Some people. I swear they never learn.

I’d built up a rhythm. So I gave her my best evocation, a burst of fire and force, sizzling with a lot of curve and English on it, an ogre-buster the size of a softball, blazing with scarlet and golden light.

She swept both arms into an X-shaped defensive stance, fingers contorted in a desperate defensive gesture, and she snapped out a string of swift words. She stopped the strike, but an explosion of flame and force rolled over her and she screamed in pain as she was driven twenty feet back and into the solid rock of the wall.

“Yahhh!” I shouted in wordless defiance, even as I reached for my next spell…

… and suddenly felt very strange.

“—sden, stop!” Mort was screaming. His voice sounded very far away. “Look at yourself!”

I had the next blast of fire and energy ready in my mind, but I stopped to glance at my hands.

I could barely see them. They were faded to the point of near invisibility.

The shock drove the spell out of my head, and color and substance rushed back into my limbs. They were still translucent, but at least I could see them. I turned wide eyes to where Mort still hung over the wraith pit. His voice suddenly snapped back up in volume, becoming very clear.

“You keep throwing your memories at her,” Mort said, “but part of what you are now goes out with them—and it doesn’t come back. You’re about to destroy yourself, man! She’s luring you into it!”

Of course she was, dammit. Why stand around trying to block my attacks when she could just vanish from in front of them? Evil Bob’s fortifications, it seemed, had served a purpose other than simply barring the way—I’d used up way too much of myself on the way through them. And then here, trading punches with Corpsetaker, I’d used up a lot more, slinging out the memory of my magic left and right, when I’d seen how careful Sir Stuart was to recover such expended power practically the minute I’d gotten out of Captain Jack’s car.

I couldn’t see her without bringing up my Sight, but Corpsetaker’s mocking laugh rolled through the underground chamber from the section of wall I’d knocked her into. I stared at my hands again and clenched them in frustration. Mort was right. I’d already done too much. But how the hell else was I supposed to fight her?

I turned to Mort. He was having trouble keeping his eyes on me as he twisted slowly on the rope. He closed them. “Dresden… you can’t do anything more. Get out of here. I don’t want anyone else to give themselves away for me,” he said, his voice raw. “Not for me.”

Sir Stuart’s shade, floating protectively beside Mort, regarded me with sober, distant eyes.

Corpsetaker’s mad laughter mocked us all. Then she said, “If I’d known you would deliver so thoroughly, Dresden, I’d have gone looking for you ages ago. Boz. Kill the little man.”