The chaos elemental shrank back, darkness puddling around it, as though no longer so eager to fight.

“Go on, you coward,” screamed Drew, kicking at it. “Grab him! Do it, you big stupid lump —”

The chaos elemental sprang — but not at Call. Twisting around, it lunged at Drew. Drew screamed once, and then the elemental was on him, rolling over him like a wave. Call stood frozen, Miri in his hand. He thought of the icy pain that had shot through him at just a touch of the chaos creature’s substance. And now that substance was sinking down over Drew, who was jerking and twisting in its grip, his eyes rolling back to the whites.

“Call!” The voice yanked Call out of his shock — it was Tamara, yelling down to him from the rafters. She was on her knees, and Aaron was beside her. The manacle and chains were a twisted pile: Aaron was free, though his wrists were braceleted with blood where he had clearly been tied up, probably when they had dragged him from the Magisterium, and Call bet his ankles were in even worse shape. “Call, get out of there!”

“I can’t!” Call pointed with Miri. The chaos elemental, and Drew, were between him and the door.

“Go that way,” Tamara said, pointing to the doors behind him. “Look for anything — a window, anything. We’ll meet you outside.”

Call nodded once, lifting Havoc. Please, he thought. Please. The body in his arms was warm, and as he pressed the wolf against his chest, he could feel the steady beat of Havoc’s heart. The extra weight hurt his legs, but he didn’t care.

He’s going to be okay, he told himself firmly. Now move.

Looking back, he saw that Tamara and Aaron were shinnying down from the rafters, close to the other door. But as he looked up, the chaos elemental rose from where it was hunched over Drew. Several mouths opened and a whiplike purple tongue lashed out to taste the air with its forked tip. Then it started to move toward Call.

Call yelled and jumped back. Havoc jerked in his arms, barked, and leaped to the ground. He ran toward the doors at the far end of the room, Call right behind him. They crashed through the doors together, nearly knocking them off their hinges.

Havoc came to a skidding stop. Call nearly fell over him, and barely righted himself.

He stared around the room — it looked a lot like the laboratory of Dr. Frankenstein. Beakers of odd-colored liquids bubbled all around, massive machinery hung from the ceiling, wheeling and turning, and the walls were lined with cages full of elementals of various sizes, quite a few of them glowing brightly.

Then Call heard it behind him — a thick, bubbling growl. The chaos elemental had followed them into the room and was sailing after them, a massive, dark cloud covered in claws and teeth. Call jerked into an uneven run again, sending beakers of liquid crashing to the floor as he hurtled toward what looked like a display of old weapons on one of the walls. If he went for the elemental with that hefty-looking axe, maybe —

“Stop!” A man in hooded black robes strode from behind a huge bookcase. His face was shrouded in darkness, and he swung a massive staff topped with onyx. Havoc, on seeing him, let out a whimper and dove under one of the nearest tables.

Call froze. The stranger swept past him without a glance and raised his staff. “Enough!” he cried in a deep voice, and pointed the onyx end of the staff toward the elemental.

Darkness exploded from the tip, shooting across the room toward the beast, striking it squarely. The darkness swelled and grew, wrapping the elemental, swallowing it into nothingness. It gave a last horrible, bubbling cry and vanished.

The man turned toward Call and slowly drew back the hood of his robes. His face was half hidden by a silver mask that covered his eyes and nose. Below it, Call could see the jut of a chin, a neck slashed with white scars.

The scars were new, but the mask was familiar. Call had seen it before in pictures. Had heard it described. A mask worn to cover the scars of an explosion that had almost killed the wearer. A mask worn to terrify.

A mask worn by the Enemy of Death.

“Callum Hunt,” said the Enemy. “I was hoping it would be you.”

Whatever Call had expected the Enemy to say, it wasn’t that. He opened his mouth, but only a whisper came out. “You’re Constantine Madden,” he said. “The Enemy of Death.”

The Enemy moved toward him, a swirl of black and silver. “Stand up,” he said. “Let me look at you.”

Slowly, Call pulled himself to his feet and stood facing the Enemy of Death. The room was almost silent. Even Havoc’s whimpers seemed faint and far away.

“Look at you,” said the Enemy. There was an odd sort of pleasure in his voice. “It’s a pity about the leg, of course, but that won’t matter in the end. I suppose Alastair preferred to leave you as you were than dabble in healing magic. He always was stubborn. And now it’s too late. Did you ever think of that, Callum? That perhaps if Alastair Hunt had been a little less stubborn, you might have been able to walk properly?”

Call hadn’t thought of it. But now the thought lodged like a cold piece of ice in his throat, choking off his words. He took a step away, until his back hit one of the long tables full of jars and beakers. He froze.

“But your eyes …” And now the Enemy sounded gloating, though Call couldn’t figure out what about his eyes might be worth gloating over. He felt dizzy with confusion. “They say eyes are the windows of the soul. I asked Drew quite a lot of questions about you, but I never thought to ask about your eyes.” He frowned, the scarred skin tightening beneath the mask. “Drew,” he said. “Where is the boy?” He raised his voice. “Drew!”

There was silence. Call wondered what would happen if he reached behind himself, grabbed one of the beakers or jars, and threw it at the Enemy — could he buy himself time? Could he run?

“Drew!” said the mage again, and now there was something else in his voice — something like alarm. He strode past Call impatiently, stalking through the double doors into the wooden chamber beyond.

There was a long moment of utter silence. Call looked around desperately, trying to see if there were any other doors, any other ways out of this room besides the way he’d come in. There weren’t. There were only bookshelves piled with dusty tomes, tables loaded with alchemical materials, and, high up the walls, small fire elementals set into hammered copper niches lighting the room with their glow. The elementals stared down at Call with their blank black eyes as he heard the noise from the other room — a long, keening cry of grief and despair.

“DREW!”

Havoc wailed. Call picked up one of the glass beakers and staggered to the double doors. Pain was shooting through his leg, up into his body, like razor blades stabbing through his veins. He wanted to fall over; he wanted to lie on the ground and let unconsciousness take him. He grabbed for the arch of the doorway and stared.

The Enemy was on his knees, Drew lying half across his lap, limp and unresponsive. His skin had already begun to turn a cold blue color. He was never going to wake up again.

Call’s heart gave a dull thud of horror. He couldn’t seem to wrench his gaze away from the Enemy hunched over Drew’s body, his staff lying discarded on the floor beside him. His scarred hands raked through Drew’s hair, again and again. “My son,” he whispered. “My poor son.”