She grabbed Dorian. “We have to close it. The portal should close on its own eventually, but—but the longer it’s open, the greater the threat of more coming through before it does.”

“How?”

“I—I don’t know, I …” Her head spun so badly her knees wobbled. But she turned to Archer, who stood across the hall, separated from them by the pacing creature. “Give me the book.”

Chaol wounded the demon across its abdomen with a sure, deft stroke, but it didn’t slow down. Even from a few feet away, the tang of the dark blood reached her nose.

Celaena watched Archer take it all in, his eyes wide, panicked beyond reason. And then he sprinted down the hall, taking with him the book—and any hope of shutting the portal.

Dorian couldn’t move fast enough to stop the handsome man from fleeing with the book in his hands, and didn’t dare, with that demon between them. Celaena, her forehead bleeding, made a lunge for him, but the man was too fast. Her eyes kept darting to Chaol, who was keeping the thing distracted. Dorian knew without being told that she didn’t want to leave the captain.

“I’ll go—” Dorian began.

“No. He’s dangerous, and these tunnels are a labyrinth,” she panted. Chaol and the creature circled each other, the thing slowly backing toward the portal entrance. “I can’t close it without that book,” she moaned. “There are more books upstairs, but I—”

“Then we flee,” Dorian breathed, grabbing her by the elbow. “We flee and try to get to those books.”

He dragged her with him, not daring to take his eyes off Chaol or the creature. She swayed in his grasp. The wound to her head must be as bad as it looked. Something was glowing at her throat: the amulet she’d told him was just a “cheap replica,” shining like a tiny blue star.

“Go,” Chaol told them, staring down the thing in front of him. “Now.”

She stumbled, tugging toward Chaol, but Dorian pulled her back.

“No,” she got out, but the wound to her head made her sag in Dorian’s grip. As if realizing that she’d be a hindrance to Chaol, she stopped fighting Dorian as he hauled her toward the stairs.

Chaol knew he couldn’t win this fight. His best option was to flee with them, to guard the way until they could get to that stone door far, far above and lock the creature down here. But he wasn’t sure he’d even make it to the stairs. The creature thwarted his attacks so easily it seemed to have an uncanny intelligence.

At least Celaena and Dorian had reached the stairs. He could accept his end if it meant they could escape. He could embrace the darkness when it came.

The creature paused just long enough for Chaol to gain a few more feet of distance. He backed toward the bottom step.

But then she started shouting—the same word again and again as Dorian tried to keep dragging her up the stairs.

Fleetfoot.

Chaol looked. In a dark shadow by the wall, Fleetfoot had been left behind, her leg too injured to run.

The creature looked, too.

And there was nothing he could do, absolutely nothing, as the creature whirled, grabbed Fleetfoot by her injured hind leg, and dragged her through the portal with it.

There was nothing he could do, he realized, except run.

Celaena’s scream was still echoing through the passageway as Chaol leapt off the stairs and hurtled through the misty portal after Fleetfoot.

If she had thought she’d known fear and pain before, it was nothing compared to what went through her when Chaol ran through the portal after Fleetfoot.

Dorian didn’t see her coming as she whirled, slamming his head into the stone wall hard enough that he crumpled to the steps, freeing her from his grip.

But she didn’t care about Dorian, didn’t care about anything except Fleetfoot and Chaol as she sprinted down those few stairs and across the hall. She had to get them out, get them back before the portal shut forever.

She was through in a heartbeat.

And when she saw Chaol shielding Fleetfoot with nothing but his bare hands, his discarded sword snapped in two by the demon who hovered over them, she didn’t think twice before she unleashed the monster inside herself.

From the corner of his eye, Chaol saw her coming, the ancient sword in her hands and her face set with feral rage.

The moment she burst through the portal, something changed. It was like a fog vanished from her face, her features sharpening, her steps becoming longer and more graceful. And then her ears—her ears shifted into delicate points.

The creature, sensing it was about to lose its prey, made a final lunge for Chaol.

It was blasted away by a wall of blue flame.

The fire vanished to reveal the creature slamming into the ground, flipping again and again. It was on its feet before it finished rolling, whirling toward Celaena in the same move.

She was between them now, sword raised. She roared, revealing elongated canines, and the sound was unlike anything he’d ever heard. There was nothing human in it.

Because she wasn’t human, Chaol realized, gaping up at her from where he still crouched over Fleetfoot.

No—she wasn’t human at all.

Celaena was Fae.

Chapter 50

She knew the shift had happened, because it hurt like hell. A flash of blinding pain as her features ripped free of the hold that hid them. The demon lunged, and she plummeted into the well of power that was suddenly overflowing inside of her.

Magic, savage and unforgiving, erupted out of her, punching into the creature and sending it flying. Flame—years ago, her power had always manifested as some form of fire.

She could smell everything, see everything. Her heightened senses pulled her attention every which way, telling her that this world was wrong, and she needed to get out now.

But she wouldn’t get out, not until Chaol and Fleetfoot made it to safety.

The creature stopped rolling, on its feet in an instant, and Celaena put herself between it and Chaol. The demon sniffed at her, sinking onto its haunches.

