At the border of the city proper, they hid against the courtyards’ outermost wall to catch their breath. Jessamyn, her skin soaked with sweat, clutched her right leg. In Eliana’s tight fists, her castings buzzed with need. The sky was dark with raptors, the streets teeming. Nearby, two vipers tore at a knot of bodies between them.

Eliana looked back through one of the courtyard gates and saw a sea of cruciata rushing through the maze of hedges toward the palace. Streams of darkness rose swiftly up its walls and towers, slipped inside windows and bashed in doors. Above the palace, fogged in red clouds, shone a smiling crescent moon.

“That ought to hold him for a while,” Remy said grimly. “If he touches any cruciata blood—”

“He won’t,” Eliana said at once. “He’s too clever to get beaten that easily.”

But a palace crawling with monsters would at least distract him for a few more minutes. She hoped.

Hurry, Eliana, came the Prophet’s voice. Stronger now, but tense with effort.

Overhead, at the courtyard’s edge, a brass funnel standing tall on a pole wrapped with wires blared a crescendo of brassy horns. Eliana blew out a sharp breath, then launched herself into a relentless sprint. She heard Jessamyn’s measured breaths behind her, ragged but constant, and Remy’s quick footfalls. Bodies and feasting cruciata clogged the city’s larger roads. The stink was hot and rotten, the bite of blood sour on Eliana’s tongue.

She turned into an alleyway. People huddled in the shadows, covering their ears, keening over the dead. They cried out as she passed, every head soaked with blood. The alleyway narrowed at the end, and Eliana had to turn sideways to escape it. Emerging from it, she looked down a slope washed red with Ostia’s angry light. Low walls and a network of squat white steps separated manicured gardens and wading pools capped with fountains. She raced toward them, jumped over a wall to the path below, landed hard, pushed herself up, ran on. Remy and Jessamyn dropped behind her a few seconds later.

Overhead, a fluttering ribbon of dark color. Eliana looked up. A scarlet-winged raptor had found them, swooping down from the sky with its black beak open wide.

Eliana stared it down, her castings sparking in her fists, her power roaring for release—and at last she let it rise. She reached for the empirium, seized the beast with fingers of gold, and slammed it furiously to the ground. More raptors dove, and she knocked each one out of the sky, her fists flying. Soon, the sky was empty, and Eliana stood panting in a heap of their steaming, ruined bodies.

“Shit,” Jessamyn muttered quietly just behind her.

The plaza, now, and hurry, said the Prophet, tense with desperation. They’re coming for you. You just showed them the way.

She looked around wildly. Who’s coming?

Angels.

But not him?

He is rather occupied at the moment. The cruciata have flooded the palace, and he cannot control them. Their minds are too strange, too strong. But his soldiers here in the city are eager to impress.

“This way,” Eliana said over her shoulder, then raced down the road with Jessamyn and Remy close on her heels. She descended a flight of stairs, then sped across a stone bridge arching over a road that buzzed with cruciata. The creatures burst through doors and windows, flung people screaming into the streets.

Eliana glanced ahead and saw the five angelic statues surrounding their destination. She remembered the pentagonal plaza and the arcades of white pillars that bordered it. The twin black doors, and what had burst out of them at Corien’s command.

Jessamyn’s blade whizzed past her ear. A skinny raptor with slick black wings dropped from the sky. Eliana dodged it, then raced down a spiraling staircase of white stone and tumbled out into the plaza. She stopped, gulping down air. Remy crashed to a halt beside her, Jessamyn right after him.

“This is madness,” Jessamyn hissed. She found an abandoned sword wedged beneath a body shredded beyond recognition, tugged it free. She jerked her head up at the red sky. “Are you going to close the damn thing, or aren’t you?”

Eliana looked around the plaza but could see no sign of the Prophet, no escape route, no reinforcements. Instead, she saw angels—ten of them, twenty, fifty—streaming down from the upper roads and racing toward the plaza, resplendent in stained golden armor. Cruciata followed, snapping at their heels. One of the angels threw a spear. It spun silver through the air, then pierced a raptor’s scaled chest and sent blue blood spraying. The nearest angel fell, then another. It was not enough; soon, they would reach the plaza.

But Eliana didn’t dare use her power again with those eyes so near. Corien would feel it, slip into one of their minds, and seize her.

I’m here, she thought, wiping sweat from her eyes. Now what?

Something stirred in her mind. A familiar presence that left her cold as ice.

Pain exploded in her skull, searing and brilliant. The world went white, and she crumpled to her knees. The dim cries of battle spun around her, but she saw only this—an armored angel towering over her, his hand outstretched, slowly turning as if working the handle of a door.

It was not an angel she knew, but through the slit of his helmet, in the depths of his black eyes, Eliana saw Corien’s smile.

There you are, he thought, slipping into the wrecked grooves of her mind. My little runaway. I thought I’d lost you.

Eliana gasped for air, her back arching violently. Her hands scrabbled for purchase on the blood-slicked ground. Every muscle in her body strained against her skin.

Pinned and helpless, she gazed up through a film of tears at the thing that would kill her at last. This angel she had never seen, controlled by another gone mad from centuries of grief.

Then, out from the angel’s throat plunged a strange blade—an iridescent copper, shadows shifting across it. Blightblade, Eliana thought, shaky and reeling. Fountains of blood spurted from the angel’s neck. The blade tore free, and the body twitched, then fell hard. Empty now, nothing more than a corpse.

And over it stood Simon in imperial black, his scarred face streaked with blood and grime. His expression was furious. A dark cloak lined with crimson fell to his knees, and across his torso cut a red sash like a bloody smile.

His bright-blue gaze found Eliana’s, locked on for one blazing instant. Something metallic crashed behind her. She turned, still unsteady on the ground, still woozy, but Simon was faster. He darted in front of her, blightblade in one hand, revolver in the other, and shot three angels as they leapt for her. All three copper bullets struck under their chins, where their helmets left them vulnerable.

There is a door in the far wall, the Prophet instructed. Narrow and plain. White stone. Run to it now. Remy will follow. I must protect him. They are confused, but that will end soon.

It was as if someone had turned the world inside out. Eliana blinked, searching the plaza, while above her Simon fired shot after shot. Out of bullets, he flung his gun aside and drew another from the belt at his waist. I must protect him, the Prophet had said. Because now, Simon was the one drawing their ire. Simon, the Emperor’s favorite.