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body contorts with spasms. To the shock of the crowd, a shadow figure is wrenched from his body, exorcised by an invisible power. His lifeless body drops behind me. A few other guards in sight lower their weapons and back away.

I feel the heat of the fire at my feet. A few more seconds now. “Before we move on, is there anybody else here who would like to be separated from his or her body?”

Slowly rising to her feet, Tabitha scans the crowd eagerly. “Charlotte?” she calls out. “Is that you?”

Hillerman stands right behind Tabitha. She removes the fawn mask, which, in this thick silence, makes enough noise that Tabitha turns around. They face each other, eyes locked, for what seems like an eternity. I can’t imagine the satisfaction Charlotte must feel to finally have caught up to her past after all these years. To have another shot at the evil that took her husband away.

I only wish I could give her more time. There’s a fizzing sound from my clutch bag, which tells me I’ve got exactly half a second. “Now!” I shout, just before—KABOOM!—the can explodes. Like a balloon being popped, all tension in the room flies apart. In a blind panic, the crowd erupts with pandemonium, rushing in all directions at once. People are trampled; chairs and tables flip over; curtains are pulled down, catching fire from torches.

A demon tries to grab me. I swipe poker chips at his face, and when he flinches, I kick him in the chest, sending him flying back into a stampeding group of sorcerers. I beat a path in the opposite direction, battling my way to the curtain hiding the roof access. I don’t have time to check on Russo and Hillerman. I have to trust that they’re following my lead.

I fly up the steps to the roof, relieved to hear voices behind me—Russo grunting, Hillerman screaming in protest. I open the door, surprised to see a demon come out first. Quickly, I slam the door on his face. He topples backward, falling past Russo, who’s got his arms full wrangling Hillerman. She’s like a raging cat, kicking and scratching to get away from him.

“We’re not leaving! We’re not letting her go!” she shrieks. Seeing me, she pushes Russo away and gets in my face. “I’m not losing her again!”

“There’s something else!” I scream back. “Two trucks heading downtown. I think it’s more bombs. Jay went after them.”

“That wasn’t the plan.”

I shove her toward Russo. “Do what you want! My job was to get you out, and I did that. I’m going after Jay.”

“Go,” Russo says to me. “I’ll stay with her. We’ll go after Tabitha. Go!”

I nearly rush off without the most important thing. Turning back, I say, “The tracker! That revenant’s driving one of the trucks. I need to track him.”

Russo shakes Hillerman, trying to get her to focus. “The tracker?”

“It’s a link,” she grumbles. “I’ll send it to her phone when we get to the car.”

“Be careful,” Russo says in parting.

I clap him on the shoulder. “You too.”

Then I go, and fast. Following the path I’d seen Jay take: sprinting across the roof, leaping down to the next building top, throwing myself into the tree, dropping to the street. Within seconds, my long legs have flown me across a parking lot and a field, then over a chain-link fence to the side of Interstate 96, where I’d left my Tiger-Crap earlier in the day, on the likely chance we’d need a quick getaway.

After retrieving the keys from their hiding spot inside the front fender, it takes me a few tries to get the key into the lock. My hands are trembling from the cold. My breath is a thick white cloud. I drop behind the wheel, elated to hear the chirp of my phone inside the glove box. It’s Hillerman’s link. I click it, then pull on my Tigers jacket and some gloves before stomping the gas, tearing off in a wide fishtail across the freeway. If any of the oncoming traffic is honking at me, I can’t hear them over the roar of the engine. Clutch, shift, gas—I work quickly through the gears, rocketing toward downtown at a hundred and twenty miles per hour.

Hillerman’s tracking link picks up a signal. My phone flashes a blip traveling south on Grand Blvd. Doesn’t make sense to me that the trucks already exited the freeway. Grand Blvd doesn’t lead them through downtown. It takes them to the waterfront.

No time to think about that. I barrel across the freeway just in time to take the next off-ramp. Grand is seven blocks west of here. I gun it, running every red light, cursing at patches of ice that spin my tires and throw my back end all over the road. A chorus of angry honks, shouting, and middle fingers serenades my drag race, but I’ve gained a ton of ground. Fast approaching the intersection with Grand, I see that the blip on the map is only two blocks ahead of me.

As I prepare to launch into a wide sideways drift turning south onto Grande, I see a Harley Davidson motorcycle streak through the intersection, a guy in a tuxedo and no helmet riding it. My heart revs harder than my engine. Cranking the wheel, I hit the gas, spinning the wheels, careening into a wide turn…right in front of a trio of demons on sleek racing motorcycles. They fire at Jay, but luckily, I’ve just thrown myself between them. Bullets riddle my Tiger-Crap, punching holes in the trunk and shattering the back window.

I leap on the brakes, giving no time for them to react. Two of the motorcycles smash into me, their riders flipping up into the air. The third bike whips around me, tearing after Jay. I floor it, and when I close in on the demon, he turns around in his seat to level his gun at me. I duck as bullets thunder into my front end. One obliterates my

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