She lifted Damaris and bellowed her challenge.

From far off in the mist, roars answered. One of them came from the thing in front of her.

She looked at Chaol, still crouched over Fleetfoot, and bared her teeth, canines glistening in the gray light.

Chaol was staring up at her. She could smell his terror and his awe. Smell his blood, so human and ordinary. The magic welled up more and more and more, uncontrollable and ancient and burning.

“Run,” she snarled, more a plea than a command, because the magic was a living thing, and it wanted out, and she was just as likely to hurt him as she was to hurt the creature. Because that portal might close at any moment and seal them here forever.

She didn’t wait to see what Chaol did. The creature rushed for her, a blur of withered white flesh. She ran toward it, flinging her immortal power like a phantom punch. It shot out in a blue burst of wildfire, but the creature dodged it, and the next blow and the next.

Celaena swung Damaris, and the creature ducked before jumping back a few paces. The roars in the distance were getting closer.

Crunching rock sounded behind her, and she knew Chaol was making for the portal.

The demon began pacing. Then the crunching stopped. That meant Chaol was in the passageway again; he must have carried Fleetfoot with him. He was safe. Safe.

This thing was too smart, too fast—and too strong, despite its gangly limbs.

And if others were coming—if more got through the portal before it closed …

Her magic was building again, the spring deeper now. Celaena gauged the distance between them as she backed toward the portal.

She had little control over the power, but she did have a sword—a sacred sword made by the Fae, capable of withstanding magic. A conduit.

Not giving herself time to think it through, she threw all her raw power into the golden sword. Its blade glowed red-hot, its edges crackling with lightning.

The creature tensed, as if sensing what she was about to do as she lifted the sword over her head. With a battle cry that shattered through the mists, Celaena plunged Damaris into the earth.

The ground cracked toward the demon, a burning web of lines and fissures.

And then the ground between them began to collapse, foot by foot, until the creature was sprinting away. Soon there was just a small lip of land surrounding Celaena, backed by the open portal, and an evergrowing chasm before her.

She wrenched Damaris from the broken earth. She knew she had to get out—now. But before she could move, before she could get to the portal, the magic rippled, so violently that she sagged to her knees. Pain flashed, and she shifted back into her clumsy, frail mortal body.

And then there were strong hands under her shoulders, hands she knew so well, dragging her back through the portal and into Erilea, where her magic was snuffed out like a candle.

Dorian came to just in time to see Chaol hauling Celaena back through the portal. She was conscious, but was a dead weight in the captain’s arms as he dragged her across the ground. Once they were over the border, he dropped her as though she were made of flame, and Celaena lay panting on the stones.

What had happened? There had been a land of rock beyond the portal, and now … now there was nothing but a small ledge and a massive crater. The pale creature was gone.

Celaena pushed herself up onto her elbows, her limbs wobbling. Dorian’s head ached, but he managed to walk to them. He’d been dragging her one moment, and then—then she’d knocked him out. Why?

“Close it,” Chaol was saying to her, his face so white that the blood splattered on it stood out even more starkly. “Close it.”

“I can’t,” Celaena breathed. Dorian gripped the wall to keep himself from falling to his knees from the ache in his head. He made it to where they were positioned in front of the portal, Fleetfoot nuzzling Celaena.

“They’re going to keep coming through,” Chaol panted. Something was wrong, Dorian realized—something was wrong between them. Chaol wasn’t touching her, wasn’t helping her up.

Beyond the crater inside the portal, the roaring was growing louder. No doubt those things would find some way to get through.

“I’m drained; I don’t have anything left to close this gate …” Celaena winced, then lifted her eyes to Dorian’s. “But you do.”

From the corner of her eye, Celaena saw Chaol whirl to face Dorian. She staggered to her feet. Fleetfoot had again put herself between Celaena and the portal, snarling softly. “Help me,” she whispered to the prince, some semblance of energy returning.

Dorian didn’t look at Chaol. He stepped forward. “What must I do?”

“I need your blood. The rest I can do. At least, I hope I can.” Chaol started to object, and Celaena gave him a faint, bitter smile. “Don’t worry. Only a cut on the arm.”

Sheathing his sword, Dorian rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and drew a dagger. Blood welled from the cut, quick and bright.

Chaol growled, “How did you learn to open a portal?”

“I found a book,” she said. It was the truth. “I wanted to speak to Nehemia.”

Silence fell—pitying, horrifying silence.

But then she added, “I—I think I accidentally changed a symbol.” She pointed to the Wyrdmark she’d smeared, the one that had rearranged itself. “It went to the wrong place. But this might close the door—if we’re lucky.”

What she didn’t tell them was that there was a good chance it wouldn’t work. But because there were no other books in her rooms, and because Archer had taken The Walking Dead with him, all she had left was that sealing spell she’d used on the door in the library. And there was no way—no way in hell—she was going to abandon this open portal, or leave one of them to guard it. The portal would eventually close on its own, but she didn’t know when. More of those things could creep through at any time. So she’d try this, because it was her only option. She’d figure out something else if it didn’t work.