Chapter 9

At night, during the nights, they’d had a different project. They hadn’t even paused to debate it. They’d both seen Holiday’s face.

John had been the one who’d found him, after three days of painstaking triangulation, tracking of mystic amulet signatures, and combat-honed estimation of how far he’d make it. Holiday had in fact landed in an old derelict sheep-farmer’s cottage out in the countryside, someplace that’d been emptied out for a good century at Ryan’s best guess. His parents’ amulets and rings had all landed with him, following the heir to the family power; with this mystical help, he was still alive, but only barely. He hadn’t eaten or bathed or possibly even moved for seventy-two hours. Feverish and kitten-weak, he remained the most breathtaking person Ryan had ever seen, that black hair falling like a sword-slash across his face.

Holly had whispered, Did he make it?

Ryan and John had traded glances. John had asked whether this meant Holiday’s father.