The darkness spread its tendrils as if in search of other prey. It reached out, spreading toward the others, reaching toward Tamara, toward Jasper, toward Master Joseph — who turned on his heel and ran, clutching the Alkahest, vanishing through the door in the wall that he and Alastair had come through. Alastair tried to stop him, but it was too late. The door slammed shut behind Joseph, locked.

Call couldn’t seem to stop the chaos magic. It flowed out of him like a river, and he felt himself flowing away with it. He remembered what it had felt to fly without a counterweight, to drift away without human cares.

He felt Aaron’s hand on his back, pinning him in place, forcing him to focus. “Call, enough.”

And somehow, that allowed Call to turn off the torrent. He couldn’t reverse it, but at least it was no longer pouring out of him like his lifeblood. Shaking, he looked around. The chaos he had unleashed had become living shadows, shadows that were tearing at the edges of the room. Darkness was spreading inexorably, eating away at the walls of the tomb at the pillars that held up the roof, gnawing at the mortar that held the bricks of the underground room together until they started to loosen and fall to the floor.

“We need to get out of here!” Alastair turned away from the doors Master Joseph had escaped through and dashed to the foot of the stairs, gesturing for the others to follow him. “All of you, come on!”

Tamara rose to her feet, pulling Call with her. Along with Jasper and Aaron, she and Call began to race toward Alastair and the steps. Nearby, a piece of roof gave way, and rock tumbled to the ground, exploding at their feet. They swerved, nearly colliding with a patch of spreading black shadow. Jasper yelled and jumped back.

The darkness shot toward them; Aaron thrust his hand out, and a beam of black light shone from his palm: It struck the shadow and enveloped it. Call looked at Aaron in amazement.

“Chaos stops chaos,” Aaron explained.

“I can’t do chaos magic,” Call whispered.

“It looks like you can,” Aaron observed, and there was something in his voice, a dark amusement and maybe something less comfortable.

Tamara’s face was smudged. “It’s devouring this whole tomb. Aaron, can you hold it off until we get out?”

“I think I can,” Aaron said, looking around at the shadows, at the crawling magic that deepened them, drawing off everything it touched into the void. “But Call released a lot of chaos energy — I don’t know.”

“Just go,” Call said. He felt better without the chaos in his head, cluttering up his thoughts, but he could still feel something simmering inside of him, something that hadn’t been there before.

“Callum —” Alastair began, but Call cut him off.

“Dad, I need you to get them out of here. Now.”

“What about you?” Tamara asked. “Don’t get some idea about staying behind.”

Call looked Tamara in the eye, willing her to believe him, to trust him just this once. “I won’t. Go. I’ll be right behind you.”

What’s something that’s not behind you? Call thought grimly. Ahead. A head. Get it?

Tamara must have seen something in Call’s face, because she nodded once. Jasper was already moving past Alastair. Aaron looked less sure, but with chaos magic burning away the walls around them, he had his hands full. He threw out more and more magic, pushing back the void as they made for the stairs.

Call had only a few moments before Alastair noticed he wasn’t following.

Call drew Miri from her sheath and went to where the remains of Constantine Madden rested on the marble slab.

CALL RACED UP the stairs as quickly as he could go, cursing his leg for slowing him down when the very walls were crumbling away into nothingness. All around, darkness was lapping at his heels, as if it wanted to pull him into its endless embrace. Chaos magic that he’d unleashed but had no idea how to constrain.

“Call,” Alastair was shouting from the corridor, hands thrust up to hold the ceiling above them with magic. “Call, where are you? Call!”

He ran to his father, rocks spinning above them, rocks that would have collapsed had his father not come back for him. “Here,” he said, out of breath. “I’m right here.”

“We’re going together now,” Alastair said. He put out his arm and Call saw that his father’s burned hand had been healed — not completely, but the bubbling black marks were just sore-looking red skin now. “Healing magic,” Alastair explained at Call’s surprised look. “Come on — lean on me.”

“Okay,” said Call, letting his father slide an arm around Call’s shoulders and help him make his way past the bodies of Drew and Jericho, past Verity’s laughing head and out onto the grass where Jasper, Tamara, and Aaron were standing. Aaron had both hands raised and was obviously doing all he could to hold back the chaos magic that was trying to rip the tomb apart. The moment he saw Call and Alastair he collapsed to his knees, letting go.

Blackness roared up like ash pouring out of a volcano. Call and Alastair stopped, Call leaning hard against his dad, as they watched the final resting place of the Enemy of Death be devoured by chaos magic. A thick, oily darkness covered the building, tendrils snaking along the outside like ivy. But as Call stared, he realized that it wasn’t really black — it was something darker, something that his eye was translating into the comprehensible, because what he was seeing was nothing. And where nothing touched, the building simply wasn’t, until what they were looking at was the flattened earth where a tomb had once been, Verity’s strange and terrible laughter still hanging in the air.

“Is it gone?” Jasper asked.

Aaron gave him a tired look. “The tomb went to the same place I sent Automotones.”

“Automotones?” Alastair looked shocked by that pronouncement. “But he’s trapped in the deepest pits of the Magisterium.”

“He was,” Call said. “The Magisterium sent him after us.”

Alastair inhaled in a way that he did only when he was angry or surprised or both. He took a few steps away from the rest of the group, obviously trying to clear his head. Call hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder. He was exhausted.

Master Joseph had gotten away — and worse, he’d gotten away with the Alkahest, the very device they’d come to keep out of their hands. The massed army of Chaos-ridden had vanished. Master Joseph must have commanded them to take him back to shore. He’d probably taken all the rowboats, too, just to be a jerk.

Suddenly, Call remembered that Havoc had been with the Chaos-ridden, that Havoc was Chaos-ridden, and so, if Master Joseph could command the rest of them, he could probably command the wolf, too.

“Havoc!” he shouted, panic reigniting in his chest. “Havoc!”

How could he have let his wolf stay outside the tomb? He’d left Havoc behind like Havoc was just a dog, when Havoc was way more than that.

Call rushed along the path back toward the beach, leg aching, nearly in tears, calling for his wolf. It was one more thing he wasn’t ready for, one more thing he couldn’t bear.

“Call!” his father shouted. Call turned and saw Alastair looking weary, walking up the path with Havoc at his heels. Call stared. His dad’s unburned hand was buried in the wolf’s fur, and there was ash on the wolf’s pelt, but he didn’t look otherwise harmed. “He’s okay. You rushed off before we could tell you, but he tried to get back into the tomb. We had to stop him, but it wasn’t easy.”