I’m in no shape to go after her. My vision’s blurring and I’m trying really hard to not throw up. She got about ten pallets lit, maybe more. That’s more than two thousand fires. With the heat and the wind, they’re going to spread.

I get over to my messenger bag, find my cell phone, call Letitia.

“Where are you?” she says.

“I’m good, how are you?”

“I said—”

“At the top of some skyscraper in Downtown.”

“There are fires breaking out all over the city,” she says. “I’m getting phone calls to come in. The entire city’s on tac alert. Gabriela told me what that bundle of sticks you found was. Is that what this is? Everybody’s assuming it’s a terror attack.”

“You could call it that,” I say. “Yes, it’s her. Yes, she lit a bunch of ’em on fire. But the good news is that she didn’t light ’em all on fire. And I stabbed her. With the nails.” I don’t feel so good. The pain from the nails has turned into more of a heavy throb. Like dubstep.

“How many did she—wait. Nails?”

“Yeah, she stuck me to a table with a nail gun. Anyway, she lit a bunch of ’em, Two thousand, twenty-five hundred? But there are a lot left.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much. I think the lighter’s magic gets kind of screwy when she uses the tle—things. Sorry. I’m in a lot of pain. I think I’m gonna pass out now.”

“Wait. What building are you in?”

“You sound really far away,” I say. Or maybe I think it? I can’t tell. I’m really not doing well. I wonder if this is because my tattoos aren’t working. I’ve been blocked off before, but the last time I was facing down a pair of demons and that kind of sharpens your focus.

“I’m gonna lie down for a bit. Hey, if you happen to find me, can you bring me a first aid kit and a claw hammer?”

I don’t know if she answers me or not.

Chapter 33

I snap awake, sitting up like I’m spring-loaded, eyes wide, the world in vibrant, vibrating color. My heart jackhammers in my chest. I’m still on the half-finished office floor, Letitia kneeling next to me.

My left hand is heavily bandaged. It doesn’t hurt, oddly enough, but there’s a burning where Letitia has jammed an atropine autoinjector into my thigh. I’ve never seen one before, but even in the dim light I can read the label with disturbing clarity.

“You weren’t waking up,” she says. “So I hit you with the injector. We carry them in our first aid kits in case of chemical attacks.”