Corin kneels and sets the iron spike. The hammer falls with a clean, heavy ring that vibrates through the yard. He strikes again, harder this time, driving the anchor into stone with strength no mortal should possess.
Sable hears the difference too.
Her gaze flicks to his arms, then to his face. “Corin.”
“I’m fine,” he says without looking up.
“You’re hitting iron into stone like it owes you money.”
“It probably does.”
The hammer falls again, and the spike sinks flush.
I crouch and trace the sigil around it, sealing the iron into the ward structure. Red light threads through the carved line and disappears beneath the stone.
Corin shifts to the next mark. “How many?”
“Twelve.”
He grins. “Good. I was bored.”
Sable mutters something under her breath that includes the words “reckless mule” and “demon infection,” though not in a formal sequence. Her pulse remains elevated, but there is something steadier beneath it now. Purpose, perhaps. Anger directed into work.
We continue until the yard is ringed in anchors.
The night deepens around us, carrying the wet chill of the sea and the distant murmur of voices from neighboring houses pretending not to notice the demon corpse in the road. Sable’s hands are ink-stained and cold when she hands Corin another spike. Corin’s endurance remains high, though I detect a faint tremor beginning in his shoulders after the tenth anchor. He hides it poorly from me and moderately well from her.
When the final sigil seals, the house exhales.
Not literally, but the ward field settles into place with a low, satisfying pressure that presses outward from the foundation. Anything lesser that crosses it will regret existence for the remaining moments it retains form.
Sable rubs her arms against the cold. “Will it hold?”
“Against lesser demons, yes.”
“And against the things you’re not telling me about?”
I look at her.
Her hair has come loose from its tie, and mist pearls along the dark strands near her cheek. Exhaustion bruises the skin beneath her eyes, but her stare remains sharp enough to cut. She knows I am withholding information. Worse, she knows I know she knows.
“It will buy time,” I say.
She gives a humorless laugh. “That means no.”
“It means time is often the difference between survival and failure.”
“That sounded almost comforting until I listened to the actual words.”
Corin drops onto the porch step, breathing harder now. “I vote we accept terrifying demon time as a win for tonight.”
Sable looks at him immediately. “You overdid it.”
“I did not.”
“You’re sweating.”
“I have always been talented at sweating.”
