But Gwen was faster. The Thames rose up to a terrifying height just along the bank, like the water itself was reaching for Chance and Mercier. Chance disappeared in the blink of an eye but Mercier had nowhere to run. His terrified scream echoed off the empty buildings as the water swept him, the fire in his aura doused as he was pulled down into the river.

“Come on!” Arthur grabbed Rory.

A moment later, he was in the boat, and it was every bit as terrifying as Rory had thought it would be, but it was better than a man on fire and a teleporter. Arthur tugged him down to the middle seat as the motorless skiff moved itself into the river. It rocked unsettlingly, and Rory stuck himself to Arthur’s side.

They sped unnaturally fast and straight down the river. Gwen was at the prow next to Ellis, both of them facing backwards and her face buried in her hands. Ellis had his head bent close to hers, his hand on her knee, and Rory could just barely catch snippets of their conversation.

“—a sentimental fool, he could chase us to Paris—”

“—it’s okay, daisy—”

“—not just a light blinking out, I see people again—”

“—it was for Philippe—”

Zhang was on the back bench next to Jade, his eyes closed. Rory caught a glimpse of the firefly glow of his projection coming back to his body. He opened his eyes and looked at Jade. “Mercier’s alive,” he said, just loud enough for Arthur and Rory to hear. “The current carried him safely to the river bank.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “She spared his life?”

Zhang shrugged helplessly. “Looks that way,” he said, exchanging another glance with Jade.

Rory opened his mouth, but the boat rocked again, and he closed it before he thought about puking.

Gwen lifted her chin, serene as a princess, her moment of vulnerability gone—or buried where the rest of them couldn’t see it. “Sorry about that,” she said composedly. The amulet relic hung around her neck, the jewel glowing bright. “Chance shouldn’t be able to teleport onto our skiff at this speed. Smooth sailing from here on out, I promise.”

Eventually, they’d reached the end of the river and headed into the Channel. The waters at night were a deep, beautiful black, and the sky stretching out above was black too, the stars points of white, the lights along the coast dimming as they got farther from shore. It was cold out on the water, and Rory huddled close to Arthur, who was unusually silent, his cheek against the top of Rory’s head, his arm around Rory almost painfully tight.

“We left all our stuff at Lord Fine’s place,” Rory muttered. “You don’t think those paranormals will find him, do you?”