“To a Chosen One? No, Dom. I want to know who she’s with, what she’s doing, who Syarthis and I can question.” She sniffed the armpits of her thermal, scrunched her nose, and yanked it on anyway. “What? Don’t look at me like that. I know you’re suspicious, too.”
He was, but he didn’t want to admit it.
Nevertheless, Domenic scanned the floor for his discarded socks. “And you, you’re all right?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because when you were asleep, you looked…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish.
Hanna scoffed. “No. We’re not doing this. You want to worry about something, worry about your own…”
They stared at each other, both haunted, both wretched.
Three minutes later, they jogged through Nordmere’s nighttime streets. The near emptiness of the city that had unnerved Domenic during the day was nothing compared to the desolation of its darkness. Everywhere, buildings lay abandoned to rot.
“How much farther?” Hanna huffed.
Domenic, too, already felt run ragged, a stitch in his side, the frigid air brittle and sharp. The wire-thin thread of his tracking spell pulled tauter with every step.
“We’re close.”
They at last stopped along a street with more life than most. Light shined a murky halo around a nearby door, labeled Altitude Sickness. Music clashed from inside.
“The fuck?” Hanna asked, her hands braced on her knees as she panted.
“I think…” Domenic gasped. “It’s called… a bar. It’s where… normal people go… to have fun.”
She shot him a withering look, then she threw open the door. But she only made it three steps inside before Domenic collided with her back.
Perhaps the streets of Nordmere were so dead because every person washere,bodies crammed together like matchsticks. The floorboards were a hazard, spiked with protruding nails and spongy with water damage. Drinks were served in every type of vessel, from pint glasses to mugs, jars, and even a vase. For a room so cold, it smelled remarkably like sweat.
And everywhere, inexplicably, was magic.
They were all flimsy spells, half-faded and fraying at the seams and glowing the harsh, artificial white of being cast by training wands. Enchanted graffiti glittered on the walls. Coats and scarves floated where their owners had last left them.
“These people are… magicians,” Domenic said.
“Yeah, and they’re all staring at us.”
“I know you don’t get out much, but believe it or not, I’m actually quite the celebrity.”
Hanna waved dismissively. “No one will recognize you without all the makeup and gel.” But she mustn’t have been truly sure about it, as she squinted up the length of him and muttered, “Just… put away Valmordion. It’s not like this place is big. We’ll find her eventually. And I don’t want any suspects escaping out the back door.”
Domenic managed a snort, even as he grappled for a reason why Ellery would be here, of all places.
Then the back door in question slammed, and a cool draft grazed his neck.
He spun, and Ellery halted in surprise as her eyes locked onto his from across the bar. Her hair was frizzed and wild, and tears shimmered frozen on her cheeks.
He rushed toward her. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”
Before she could answer, someone called out from behind her. “Hey! You can’t just—”
“Let her go,” said another voice. “It’s not worth it, Kester.”
As the two newcomers and Hanna shoved their way toward them, Domenic realized he recognized the speaker. And he felta clench of horror as he examined his scars, remembering the shape of him doused in flames, the sound of his scream.
Domenic schooled his face into neutrality. He refused to betray pity.
