Nim screamed, and Travis felt his heart lurch in his chest.

“Meleq!” he shouted.

The rune was weak—weaker than he would have expected even here on Earth—but it was enough to lift a chunk of wood from the floor and fling it at the sorcerer. The blow was far too feeble to cause damage, but on instinct the sorcerer moved his hand to bat the chunk of wood aside. Travis felt his heart resume its rapid cadence.

“Sinfath!”

A sick feeling came over him, just as when he had tried to bind the broken plate and failed. The sorcerer stepped through the door. Travis swallowed the bile in his throat.

“Sinfath!” he shouted again.

This time it worked, though again the rune was pitifully weak. All the same, a foggy patch of gloom precipitated out of thin air around the sorcerer. It would obscure his vision, but only for a moment.

“Come on,” he croaked, grabbing Deirdre’s hand and hauling her to her feet. Clutching Nim to his chest, Travis ran toward the hallway, Deirdre stumbling on his heels.

They were only halfway across the living room when the windows shattered, knives of glass slicing the curtains to shreds. Black gloves parted the tatters of cloth, and a second figure hopped down from the windowsill, robe fluttering like shadowy wings as it alighted on the floor.

Travis stopped short, and Deirdre crashed into him. He shot a glance over his shoulder in time to see the last effects of his runespell dissipate. The first sorcerer stalked toward them, while the second positioned himself in front of the entrance to the hallway, blocking their egress.

“What do we do?” Deirdre hissed, grabbing his arm.

“Nothing,” he said.

Behind the second sorcerer, the air in the hallway rippled, like the surface of a pool disturbed by a falling stone. Travis’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral grin, and the Scirathi tilted his gold mask to one side in what seemed a quizzical expression.

“You forgot something,” Travis said.

The dim air of the hallway condensed in on itself, solidifying into a thing of sleek fury. The Scirathi started to turn, but he was too slow. A fist lashed out, striking him in the face. There was a bright flash of gold, and the sorcerer screamed. He groped with trembling fingers, touching the scarred ruin of what had once been his face. His gold mask clattered to the floor across the room.

For eons, the Scirathi had poured all their will and energy into the forging of the golden masks. The masks channeled their magic, focused it, granting a sorcerer abilities that otherwise would lay beyond his skill. Yet there was a price. Over time, the Scirathi had become dependent on the masks, and so without the devices they were powerless.

The sorcerer started to stumble toward the mask, but Vani landed soundlessly next to him. She laid her hands on either side of his head and made a motion so gentle it seemed a caress. There was a popping sound, and the sorcerer slumped to the floor.

Beltan jumped over the corpse, sword before him.

“Travis,” he growled. “Duck.”

Travis knew not to question. He grabbed Deirdre, pulling her to the floor along with Nim, and rolled to one side. He looked up in time to see the remaining sorcerer reach a hand toward Beltan’s chest to cast a death spell. However, the blond man’s sword was already moving. The Scirathi’s hand flew off, hitting the floor with a thud. A hiss escaped the mouth slit of the sorcerer’s mask, and he clutched the stump of his wrist to his chest. Beltan pulled his sword back, preparing a killing blow.

“No, Beltan,” Travis said, the words sharp. “Wait.”

Beltan gave him a puzzled look, but he did as Travis asked. Travis set Nim on the floor next to Deirdre and stood. The sorcerer let out another venomous hiss, reaching toward Travis’s chest. Only his hand was gone. Blood rained from the stump.

The red fluid vanished before it touched the floor.

Travis could hear it now: a buzzing noise, growing louder. The sorcerer jerked his gold face upward. Yes, he heard, too.

“You called them to you with your spell,” Travis said softly. “Now they’re coming.”

The sorcerer frantically clutched the wounded stump of his wrist, trying to staunch the flow of blood with his robe.

It was no use. They howled in through the window like a swarm of angry insects. Travis knew they would be invisible to the eyes of the others, but he could see them as tiny motes whirling on the air: sparks of blackness rather than light. Travis knelt and shielded Nim’s eyes with a hand.

A part of him watched with disinterested fascination. He had always wondered if the morndariexisted on this world. But of course they had to; otherwise the magic of the sorcerers would not work here. The spirits had passed through the crack Travis had opened between the worlds in 1883, just like the power of rune magic.

Only just like rune magic, the morndariwere far weaker here on Earth. They should have consumed the sorcerer’s blood swiftly, granting him a quick, if not painless, end.

Instead it was slow. Horribly slow. He waved his remaining hand in frantic motions, as if he could beat them away, though that was impossible, for they had no substance, no form. They swarmed around the stump of his hand like bees around a flower dripping nectar, consuming the blood that poured from it. Then, hungry for more, they passed through the wound into his veins. He fell to the floor, back arching, crimson froth bubbling through the mouth slit of his mask.

At last the sorcerer went still. His body was an empty husk; there was no more blood to drink. The morndaribuzzed away and were gone. They had been sated, for now at least.

Deirdre wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What the hell just happened?”

“A sorcerer must control the flow of his blood,” Vani said. “He did not, and so the morndarihe summoned turned on him.” She moved forward and picked up Nim. “Are you well, daughter?”

The girl gave a somber nod. “My father Travis is a powerful sorcerer.”

Travis felt Vani’s gold eyes on him.

“Yes,” the T’golsaid. “He is.”

“What was in the bedroom?” Deirdre said, looking as if she was trying hard not to vomit.

“A stone through the window,” Beltan said. “It was a distraction, meant to separate us. It nearly worked. I should have known the Scirathi would try a trick like that. They’re sly dogs.” He looked at Vani. “I wonder how they knew you and Nim were here.”

Travis crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to think of the way his own blood surged through his veins. “I have a better question: How are the sorcerers here on Earth at all? Sareth has the one gate artifact, and the other was lost when the Etherion collapsed.”

“Perhaps it was found,” Vani said.

Beltan pulled the robes of the sorcerers over their faces. “And maybe they still had some of the fairy’s blood. I mean Sindar’s blood. He gave himself up to the Scirathi so he could get to Earth and find you, Travis, to give you the Stone of Twilight. The sorcerers might have preserved some of his blood.”

Travis couldn’t help a grim smile. As usual Beltan saw the simple solution the rest of them had overlooked. “That explains how the Scirathi got here, but how did they know you were here, Vani?”

“I would give much to know the answer to that,” the T’golsaid. “I cannot believe they followed me.”

Nor could Travis. The T’golcould make herself virtually invisible when she wanted. No one could have followed her, not even a sorcerer. All the same, somehow they had known she and Nim were there.

Beltan picked up the gold mask, which had fallen to the floor. “Vani, do the Scirathi usually attack in twos?”

The T’golshook her head. “There will be more. We must go.”

“Go where?” the blond knight said.

“The Seeker Charterhouse,” Deirdre said, gripping Travis’s arm. “There’s no place in the city with tighter security. Not even Buckingham Palace.”