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The Hob waved a tiny hand, the rainbow light of the Control Tower streaming through the spaces between his fingers.
A startled laugh slipped through Max’s lips as he waved back.
Loren was facing the tower, palm flattened on a panel of cristala, her whole arm glowing as she poured her aura into the tower.
Max watched in awe as the city was transformed; as shadows were driven away like dawn splitting through the sky, and monsters fled in search of darkness.
Streetlights flared back to life, pools of radiant color that resembled Loren’s aura magic bleeding across sidewalks.
Headlights flashed awake, engines restarting.
Traffic lights turned back on.
Powerlines buzzed with energy.
Multicolored light shone through thousands of windows, and skyscrapers lit up from ground to roof as spell systems came back to life, visible even without the Sight, runes of varying shades running in columns that covered buildings like vivid coats of paint.
It was a miracle. Max could hardly believe his eyes.
“She’s incredible.” These words came from Cyra, who was gazing up at Loren in wonderment.
An explosion shook the ground, jarring Max and the others, nearly causing Blue to fall on her ass. He grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her along, unwilling to slow, even for one second.
The blast had come from the tunnels. From the place where Darien and the others were defending the city.
Max lifted his watch to his mouth and turned the face of it until it clicked. “Darien,” he panted. They had been running for so long that his throat tasted metallic. Holding the watch closer, trying his best to keep his hand steady as he ran, he tried again, “Darien, can you hear me?” Nothing. “Darien.” Silence.
Max swore and pushed himself faster, leg muscles screaming in protest, puddles of partially frozen blood splashing underfoot. He could sense Sabrine watching him from the corner of her eye, but he didn’t look at her. He had no idea what his face might reveal at this time. The emotions it might betray.
A crackle drifted from the speaker on his watch. The kind of crackle that told him someone was preparing to speak.
Please be alive, Max begged. Please be alive.
—
When Darien came to, he couldn’t tell up from down. By the time he cracked open his eyes, shards of glass and debris were still raining down upon his limp form, clacking and clinking on the ground.
The tunnel had succumbed to the raw magic trapped inside the grenade. Fiery particles and flakes of ash floated through the air.
Darien was lying on his stomach several feet from the gate, the bodies of his family and friends surrounding him, the shapes of them obscured by a drop cloth of smoke.
Nobody was moving. Piles of debris made it difficult to see faces, but he spotted the curve of an Angel’s wing near the east wall, and a head of curly hair that looked like Jack’s.
Too still. Everyone was too still.
Darien tried to reach out a hand, but his fingers wouldn’t respond, not even a twitch. His mouth tasted like rust, and his lungs were on fire.
After an eternity, he managed to lift his heavy head off the ground, the simple movement causing his surroundings to lurch and shimmer.
On the cement where his head had been resting was a puddle of red and black liquid. Blood and Venom, he realized. A trickle of blood was running from both ears. Both nostrils. It pooled on his tongue and coated his throat, so much of it, he was nearly choking on it.
When he tried to push himself up onto weak hands that shook, the gloves of his bodysuit cut up and grimy, it felt like his body was no longer his own. The lungs, the heart, the brain, and the eardrums were in excruciating pain, a level of discomfort so great it felt like they had all ruptured, leaving behind a husk that could barely function.
It was only the sight of his battered sister, shoving debris out of her path as she dragged her body to her husband, whose face was bloody and bruised, that had the strength returning to Darien’s arms, just enough to push himself up.
Ivy. He had to get up for Ivy. For the others.
Everything hurt. Every muscle. Every limb. Even his skin hurt. The rips in the bodysuit revealed glimpses of raw, bruised, and filthy flesh. Bolts of pain shot through his skull, making his eyes tear up and threaten to close. He winced, but he refused to bend.
