“But, Mab—”

Her colors swirled up, fast and thick, obscuring her. Blue and silver filled my dreamscape. I waved my arm in the mist, trying to bring her back, but she was gone.

* * *

I DIDN’T NEED MAB’S GUN—NOT BECAUSE I HAD MY EVER-expanding demon infestation under control, but because I couldn’t sleep. As soon as Mab’s colors faded, my eyes flew open. I sat up in bed, arms braced, pointing the gun around the room. But there was no gun. Of course not. It existed only in my dreamscape.

I relaxed my empty hands and fell back onto my pillow. Moonlight streamed in through the high windows. In the corner, up near the ceiling, a spider constructed a web, her legs busy as she spiraled inward. She stopped, resting motionless in the exact center of the web. The moonlight washed her out, making her pale gray, a ghost spider hoping to catch fragments of thoughts, memories, and dreams.

She was welcome to mine.

The situation was even worse than I’d thought. Pryce was running around the Darklands, leaving Mab helpless and frightened. Helpless and frightened were two words that should never, ever be associated with Mab. Yet there they were, thanks to me.

That Eidolon had me, bad. All my thoughts turned to self-blame and regret, going through the familiar, exhausting carousel of hurt and disappointed faces: Kane, Dad, Maria—I hadn’t made that dream-phone call to my niece—Mom, Gwen. And now add Mab. Had I ever done anything right? When you’ve been infested by an Eidolon, the last thing you need is an entire week alone with your thoughts and nothing to distract you. I’d be a raving lunatic by the time they let me out of here.

“Knock it off, Butterfly,” I said out loud.

Moist, smacking sounds of chewing filled the room. Other than that, Butterfly ignored me.

Tina was always eager to fight demons. I should have given her a big-ass sword and told her to cut the damn thing out of me. One way or another, she would have put me out of my misery.

In fact, I’d be doing more good right now if I’d let her disembowel me. An image arose in my mind: Tina standing there, her nose wrinkled with disgust as my intestines spilled to the floor. “Oops,” she’d say. But at least she would have sent me to the Darklands, where I could stop Pryce. Here, what good was I to anybody?

Mab said we had to be ready to fight Pryce when he returned; that was fine as far as it went. But it didn’t go far enough. It wasn’t action; it was reaction—a loser’s plan. And I wasn’t ready to give up the battle yet.

Above me, the spider waited, motionless. “Got any ideas?” I asked. If she did, she kept them to herself.

There had to be some way to enter the Darklands. Preferably a way that didn’t involve getting skewered by a teenage zombie. I thought back to the old stories. Venturing too deep in the woods, traveling too far north, or sailing too far west—all had led human wanderers into the Darklands. Some found their way out again; others did not.

Except for seven, none returned.

I couldn’t wander anywhere beyond the boundaries of this small cabin, so those stories weren’t going to help. What else? Pryce had opened a door. But I wasn’t a wizard, and I’d be stuck here for the next two nights of the full moon. Still, the Darklands had at least one doorman—that robed figure who’d shut the portal in Pryce’s face. Mab had mentioned Keepers, guardians who could grant permission to enter. Who were they? All mythologies station at least one guardian at the border to the otherworld, like Cerberus in Greek mythology, Garmr in Norse, and Nehebkau in Egyptian. Who guarded the border of the Darklands? Who made sure that the living and the dead both stayed where they belonged?

I had it. Not a guard but a psychopomp, a spirit who spent her nights on this side of the border, whose job it was to escort departed souls out of this world.

Mallt-y-Nos. The Night Hag.

I remembered the stories. She was said to ride across the sky with her pack of baying hellhounds. Each night, she hunted lost souls, driving them mercilessly across the border and into the Darklands.

Mallt-y-Nos knew the crossing places. Mallt-y-Nos could guide me into the Darklands.

But would she let me in? And, even more important, would she let me out again?

Except for seven, none returned.

I had to try. I threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. My guts twisted as the Eidolon squirmed in protest.

“Get lost, Butterfly,” I said. “I’ve got work to do.”

18

CALLING A SPIRIT IS TRICKY BUSINESS. TO DO IT RIGHT, YOU need a ritual dagger, along with candles, incense, salt, and an altar loaded up with all kinds of magical paraphernalia. Except for the kitchen salt shaker, I didn’t have any of that. What I had was my intention.

I stood in the center of the living room, having pushed its few pieces of furniture against the walls. I took a couple of minutes to get centered, breathing deeply and going inside myself. Breathe in…breathe out. Breathe in…breathe out. No thinking, no guilt, just a steady focus on each breath. When the world seemed to pulse in time with my heartbeat, I opened my eyes. I pointed at the cabin floor and moved in a slow, clockwise circle. I concentrated on my intention: protection. I projected my will from my brain, my heart, down my arm and through my pointing finger, creating a sphere of protection around me. Nothing could enter the circle unless I allowed it.

