“Skaro anmenndho draugo!” A fresh voice rings out above the roar of blood in my ears. “Steigoawa nāmante draugo!”

Emerging from the shadows at the back of the warehouse, racing for the magic circle at a dead sprint, is Hope Cheng. Skirting Brixia’s inert form, she plants her feet on the symbol for water—their shared element—and lifts her hands. “Kulamāje maljo draugo!”

My body lurches again, and the blue light flails as the balance is suddenly restored. The Corrupter’s fury burns my throat, his grip deep and painful, wriggling in places I have no name for. Metal creaks as the hurtling wind rattles catwalks overhead, and the hole in the wall widens, the building shaking from its foundations up. One word at a time, Azazel is ripped back out of me, the air so thick with the reek of smoke and sulfur I can hardly breathe.

“Kulamāje maljo draugo … skaro anmenndho draugo … steigoawa nāmante draugo…”

Viviane and Rasputin continue their vicious battle in the shadows, dancing on the turbulent air and exchanging blows, but the coven is barely standing at this point. Ximena and Marcus are swaying, Lydia trembles, and the strain of this ritual has pushed the two undead witches to the limits of their physical transformation—their brow bones sharply arched, their lengthening claws bleeding smoke into the whirling cyclone around us. I chant louder, reaching for what I can of Azazel’s magic, using it to push him out.

I feel it. When the last thread breaks—when he loses his grip and severs from me with one final, agonizing snap, when my body is somehow mine and mine alone again, for the first time in weeks—I feel it. My legs give out and I hit the floor, gasping, trembling, and hot; a cloud of volatile, brilliant light churns around me, swelling like a thunderhead … and yet I could float. My body is weightless, light as a feather and stiff as a board.

I’m alive.

When Hope suddenly collapses, though, losing consciousness, I feel that, too. The circle unbalances again, the cloud seething and deforming, and the Corrupter’s sparks surge into lightning that strikes past the magical boundaries chalked on the floor. The witches battle to keep this chaotic energy contained, but it’s too much for them to bear at this point.

Ximena sinks to her knees, followed by Marcus, and the catwalks dance until they come apart. Metal and concrete rain down as more cracks spread across the floor, and a bolt of electrical discharge leaps from the circle and slams into the compromised outer wall. Vibrations roll to the ceiling, bricks falling like loose teeth, and the screaming winds tear the remaining glass from the windows. When Ximena finally goes slack, toppling onto her side, the violent, glowing presence above me pitches and expands.

The world might be saved, but disaster is still imminent.