“No!” Rasputin’s anguish is barely audible above the terrifying sound of a building coming apart, a disembodied angel heaving against the restraints of a failing spell.

When Marcus faints, followed by Lydia, the Corrupter whirls madly—and then contracts. For a brief moment, the suggestion of a face appears in the raging mass of light, furious jaws spreading wide … and then it rushes at me. There’s an explosion, an earth-shattering boom, and a blinding flash fills the gutted factory all the way to the roof. Energy rolls outward, and the walls give way.

Abandoning the spell at the last moment, Ket sweeps her hands out, and a dome of shimmering air snaps open above the circle. With a deafening roar, the entire structure comes down around us—on top of us—a deluge of brick and steel, glass and concrete. I’ve got only enough strength left to curl into the fetal position as it all crashes against the invisible, impossible membrane of air magic, and tumbles aside. Sulis links hands with her sister, and the protective bubble grows, forcing the gathering wreckage back.

As the din subsides, moonlight touches my face … and somehow, I’m still alive. Stars show beyond a thick plume of dust that rises up above us, drifting endlessly into the dark, naked sky, and a stiff breeze makes me shiver. When Ket at last releases her invisible shield, she slumps to the ground, taking Sulis with her.

Trees rustle, people shout, and police sirens are already crooning their distant response to our many disturbances—but for a moment, peace settles over me. The Corrupter is gone and I’m still here. Somehow, against all odds, I have a future after all.

The debris shifts, rubble resettling, fragments of brick and mortar skittering through unseen pathways. Fallout from the dust cloud begins to subside, coming down like a fine snow. I’m just wondering what we’re going to say to the cops—when the debris shifts again, stirs … and then erupts.

Two slabs of concrete burst apart, flipping like coins, and an angular figure rises from the unsteady ruins. His wild hair and scraggly beard gray with disintegrated mortar, his garments hanging in rags from his rawboned frame, Grigori Rasputin snaps his own dislocated jaw back into alignment—and then turns his deranged, incandescent glare on me.

He lunges, smearing across the space between us, soot tainting the air. When he snatches me up from the ground, the tips of his claws pierce my flesh, and a burning sensation tumbles through my blood. The pain is excruciating, suffocating; I can’t even manage a cry for help as he tightens a massive hand around my throat and presses my windpipe shut.