He stared at me, uncomprehending. I reached for the lamp, remembered that the magic was up, and took a candle from the night table instead. I struck a match. The narrow blade of a candle flame flared into existence. Curran stood before me, his eyes wide, unblinking. Tiny red marks covered his face and hands, blending into a uniform coat of crimson. I reached out and touched his palm. Magic stung my fingertips. Blood. Curran was covered with blood, miniscule drops of it swelling from every pore. He had broken through my ward and it had exerted a price.

“Curran?”

He gave no indication of hearing me. He must be dazed from shattering the spell.

The headache pounded at my skull like a hammer. Gaining my feet, I took Curran by the hand, led him to the bathroom, and nudged him into the shower. I turned on the cold water and let the icy cascade splash on his face.

Lowering the toilet cover, I sat down and rested my head on my hands. The water poured. I would’ve killed for an aspirin.

Curran drew a sharp ragged breath and exhaled. Awareness crept into his eyes. “Cold,” he said. Shuddering, he shut off the water and shook himself. The drops extinguished the candle and darkness swallowed us.

I reached blindly and threw a towel at him. Finding the door, I started toward the kitchen. Halfway through the short hallway something fell onto my head. I leaped to the side and grabbed at it. My fingers held a twig.

What the hell?

I looked up and saw the night sky. A large, irregular-shaped hole gaped in my roof. Curran had picked the highest point of the building, where the ward would be the weakest and punched through the ward and the roof with it.

I ground my teeth, went into the kitchen, and found a feylantern. With a little coaxing, it ignited, its gentle blue flame spreading soft light. Curran appeared in the doorway.

“You broke my roof,” I told him.

“It was easier than the door,” he said. “I knocked. You didn’t answer.”

I rubbed my temples. From now on, no more wine.

Something clanked. I looked up. Curran put my dagger on the table.

“How’s your shoulder?”

“Sore,” he said.

Telling him that I had been aiming for his throat wasn’t in my best interest.

“You were right,” he said. “It’s not over.”

“I know,” I said softly.

“There is an upir.”

“I know.”

“He has Derek.”

I stared at him.

“I sent Derek and Corwin to the Wood,” Curran said. “He attacked them at the pickup point and took Derek. The last Corwin remembers, the kid had a broken leg, but was alive.”

“What about Corwin?”

“He’s hurt,” Curran said.

“How bad?”

“He’s dying.”

“THIRD TREE FROM THE LEFT,” CURRAN SAID.

We stood on the porch, shoulder to shoulder, the night stretching before us.