The Magicians - Lev Grossman [168]
Quentin took a quick inventory of his brave company. Eliot had made himself useful by casting a kinetic spell on the second satyr, pinning it safely to the ceiling. Anaïs had her short sword out—it had a moonlight shimmer to it now, which meant she’d put a sharpness charm on it—and was looking eagerly around for somebody to stick it into. Janet was hugging herself against the back wall, her face wet and shining with tears. Her eyes were blank. She was gone.
Too many things were happening at once. Quentin’s stomach clenched when he realized an elf had singled Alice out and was advancing across the dry basin toward her, twirling a long straight knife—were they called poniards?—in each hand. It was obvious from Alice’s face that every spell she’d ever learned had just now slipped her mind. She turned away, dropped to one knee, and locked her hands behind her head. Nobody in the history of all the conflicts in the world had ever looked more defenseless.
He only had time to feel all the tenderness he had ever felt for her surge up in one infinitely concentrated instant—and to be surprised that it was all still there, moist and intact beneath the unsightly scorched layer of his anger—before the back of Alice’s blouse tore wide open and a small leathery biped clawed its way vigorously out of the skin of her back. It was a party trick, a showgirl bursting out of a cake. Alice had loosed her cacodemon.
No question, the cacodemon was instantly the happiest being in the room. This was exactly the party it wanted to be at. Facing the elf, it bounced on its toes like a wiry little tennis pro preparing for return of service, with triple match point on its side. Its leap was evidently several beats faster than its opponent had counted on. In a moment it was past the poniards and had fastened its wiry grip on the elf’s upper arms and buried its horrible face in the soft hollow of the elf’s throat. The elf gagged and sawed futilely at the demon’s shark-skinned back with its knives. Quentin reminded himself for at least the hundredth time never to underestimate Alice again.
And just like that it was over. They were out of opponents. The elves and the bees were down. The room was full of acid smoke from the burned satyr. Fen owned most of the body count; she was already running through a post-combat warm-down ritual, stepping backward through the forms she’d executed in the brief battle and whispering their names to herself. Penny was carefully casting a sleep spell on the satyr that Eliot had stuck to the ceiling, while Anaïs watched, impatient to administer the coup de grace. Quentin noted, with the pettiest possible annoyance, that they had the satyr without the buckler, which meant that Dint had burned the satyr with the buckler, which meant that he couldn’t loot the buckler for himself. He had a crusty dried mustache from his bloody nose.
That wasn’t so bad, he told himself. This wasn’t such a nightmare. He risked a shuddering sigh of relief. Was that really it? Had they gotten everything?
Janet had finally thawed from her frozen state and was busy with something. Unlike everything else they’d seen, the fleshy, headless four-legged creature was neither humanoid nor obviously related to any terrestrial fauna. It was radially symmetrical, like a starfish, with no obvious front or back or face. It stood unreadable in a dark corner, taking sudden scary little hops in unexpected directions. It had a large faceted gem embedded in its back. Decoration? Or was that its eye? Its brain?
“Hey.” Fen snapped her fingers in Janet’s direction. “Hey!” Evidently she’d forgotten Janet’s name. “Leave that. Leave the grimling to us.”
Janet ignored her. She continued to take wary steps toward it. Quentin wished she wouldn’t. She was in no kind of emotional state to be working magic.
“Janet!” he shouted.
“Shit,” Dint said distinctly.
It was a