Storm stopped screaming. She was empty of air, empty of magic. She lacked even the strength necessary to close her mouth. Her eyes, which seemed the only part of her able to move, searched the darkness for any sign of the Fire-witch.

The only thing left of the witch was the devastation Storm had wrought fighting her: lanterns, signs and doors torn from buildings, carts overturned. Even the small crumbling fountain skulking in a corner of the square had been plucked from the ground and lay broken on its side, water spraying from a broken pipe. It formed a stream which meandered, black and wet, through the rubble, like a trickle of blood.

Storm felt her legs unfreeze. Pain redoubled as her blood warmed and feeling came back into her legs and arms. When the blood reached her fingers, she screamed. She felt herself sway, fall as a grey blankness swam up over her eyes and blotted out everything.

Something soft and warm and smelling of monkey was stroking her face.

“Scoundrel?” Hope pushed back the grey blanket pressing on her. Storm opened her eyes. It was night-time, and she was lying on her side on damp pavement.

Memory returned and, with a gasp, Storm sat up. Scoundrel was crouched on his haunches beside her, peering into her face. The monkey seemed reassured by what he saw. He immediately grabbed Storm’s hand and began to tug, squealing at her to get up.

Storm gazed into the dark. People were scurrying around, carrying torches, shouting. All seemed confusion, but there was no sign of the Fire-witch. Storm realised she couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a few moments. And that Scoundrel was right: it was time to get out of here!

At least one person was dead because of her. The square was a scene of devastation: buildings damaged by wind, half burned by fire. There were bound to be more injuries, perhaps deaths. The town guards would be here soon, and if she was found she would be in danger of permanent incarceration by the Pact. She could hardly blame Talon, looking about her. She felt sick with guilt.

Storm pushed to her feet, fought off a spell of dizziness. Where she had been lying was a puddle of melting ice water. Shivering, she stumbled after Scoundrel, content to let the monkey lead her where it would. “I’m in your hands, Tortoise,” she whispered as she turned her back on the latest proof that the Salamander seriously wanted her dead.

She had to go slowly. Her legs did not seem to work as they used to, refusing to follow one another in a straight line. Storm staggered side to side, rebounding off walls in the dark alleyways, pausing to rest against the hard brick of sleeping houses.