you—are—dead.”

Bis landed upon Trent, and the lines echoed in my mind. “I’ll jump you out,” the kid said, but both of us shook our heads. It ended here. It ended now.

“Dali-i-i-i!” Ku’Sox screamed at the rising moon. “Newt! Show yourselves, you cowards!” His head dropping, he looked at me with savage eyes from under his hanging hair, clearly shaken from the curse that had landed on him. “I will talk to you, you poltroons . . .”

“Stand up,” I said, poking Trent in the ribs to make him jump. “Fix your hair, will you? You look a mess.”

“Look who’s talking,” Trent said, even as he ran a hand through his hair to arrange it, his missing fingers obvious.

We both stiffened as the energy in the lines shifted. Nearly where the sun would rise in a scant four hours, a round, squat demon misted into existence, tired and slack-faced. “Is it done?” Dali said, facing Ku’Sox and taking in his ragged appearance. “Fix the damned line before there’s nothing left and we’re all . . .” He hesitated, breathing the air as if he could smell me. Or maybe he was smelling Trent. He reeked of cinnamon and wine, almost covering up the stench of burnt amber.

“She’s alive?” he exclaimed, spinning to us, his expression shocked. “You’re alive!”

“I’m alive,” I said, breathing hard. For the moment.

“For the moment,” Ku’Sox muttered, echoing my thought, frowning as Newt misted into existence beside Dali, wearing exactly the same thing I was. Al slumped at her feet, and my heart leaped until I saw the chains about his wrists and the downcast slouch to his shoulders.

“Of course she’s alive,” Newt said, and Al’s head snapped up, his fervent eyes finding mine and tension pulling him straight. “She’s Al’s wonder child,” the demon finished lightly, smacking Al to make him glower at the ass-backward praise.

“Al . . .” I breathed, elated, and Trent stared at me. In my mind, Trent’s hatred for the demon rose up, anger for his missing fingers, his fear for having been helpless. It joined my memories of Al’s awkwardly given kindnesses when none was expected, and then my pity for the loss of his wife, his life, his love, being forced to live in a hole in the ground, an understanding found, a respect granted unasked, vulnerable and fragile.

“Al?” Trent said, and I blinked, not comfortable having shared that with him.