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Dallas nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

“We’re at the bottom,” he said. He couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not, but at least they were no longer stuck halfway up the elevator shaft. He crossed the tiny space, pried open the elevator doors—

And froze at what he beheld in the dark tunnels just beyond.

Demons. Thousands of them.

112

The Cavern

YVESWICH, STATE OF KER

Darien pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.

He’d fallen to a part of the staircase below—smoking his face against the stone so hard, he’d briefly fallen unconscious. A syrupy line of blood trickled out of his mouth, the color black in this light.

Bandit was standing at attention in his shadow. You alive?

Barely. He spat out a mouthful of blood, and with mild difficulty he stood. Gathered his bearings.

He hadn’t fallen far; he was still closer to the top than he was the bottom.

And the snake was still watching him, amused and hungrier than before he’d fallen, the smell of his blood permeating the cavern. The shadows swirling about the ceiling began to whisper, stirring at a swifter pace, as if the smell of blood had pulled them out of their eternal slumber.

“Your blood tastes of my place of origin,” the Basilisk said as Darien wiped his nose on the arm of his bodysuit. He bent to grab the sword he’d dropped, the blade scraping on stone. “Of night and stars. Death and decay.”

“Are you ever going to show your face?” Darien asked with a biting edge, staring up into the gloom. The rusty tang of his blood filled his nose. His throat. “Or are you that much of a coward?”

The serpent did not answer, so Darien started moving again. He sprinted toward the next ledge. Jumped.

The faraway floor of the cavern seemed to spin below the soles of his airborne feet, his vision zooming out and in, out and in. Had he really hit himself that hard? The jump seemed to take forever, but finally, he landed—

A piece of stone broke off underfoot, and he slipped.

“Shit!” He grabbed onto the ledge with the hand that held the sword, fingers digging into the stone to stop his fall. His legs kicked in open air, body swinging with momentum, nearly sucking him down. With a growl of determination, he hoisted himself up, his surroundings shimmering and wobbling, and crawled onto the landing.

Fuck, what was going on? Two mistakes now—that was two mistakes.

He rarely ever made one.

The mist, Bandit said as Darien pushed to his feet. It’s the mist—it’s toxic.

Darien braced a hand against the cold, rough wall. Lurched up the steps, his surroundings bouncing, feet dipping. He shook his head, but it wouldn’t clear, and his ears began to feel plugged, every scuff of his boots and rasping breath muffled and distant.

It’s poisoning you, Bandit said.

The closer Darien got to the top of the stairs, the harder it became to breathe, to concentrate, to aim correctly when he reached the next ledge. On feet that were clumsier than they’d ever been, he backed up several paces to take a running jump.

As soon as he started sprinting, he knew Bandit was right.

But he couldn’t stop now, not when he was so close. He had to get that thing to expose its throat. So he jumped, stomach pitching endlessly along with his mind and vision.

He managed to put enough force behind the action to land in the middle of the next broken structure, but his thoughts were even more muddled than before. Everything spun, even the hand he held out before him, reaching for the wall for balance—

He missed. Dropped forward onto the ground, kneecaps popping on stone.

“Fuck,” he panted. He pushed back up. Swayed and staggered into the wall. Blinked fiercely. “Fuck.”