Page 108 of Junk Magic

And they found a lot, judging by the howls echoing in the strange acoustics, loud and pitiful one second, and softened to whispers the next.

It was haunting.

“Come on,” Caleb said roughly. “We can’t do anything here.”

I followed him through ankle deep viscera, hoping that things would improve after we left the area. But if anything, it got worse. Because less carnage makes you pay more attention to what is there.

Like a piece of steel, possibly from my truck since it had the same rusted green paint job, that was imbedded in a wall just down the corridor. It resembled a knife that had been stabbed into the stone by a giant’s hand. But it had probably been hurled by Were instead, as it was holding up an almost bisected mage.

He had died with a look of profound surprise on his face, as if he hadn’t realized just how strong his opponents were until it was too late. His guts were dripping down the wall, making a puddle underneath him. And nearby, a Were, possibly the one who had killed him, was splayed on the floor, a spell stuttering and flaming inside his body, lighting him up like a hairy lantern as it ate its way through to the stone.

I looked away, only to encounter several more Weres silhouetted against the sails overhead, the moonlight just enough to limn them with light. I couldn’t see their expressions, for which I was truly grateful. Because everybody I passed felt like a personal failure, like their deaths could have been prevented if I’d been smarter, faster, or made better decisions.

There was no time for recriminations in battle, which was why the aftermath was always harder. Even if you won—and I wasn’t yet sure that we had—there were always mistakes. And they were often written in blood.

After a few more bends, we came across a lone patch of my initial levitation spell, which had broken off from the rest and somehow survived. It was moving, caught in some current I couldn’t feel twenty feet off of the ground, where it had trapped a collection of body parts. And was now whirling them about like a macabre carousel.

Around and around they went, lit up by the light from spluttering battle spells, plenty of which were eating into the rock and chasing each other across the floor. They mingled with the smoking residue of potion bombs, broken furniture and household items, and still-active hexes fritzing over already dead bodies. But the light they threw off was dim, and left large sections of the corridor shrouded in darkness.

Which was why I didn’t see what was in front of me until I ran into it.

I staggered back with a curse, found my footing, and looked up—and discovered something looking back at me. But not something human. Not anymore.

It looked like a column of solidified lava, or a stalagmite that had grown up in the middle of the path for some reason. But it had the vague appearance of a man, including a man’s eyes staring out at me from folds of rock. And then they blinked, still alive, still aware—

And I almost threw up.

Caleb came up beside me, breathing hard, although whether that was due to his wounds or to what we were looking at, I had no idea. And I didn’t turn around to ask, because I couldn’t seem to look away. The mage that the disruptor had turned into whatever the hell this was looked mutely back, unable to speak anymore, but he didn’t need to.

We both knew what he wanted.

“Not a chance,” Caleb wheezed, catching my hand as I started to lift it.

“Can’t leave him.” I did look back then and met liquid dark eyes. “Can you?”

“If I had a spell left in me? No. But I don’t—and neither do you. I saw your face when you threw that last one.”

“Doesn’t matter—”

“It does. We’ll send someone back.”

“Yeah, only they can’t get in.”

And the Weres wouldn’t allow them to interfere, even if they could. Most clans took trophies from their enemies to display in their chieftain’s hall, both as a point of pride and as a warning to others. And whatever part of the mage had ended up smeared onto the wall wouldn’t be enough to satisfy them, not after this.

I glanced at it, but it was already shriveled and brown, like dead moss. It hadn’t been able to get a foothold in the stone—thank God. But the rest . . .

I turned my gaze back to the living statue in front of me. That would make a hell of a trophy, for however long he lasted. Trapped in stone, already buried but not yet dead, and internally screaming because his mouth no longer existed . . .

Which was why I couldn’t leave him here. I killed in battle; that was part of the job. But this . . .

I couldn’t do this.

I looked around, and halfway up the wall, found what I was searching for.

“Too high,” Caleb said, eyeing the half exhausted yellow curse eating its way into the rock.

I picked up a stone and tried knocking it loose, but it was too far in. And no way could I climb that high. Not with my hands threatening to shake just standing here.

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