In the next instant Simralin slammed into him, all three of them sprawling across the floor. Tragen, caught off guard by the attack, lost his grip on the handgun and on Kirisin, as well. While he didn’t let go completely, he did release the boy enough that he almost twisted free. Almost. One hand clung to him by its fingertips—a hand that had shed its skin and become scaly and clawed—fighting to retain its grip as the three combatants tumbled across the stone floor of the chambers and rolled to a stop. But Simralin landed on top and began tearing at the Tracker’s face and eyes. Roaring in fury, Tragen let go of the boy and struck out at Simralin, missing her head but landing a blow to her shoulder that was more than sufficient to dislodge her.

Rolling free, he came to his feet with a second long knife in his hand and scrambled toward her. But Kirisin was quicker. Freed of Tragen’s grip, he reached into his pocket and snatched free the blue Elfstones. Having discovered what they could do in the ice caves of Syrring Rise, he knew they were his only hope. Tragen wasn’t an Elf and he wasn’t human. He was a demon, and only magic was going to be enough to stop him.

“Tragen!” he screamed.

The Tracker half turned, slowing only marginally, but it was enough. He caught sight of the blue fire that exploded out of the boy’s hand just before it struck him full on. The impact knocked him backward, off his feet and onto the stone flooring. Then it followed him down in a blazing arc, burning into him. Tragen screamed, thrashing to break free. But the magic enfolded him, directed by Kirisin’s rage and determination, set upon its course and unalterable. It burned through skin and scales. It burned down to the bones and then through the bones themselves. Tragen became a fiery stick man, a blackened husk, and finally a pile of steaming ashes.

When it was finished, Kirisin stood looking down at the remains, the Elfstones gone dark and cool in his hand. His face reflected the mix of horror and excitement that using the magic had wrought. Feelings he could only barely recognize as his own coursed through his body, hotter than his lifeblood. Simralin climbed back to her feet and hobbled over to stand next to him, staring at his twisted features.

“Shades, Little K,” she whispered.