Silver Nitrate(114)

“You okay?” she asked, pulling him up. Her leg hurt horribly, and she grimaced when Tristán leaned on her.

“No. I’m going to vomit for three days straight,” he promised.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Tristán nodded and shook his head. He grabbed her by the hand and they hurried behind the throng of panicked cultists. The fire was moving abnormally fast; the ballroom was now enveloped in black smoke, and even when they reached the hallway there was smoke there, too. Someone shoved her aside, and Montserrat tripped, lost hold of Tristán and was suddenly alone, lost, in the shadows of the building.

Startled, confused, her heart pounding in her chest, she could not see anything. The world had gone dark. It was as if someone had slid a shutter, blocking out all the light. Whatever this was, it was not natural. These were the dregs of Ewers’s magic, trying to hold her tight, or perhaps Clarimonde’s spells, slicing the world away, plunging her into an endless jet-black night.



* * *



—

The smoke scratched his throat, but Tristán glimpsed the dim outline of a door ahead and dashed forth, stumbling into the street. He took a deep breath and looked around with watery eyes.

Momo. She wasn’t behind him. She’d been there a second ago and had vanished.

Panicked, he stared at the door of the building, picturing her trapped inside, trying to make her way in the dark. He ought to go back for her, but he had no flashlight to light the way, and dark smoke was streaming from the building.

He could run down the street, raise the alarm, find a pay phone and summon the cops. It would take too long, though, and Momo was inside, alone.

He stood still, one hand resting against the doorway, and peered back into the darkness, trying to glimpse the vaguest of shapes.

“Momo!” he yelled. “Momo!”

No answer. The darkness was warm and thick as tar. He felt sick again, like he might really throw up this time, and he’d never been brave anyway. It was Momo who covered his eyes during the gory scenes in movies, Momo who gripped his hand tight when they jumped together into the grain. It was Momo who forgot to fear, and he who feared everything.

Every atom in his body demanded that he flee. For a second, he considered it. Considered a world without Montserrat, sterile and icy.

Magic is willpower, that’s what Momo said. He didn’t know what that meant, but he knew he needed Momo as much as the flames inside that building needed oxygen to burn.

He took a desperate breath.

He pressed into the darkness of the building, into the clouds of smoke, and held out his hand. “Momo, I’m here!” he yelled.

Even if the darkness never ended and swallowed him whole, he’d still run to her.



* * *



—

The building was boiling Montserrat alive. Sweat drenched her forehead, and she stood in darkness. No answer came to her, no magic; whatever power she’d held now trickling out of her body.

Montserrat was alone. Tristán had gone. She knew it. Her hand rested on a wall, and smoke swirled around her ankles, and the world was darkness. This was how Ewers must have felt when he died and was confined to oblivion; a part of himself trapped in the frames of a film and sealed in a can. This nothingness prickled her skin, suffocated her more than the smoke.

Her bones were leaden, and tears trickled down her cheeks. She bumped into a door, ran her hands down the crumbling plaster of a wall.

She felt a desperate, clawing force.

Stay! it said, wordless, invisible, this something that clung to her, squeezing her tight, making her stumble. Their gaze, their voices, their will, had once revived Ewers, and he desperately yearned for that spark of life they’d granted him. With his gasping, last breaths he pulled at her, begging her to save him, follow him, grant him life…once again…this one time.

Montserrat was tired, and in the darkness of the building, with nothing to anchor her, she thought perhaps she might heed that mournful call.

Everything was dark, motionless.

Then, she heard a couple of stumbling, heavy footsteps and squinted.

“Momo, where are you?!”

“Tristán!” she yelled back. “I don’t know where to go!”

“Find me!”

But where was he? His voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. She coughed, pressed an arm against her mouth, and without thinking she moved toward him, even though he could be anywhere.

“Tristán!”

She felt his fingers on her arm, the pull of him.

“I’m with you!”

She wasn’t sure he knew where they were headed. In the past it had been Montserrat who guided him, who made him jump into the grain containers. But now it was her turn to follow him, to let herself be dragged, fast.

Their fingers were laced tightly together, and they rushed forward.

She followed him into the night, not Ewers, but Tristán. She shook off the sick pull of rotting magic and pressed onward.

The darkness ruptured like a membrane. Breathless, they emerged into the startling prickle of cool air and an ordinary street, with its dim lampposts and businesses that were shuttered at that late hour. They could hear a siren in the distance and the barking of dogs. Montserrat winced as she walked, and Tristán thrust his arm around her, holding her steady. They headed nowhere, directionless, yet confident in their steps.