Cutting through a narrow alley, Zylas led us toward another street. He halted at the sidewalk’s edge and peered around the corner. I leaned past to steal a glance.

Half a block away, beneath the innocent glow of streetlamps, mythics battled for their lives.

Fire blazed and flashes of colorful magic blinked and flared as sorcerers activated their artifacts in desperate defense against their attackers: monstrous wolves. With foaming mouths and bulging shoulders, they lunged among the mythics, jaws snapping and furious snarls drowning out the cries of the human combatants.

Fear plunged through me at the sight of the giant lupines. No animal should be able to move that fast, especially not ones that were a hundred pounds heavier than a mundane wolf.

They could only be werewolves—and I’d bet money that, like the vampires we’d fought, Xever had enhanced their strength and speed using demon blood.

Zylas watched them, his mind whirling. Low—fast—four legs—like kanthav?—how strong—

A wolf caught a man’s arm in its jaws and wrenched, hurling its victim to the ground.

Very strong—only teeth to attack—soft hide—

His rapid assessments blurred as he analyzed the pitched battle in a matter of seconds, then he curled his fingers.

“We will go straight through,” he said, his flashing thoughts quieting as he focused. “And search for Nazhivēr.”

I’d barely begun to nod my agreement before he launched into the street. I burst out after him, Amalia on my heels, and we raced toward the fight. The darting silhouettes of mythics grew clearer.

Zylas’s tail uncoiled from around his waist, whipping out behind him, then he dove.

He slid into the legs of the nearest wolf, bowling it over. As it tumbled, his claws raked across its belly—no glowing talons needed. The werewolf was still falling as he leaped into the next one, again taking out its legs before ripping it open.

I slowed my headlong charge, chilled by the brutal violence. The quadrupedal wolves were sturdy and agile—and by keeping low to the ground, Zylas was negating that advantage. They couldn’t knock him over because he was attacking on their level.

He kicked a wolf’s jaw before it could bite him, then rammed his claw-tipped fingers through another’s ribcage. I followed a dozen paces behind the lethal demon as he plowed through the wolves on the fringes of the battle.

A voice rang out in a hoarse cry, and I tore my eyes away from Zylas. A few yards away, a man had fallen and a wolf was on top of him, his forearm in its jaws.

“Drew!”

With a furious shout, Zora charged out of nowhere, her huge sword swinging. The werewolf tearing at Drew’s arm lunged away with a snarl—but two more slunk in to join it. Standing over her fallen comrade, Zora brandished her weapon, unflinching despite the six hundred combined pounds of werewolf lined up to attack her.

I swerved toward them, grabbing for the artifacts hanging around my neck. The wolves advanced in a line, drool dripping from their jaws.

“Ori impello cylindrate!”

My new artifact flashed and a column of rippling air shot outward. It struck the nearest wolf, launching it into the other two and flinging all three beasts fifteen feet away. They slammed down in a yelping heap.

Zora’s head snapped to me, her mouth gaping. “Robin? You’re alive?”

I hesitated—we needed to keep moving, to find Xever and Nazhivēr as quickly as possible—but the three wolves were already untangling themselves and clambering up.

“We need to get Drew away,” I said urgently, seizing his arm.

She grabbed the shoulder of his jacket with one hand, his torn arm bleeding everywhere, and together we dragged him across the pavement—but the wolves stalked forward, their eerily pale eyes fixed on us.

“Zora,” Drew gasped. “Let go of your sword.”

She released it—and it floated into the air. The long blade, smeared with blood and rain, shone under the streetlamps as it flew at the approaching wolves, slashing wildly at their faces.

Zora grabbed Drew with both hands—and Amalia appeared between us, snatching a double handful of the back of his jacket. The three of us hauled him across the street and into the shadows of a closed shop.

Snarling, the wolves darted past the free-flying sword and charged at us.

I scrambled for an artifact, but before I could figure out which was which, a roaring blast of fire engulfed the wolves. As the fire surged upward and the burning wolves yowled in agony, a sword appeared from the flames. It flashed down, its glowing blade slicing clean through one wolf after another.

For a second, I thought Drew had control of Zora’s weapon again, but then I spotted the hand holding the sword’s hilt—a hand coated in flickering orange-white flame.

And my brain belatedly picked out the man within the inferno.

Wreathed in dancing flames, Aaron dispatched the third wolf, then turned. Most of his shirt had burned away, the fire running across his bare arms and shoulders, mixing with his hair and dripping off his sword.

His blue eyes landed on me—and bulged in disbelief. “Robin?”

I gawked at him, eternally thankful the pyromage wasn’t our enemy. “Aaron—”

He’s here.

Zylas sharp warning cut through my thoughts, and I knew instantly whom he meant.

“I have to go. Amalia, come on!”

“Robin—”

Ignoring Aaron’s and Zora’s simultaneous shouts, I bolted away and Amalia caught up to me in a few strides.

“What is it?” she panted.

“Nazhivēr,” I answered tersely. “Where’s Uncle Jack?”

“He circled around to look for Xever.”

We slipped past the outskirts of the werewolf battle. The intersection loomed ahead, and adrenaline saturated my veins as I scanned it.

If the skirmish we’d left behind was a battle, then this—this was the war.

Mythics everywhere—far more than the Crow and Hammer’s membership. Blazes of magic, screams, blood, bodies, shattered walls, burning buildings. A shallow chasm split the intersection, and burst water lines flooded the street while the rain poured down, obscuring everything.

As my gaze sought the guild’s three-story building, its windows lit with warm light, I lurched to a halt. Amalia skidded to a stop beside me.

Dark figures had gathered in front of the guild, and I didn’t need to see their eyes to know what they were. I recognized the way they moved, the jerky swing of their limbs, the agile dart of their feet. Visceral memories of their fangs buried in Zylas’s skin hit me like a punch to the gut.

Crimson power exploded, the concussion from the blast whipping rain and grit into my face. I flinched back, then tore my stare away from the horde of vampires to look across the intersection.

Ice plunged through me.

In an open spot on the southwest side of the intersection, Nazhivēr stood with his wings half unfurled, one arm extended. In his powerful hand, the demon held Darius by the throat, the guild master’s feet dangling off the ground.

Zylas! I silently cried.

As though I’d shouted out loud, Nazhivēr’s head turned, his glowing eyes searching.

And I realized I didn’t need to call for Zylas. He was already there.

He stood thirty feet from Nazhivēr in silent challenge, anonymous in his black outfit. The only giveaway of his true identity was the flick of his tail behind him, nearly invisible in the rainy haze and shadows.