Fitz says what we’re all thinking: “Better hug that wall, y’all.”

We do. I hug it so much that I curl my left fingers into the bumpy, cold, slippery surface, hoping that a small handhold will appear if I need it.

We’re three, maybe five minutes into the new terrain when the skittering sound begins.

Fitz’s flashlight swings right. “What’s that noise?”

“Bats, maybe?” Evan offers.

It seems like he’s right; the skittering becomes the flapping of leathery wings. I cringe.

Evan’s flashlight pitches up just in time to catch a thick, scaly body and webbed foot before both disappear into the darkness. “That’s not a bat, y’all.”

“Well, what is i—” Fitz is struck by something solid. He grunts and goes sprawling along the path, dropping his flashlight into the ravine in the process.

I yell “Fitz!” and lean around Evan’s body, cutting my flashlight long across the wall. Fitz groans, but gets back up on his feet.

“That’s not a bat!” he roars, holding his hand up to shield his eyes from the light. Heart thudding in my chest, I direct my flashlight down to his feet.

Miraculously, his flashlight must have landed on an outcrop about ten feet below us and at an angle, because a wide beam of light hits the wall and path ahead of us.

“He’s right. I didn’t see it, but I heard it!” Evan shouts. “Whatever it is, it’s strong!”

High-pitched screeching sounds bounce around the cavern, and that’s all the warning we get.

A cloud of heavy wings descends on us. I hear Fitz yell again, then, a half heartbeat later, the singing whine of his aether sword when he pulls it from its scabbard. Claws pull at my shoulders. I scream and cover my head, dropping down to the ground. The gravel digs through my pants into my knees as I cower beneath beating wings and what feels like tiny, sharp daggers.

One of them lands on my back. I thrust an elbow back and up. It makes contact with something hot and heavy that howls and dislodges itself from my shirt.

Fitz screams. I drop my flashlight so that it faces his direction and spring up, drawing my sword. The angles of the light hit Fitz just right, and then I see them.

Four flying demons the size of swans swarm Fitz’s head and torso. Leathery wings as wide as he is tall carry their bulbous bodies and long, red, scaly limbs. Their hind feet are long and bent back like a wolf, but their hands look human, with long fingers ending in black claws that slash at Fitz’s arms and face.

“Imps!” he screams.