“No!” The panicked cry resonates through the factory, echoing over the swirling wind. Rasputin is scrabbling back through the hole his body made in the outer wall, his flaming eyes wide and stricken. “The Ascension must proceed!”

His face is a mask of undiluted hysteria, and the blue light arches sharply above me, twisting and spiking. I can feel Azazel’s own anger and despair, his roots being torn out, and I shout at the top of my lungs. “Kulamāje maljo draugo!”

I don’t know what it means, but the pressure in my head lifts with each word, my body casting out its unwanted passenger.

“No, no, no!” The bearded vampire leaps and vanishes, smearing across the space between the wall and the magic circle, materializing again behind Brixia. Her eyes shut, her focus is on the spell when he grabs her head and twists, all in one swift motion.

Still frozen in place, I hear the hollow pop of her neck breaking, and can do nothing but watch as the ancient water sorceress—a witch who sacrificed her humanity for the chance at seeing this moment through—topples to the ground. Lifeless.

The Corrupter’s light surges wildly, flinging sparks in all directions as the elements are unbalanced, and a percussive blast catapults Rasputin across the room again. The wind races around the circle, my temperature climbing as Azazel starts to reach his way back inside; I fight as hard as I can, but I’ve got no magic of my own now.

The floor shakes, cracks spreading through the concrete and up the walls, and the remaining witches struggle to maintain the chant. Their faces shining with sweat, their eyes closed in concentration, their hands tremble with effort as they reach for the sky … but still the rollicking blue fire shrinks as it eats its way back into my body.

Witnessing the chaos, Rasputin’s greed for more is written on his face as he regains his feet; but just as he starts forward, a column of smoke twists into the air before him. A hand reaches out, ivory claws snapping closed around the cleric’s throat, and Viviane Duclos takes shape. Her face carved in deadly angles, she growls, “Not so fast, mon biquet—we’re not done yet!”

She whirls, flinging him into the darkness on the far side of the factory … but the tide has already turned. The pressure in my head intensifies, squeezing my thoughts sideways, and the human witches are starting to go pale from the relentless drain on their energy. Azazel’s memory pours back into my brain—a confrontation from eons ago, when he faced this same peril and killed one of the witches to escape. All he needs is to gain control of me long enough to draw his first breath, and this battle is over. With Brixia dead, the circle is incomplete … it’s only a matter of time.