She spotted the basket of glass eyes of newt, and as hard as she could, she kicked it toward Faith.

Ouch. Wrong day to wear sandals.

Brown, blue and green eyes rolled across the floor. It would be funny if—

Faith’s feet went out from under her; she fell flat on her back.

Yep. That was funny.

The door rattled. A man shouted.

Help had arrived.

“Clarice,” Elle pleaded.

Clarice looked at Elle as if she didn’t know her.

“Clarice, if you’d just open the door!” Elle grabbed a heavy crystal-ball bookend off the bookshelf, lifted it over her head and flung it at Faith’s chest.

She missed. Instead she hit Faith’s belly and heard the air whoosh out of Faith’s lungs.

Elle said, “Ha!” No! Don’t exult over a single victory when death could recover so quickly.

Faith rolled, grabbed one of the eyes, round and heavy. She aimed.

Run! Elle stumbled over the displays of rune stones and seer teacups, trying to reach the window.

With the skill of a professional pitcher, Faith threw the eye.

It struck Elle’s left shoulder blade.

Blinding agony.

Elle pitched sideways into the wall, and this time her plea was quieter, but more heartfelt. “Clarice, please, a weapon.”

No time to look at Clarice.

Because Faith grabbed Elle’s ankle.

Elle kicked at her with the other foot, a solid kick just the way Wendy taught her. She caught Faith under the chin.

Faith’s head snapped back. But she didn’t let go. With a yank, she pulled Elle off the shelf and onto the floor.

With a thump, Elle landed on her hip, which brutally reminded her that a few weeks ago she’d been limping and injured. She blinked away the black and red shooting-star shower that obscured her vision and saw—

The knife tip gleaming as it dove toward her.

Adrenaline roared through Elle’s veins, vanquishing pain. She bounded to her feet in a crouch, under the blade, and smashed her head into Faith’s chest.

Faith stumbled backward again, then charged forward again, knife dancing a deadly tango. She was like one of the perpetual-motion desk toys, created to go on and on until forcibly halted, and so far, Elle had not been able to do more than slow her down.

The front door rattled. Voices shouted.

Desperate, out of breath, panting, Elle screamed, “Clarice, open the door! Let them in!” She was faltering, and the thought crossed her mind not that she might lose but that she and Faith might battle to the death and the best that could be said was that she had fought the good fight.

If only Clarice would unlock that door!