Let it be so.

Then, I called the Night Hag. I pulled up everything I knew about her legend. I remembered the terror I’d felt as a child—lying in bed, sure she was coming for me, pulling my pillow over my head to block out the sound of galloping hooves. I could see the pages of a book of Welsh folktales, one from Mab’s library, where I’d read her story. I felt the uncanny shiver that had tingled through me when, walking alone at night in a dark Welsh lane, I’d felt something pass by. My pulse pounded like those galloping hooves. My whole body trembled with the desire to run, to flee, to stay out of range of the hag and her pack of hellhounds. But I stood my ground.

And I called her to me.

“Mallt-y-Nos!” My voice rang out with a confidence I didn’t feel, pushing past the cabin’s walls. “Matilda of the Night! Lady of the hunt! Mistress of Hounds! Night Hag, who drives lost souls to the Darklands! I, Victory Vaughn, do invoke thee!”

The words echoed back to me, then faded. My intention cut through the silence, as I held the image of Mallt-y-Nos in my mind. A silhouette on horseback, shadowy against the moon, long hair flying behind her as she rode. She reined in her horse and cocked her head, listening. I called out again: “Mallt-y-Nos, come to me!”

In my imagination, the hag wheeled her horse around. She whistled to her hellhounds. Shrieking a bloodcurdling hunting cry, she raced toward me.

“Come!” I shouted, shrieking too, raising the volume to blot out the horrible sound of the hag’s approach. “I command thee!”

Hounds bayed and howled in the distance. The sound grew nearer. The ground shook as thundering hooves pounded closer, closer. I clamped my hands over my ears and kept shouting. I wasn’t saying anything now; I was just making noise. Anything to fight the terror of her approach.

An explosion jolted the cabin as the wall collapsed. I staggered back a step, almost falling, covering my face with both arms. A tingle in my shoulder told me I’d bumped into my protective magical barrier, and I jerked forward. I had to stay inside the sphere.

I dropped my arms to see what I’d called.

I stared into the fiery, red eyes of a massive steed. Flames shot from its nostrils, but they broke to the left and right before they reached me. Hounds leapt forward, jaws snapping, but they couldn’t get to me. My protection held.

“Quiet!” shouted a woman’s voice. The hounds fell back, milling around the cabin. The wall they’d burst through remained intact. The half-dozen hounds that crowded the place didn’t look like any dogs I’d ever seen. Each was the size of a small horse. Their eyes glowed red and orange, lit by inner fire. Saliva dripped from their fangs; it sizzled when it hit the floor.

The horse turned sideways, and Mallt-y-Nos came into view. I blinked. This was the Night Hag? The woman astride the horse was young and beautiful, with blue-green eyes and golden blonde hair that flowed, shining, to her waist. She looked nothing like the nightmare hag that had terrorized my childhood imagination. “Why have you summoned me?” she demanded, regarding me imperiously from her demonic steed.

Before I could answer, her face changed. Wrinkles formed around her eyes, on her forehead, between her nose and mouth. Her blonde hair faded to gray, then bleached white. Her skin went from creamy to blotchy red to jaundiced. I gaped, unable to look away, as the beautiful young woman sagged and faded into an ancient crone. Finally, the hair thinned to a few wiry strands. The skin shriveled and peeled away, baring the skull beneath. Flames consumed the eyes, leaving only a red glow.

I looked into the face of death.

The cycle began again. In the course of a few minutes, Mallt-y-Nos flowed from youth to middle age to decrepitude and death. And back again. And then again. I stared, fascinated, almost forgetting the terror of her presence.

In her death’s-head form, she pointed a skeletal finger at me. “Why did you call me?” she asked again, her voice impatient. Youthful flesh covered her skull. Her cheeks turned pink; her eyes sparkled. Thick, shining hair cascaded down her back. “Do not suppose, mortal, that you can command me. I came because I was curious. Mortals run from me; they do not request my presence.”

That I could believe. Even in her youthful form, she was terrifying.

“I called you to ask you a favor.”

Mallt-y-Nos laughed. Wrinkles creased her face as her lips stretched back to reveal the rotted and missing teeth of old age. “Mallt-y-Nos does no favors. All who deal with me must pay a price.” Her white hair dropped away in clumps. “Only one thing do I want from mortals, and for that I never have to ask. All mortals must yield to me, like it or no. I live for the hunt, and one day I will chase your soul into the Darklands. You’ll have many favors to beg of me then.” Her ancient voice cackled with mockery. “‘Oh, spare me, spare me, Mallt-y-Nos! I’ll give you anything! Just don’t drive me into that horrible dark place.’ Such laments are sweet music to my ears. Nothing thrills a hunter’s heart like bringing the quarry to bay.” Her smile beamed from the face of a young woman. “But it is not yet your time, Victory Vaughn. So why have you called me?”