Her heartbeat was the only thing she could hear. It beat loudly in her mind, growing slower. Her vision changed from black to white to blacker and then blacker still. Maybe she would be lucky and she would die before Boyle began to feast.

Had Angela died before that point?

Then Boyle was gone. The pressure on her chest eased and her magick snapped off where Boyle had bitten into it, sending a flash of searing pain through her and then nothing.

Unable to move, unable to see clearly, Isabelle only caught bits and pieces of the movement around her. Long black hair. Flashing copper sword.

Thomas.

Damn it. She’d known he’d show eventually. Fear for herself disappeared. Dread for Thomas replaced it. Movement flashed out of the corners of her eyes. Sword. Blood. Claws. Teeth.

Then, again, nothing.

Nothing but a pulsing, purring noise to go along with the beating of her heart. Soft at first, it grew louder and louder. Magick prickled against her skin, letting Isabelle know that the demon’s venom was wearing off.

Where was Thomas? And what was that alien magick scraping along her body?

The texture of the power rippled and grew stronger. The same stink of evil teased her nostrils and then Isabelle knew what it was. She felt a tug on her body like tiny hands that grew stronger.

Somehow, the doorway had opened.

Thomas appeared over her, blood running down his temple and coating his long black hair. He scooped her up into his arms. “We’ve got to get away from here,” he said, his voice sounding far away. “The doorway is appropriating Boyle’s magick as he dies and it’s opening, but it’s unstable. Pulling…pulling us in.”

Alarmed, Isabelle tried to move. It was like her arms had been wrapped in cotton, but she managed some mobility. Color now tinged the edges of her black-and-white vision, too.

Thomas dragged her a distance away, far enough that the pull of the doorway ceased, and lay her down. Isabelle sat up, scanning the room for the demon. Boyle lay a short distance away, on his stomach. Multiple stab wounds marred his back and his blood crackled and popped on the pavement around him. He still lived. His limbs twitched and a low, thick moan wafted from his throat.

About five feet away from him the doorway gleamed almost prettily in the air, a riot of shimmering colors that pulsed and flickered with magick. Isabelle was no earth witch, but even she could sense the volatility in the spell.

She glanced at Boyle and shook her head. “No, he’s not dying. He doesn’t die. He’s like something out of a horror movie. You only think he’s dying and then—”