They’d used the deed to Black Elm during the failed new moon ritual, a contract Darlington had signed with full hope and intent. They didn’t have anything like that this time around, but they did have a note, written by Michelle Alameddine, that they’d found in the desk of the Virgil bedroom at Lethe, just a few lines of a poem and a note:

There was a monastery that produced Armagnac so refined, its monkswere forced to flee to Italy when Louis XIV joked about killing themto protect their secrets. This is the last bottle. Don’t drink it on anempty stomach, and don’t call unless you’re dead. Good luck, Virgil!

It wasn’t much, but they had the bottle of Armagnac too. It was far less grand than Alex had imagined, murkily green, the old label illegible.

“He hasn’t opened it,” Dawes observed as Alex set the bottle on the floor at the center of the knot, her expression disapproving.

“We’re not looking through his underwear drawer. It’s just alcohol.”

“It isn’t meant for us.”

“And we’re not drinking it,” Alex snapped. Because Dawes was right.

They had no business stealing things that had been meant for Darlington, that were precious to him.

We’ll bring him back and he’ll forgive us, she told herself as she drew a small glass from her bag and filled it, the liquid warm and orange as late sun.

He’ll forgive me. For all of it.

“We should really have four people for this,” said Dawes. “One for each compass point.”

They should have four people. They should have found the Gauntlet.

They should have taken the time to put together something other than this patchwork mess of a ritual.

But here they were at the edge of the cliff, and Alex knew Dawes wasn’t looking to be talked off the ledge. She wanted someone to drag her over.

“Come on,” Alex said. “He’s waiting on the other side.”

Dawes drew in a deep breath, her brown eyes too bright. “Okay.” She drew a small bottle full of sesame oil from her pocket and began to anoint the table with it, tracing the rim with her finger as she walked first clockwise, then counterclockwise, chanting in stilted Arabic.

When she caught up to her starting point, she met Alex’s gaze, then drew her finger through the oil, closing the circle.

The table seemed to drop away to nothing. Alex felt like she was looking down into forever. She looked up and saw a circle of darkness above where there had been a glass skylight a moment before. The night was thick with stars, but it was the middle of the day. She had to shut her eyes as a wave of vertigo washed over her.

“Burn it,” said Dawes. “Call him.”

Alex struck a match and held it to the note, then tossed the flaming paper into the nothingness where the table had been. It seemed to float there, edges

curling, and before it could fall, she threw a handful of iron filings into the blaze. The words began to peel up from the paper and into the air.

Good

luck

you’re

dead

“Stand back,” said Dawes. She raised the trumpet to her lips. The sound that emerged should have been thin and tinny. Instead, a rich bellow echoed off the walls, the triumphant blast of a horn calling riders to the hunt.

In the distance Alex heard the soft patter of paws.

“It’s working!” Dawes whispered.

They leaned over the space where the table had been and Dawes blew the trumpet again, it echoed back to them from somewhere in the distance.

Come home, Darlington. Alex picked up the glass of Armagnac and tipped it into that star-filled abyss. Come back and drink from this fancy bottle, raise a toast. She could still hear that old song playing in her head.

Come on along. Come on along. Let me take you by the hand.

The patter grew, but it didn’t sound like the soft thud of paws. It was too loud and growing louder.

Alex looked around the room for a clue to what was happening.

“Something’s wrong.”

The sound rose from somewhere in the darkness. From somewhere below.

It shook the stone floor in a swelling rumble Alex could feel through her boots. She peered down into nothing and smelled sulfur.

“Dawes, close it up.”

“But—”

“Close the portal!”

She saw flecks of red in the dark now, and a moment later, she understood—they were eyes.

“Dawes!”

Too late. Alex stumbled back against the wall as a herd of stampeding horses thundered out of the table, bursting into the room in a seething mass of black horseflesh. They were the color of coal, their eyes red and glowing.

Each beat of their hooves against the floor exploded into flame. They crashed through the temple room door, scattering salt and stones, and roared down the hall. The herd of hellhorses blew through the lines of salt one by one.

“They’re not going to stop!” Dawes cried.

They were going to smash through the front door and onto the street.

But when the stampede struck the line of salt they’d mixed with their blood, it was like a wave crashing against the rocks. The herd spilled left and right, a messy roiling tide. One of the horses fell on its side, its high whinny like a human scream. It righted itself and then the stampede was clamoring back toward the temple room.

“Dawes!” Alex shouted. She knew plenty of death words. She had silver chains, a rope full of elaborate knots, a damned Rubik’s Cube because demons liked puzzles. But she had no idea how to deal with a herd of horses snorting sulfur that had been summoned from the depths of hell.

“Get out of the way!” Dawes yelled.

Alex pressed herself against the wall. Dawes stood on the far side of the table, her red hair streaming around her face, shouting words Alex didn’t understand. She raised the trumpet to her lips, and the sound was like a thousand horns, an orchestra of command.

They’re going to crush her, Alex thought. She’ll break into nothing,dissolve into ash.