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I’m not ready to be “finished off” quite yet. Even with Celia waiting for me in the Shadowland.

Celia. The thought of her is like another kick to the gut, but imagining her sweet smile and her warmth — and remembering exactly who took her from me — is enough for some vengeful spells to come to mind.

There’s no choice now but to rely on the magic, which is pretty, well, stressful, considering point-and-click hasn’t exactly been working for me lately.

Celes, I might be seeing you sooner than I thought.

Chapter 14

Whit

I’M NOT MUCH more than a bloody pulp on the ground at this point, but I hurl every ounce of magic I’ve got left in me at these brutes. I’m mumbling through chants and curses and poems, forcing out everything negative I can muster.

And it’s kind of … terrifying.

I feel this dark energy building within me, growing into a power that needs to get out and find a target. I finish with a poem that always seemed particularly gruesome:

No more a flashing eye — no more a sonorous voice or springy step;

Now some slave’s eye, voice, hands, step,

A drunkard’s breath, unwholesome eater’s face, venerealee’s flesh,

Lungs rotting away piecemeal, stomach sour and cankerous,

Joints rheumatic, bowels clogged with abomination …

Before I can finish Wallace Shipton’s words, the New Order thugs double over, spewing their lunches across their shiny black boots, and blood dribbles out of the citizens’ lips, staining their fine clothes.

“The Blood Plague!” I slur through swollen lips. “They’re all contaminated!”

When this registers, the citizens and squaddies, equally panicked, quickly and brutally turn on one another. I limp away from the chaos just as the beatings start, soldiers and businesspeople scrabbling like dogs, all trying to go for the jugular.

I pause for a second on the corner, listening to the cries coming from the alley. Guilt at having created even more violence eats at me; this isn’t the sort of work the Prophecies intended, I’m sure of it. I hesitate and consider going back to heal them all.

Then I think of that pitiful, blackened form strapped to the stake, and my heart hardens with a bitter new understanding of the world we’re living in. Let them destroy one another.

I allow my disguise to fall away as I walk. But somehow I still don’t feel like myself.

Chapter 15

Wisty

THERE’S NO POWER, and outside the soldiers of the New Order occupation continue to brutalize the citizenry. But inside the Needermans’ candlelit basement hovel, the spirit of the Holiday season warms us right down to our souls — and it’s been a very long time since Whit and I felt anything resembling spiritual warmth.

Mama May flashes her biggest smile at all of us and bangs on a bucket to signal that the meal is ready. An excited murmur goes through the room.

“Come on, come on! Everybody gather round,” Mama May booms excitedly. “We’ve got a very special Feast Day celebration tonight. Something we haven’t had in almost a month: meat.”

A cheer erupts from the group, and the starving Neederman family members settle into a circle on the floor, looking up expectantly.

Mama May reveals two poorly plucked pigeons, skinny as sparrows. They look like another family has already picked them over. I stare at Whit pointedly.

“It looks delicious, Mama,” Pearl says with authority, and everyone murmurs in polite agreement.

Mama May kisses the top of Pearl’s head and starts hacking into the birds, and I know I should be grateful and I know I should honor their tradition, but I see the sadness in all of these big, silver eyes and the hunger in these thin, strained faces, and I just …

Can’t. Take it.

I start to say something, but Whit puts a hand on my arm and shakes his head. He’s been weird and moody since he came back from begging. He was limping and bleeding but wouldn’t say why. In fact, he’s barely said a word to anyone all night. I’m about to tell him that he’s seriously cramping