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“The spells,” he choked out. “The spells are out, Max. They’re out—I can’t see you!”

111

Blackwater Penitentiary

ANGELTHENE, STATE OF WITHEREDGE

No sooner hadLoren and the others made it into the prison than the guards sounded the emergency alarm.

A loud, warbling sound pulsed through the building. Flashing lights came on, bathing the concrete walls and floor in blood red.

Where she walked with the others in a tight group, down a narrow, drafty corridor that would take them to death row, Loren froze, the others doing the same. Heads swiveled. Hands tightened on guns.

At first, Loren believed the alarm had been sounded because someone had spotted them.

But then the prison filled with guttural roars and piercing, hair-raising screams, and she realized it was something worse.

Farworse.

The screaming, the roaring—she couldn’t pinpoint its origin.

It was coming from all over.

Kylar, chest heaving, said, “Have we been spotted?”

Finn shook his head. “No. No—something else is going on,” he panted, the sweat on his face glistening in the flashing lights. “Something else is happening.”

And then the building began to shake. The tremors increased in magnitude. Everyone grabbed onto each other as they tried not to fall.

Loren had the feeling this was not an ordinary earthquake. It was the portal—even from one state over, it was beginning to cause earthquakes in other areas.

And possibly even disrupt the security system of one of the most heavily fortified prisons in the world.

“What the hell’s going on?” Ivy breathed as the shaking subsided, strands of her dark hair sticking to the sweat on her temples.

“It’s the portal,” Loren choked out. Dread prickled down her spine. “It’s spreading.”

The roaring increased in volume. Whatever was making that sound…

It was hungry.

And it was getting closer.

“Move,” Lace said, waving her gun in a forward motion. “Everyone, move—now. Now!”

They started running.

Darien was so dizzy,he felt like he was running on ocean waves.

He staggered down the hallway as if he were drunk, leaving bloody handprints all over the walls, and stumbled through a doorway marked with a sign that read Control Room 8B.

The room was empty. Abandoned. Blood and claw marks marked every surface, a few of the screens smashed.

He practically fell into one of the swivel chairs and picked up a telephone with blood-slick, shaking fingers. Mortifer washolding onto the back of his neckline; Darien could sense him watching with concern as his fingers that were dripping blood hovered over the buttons.

On a wobbling breath, he gritted out, “Fuck.Fuck—I don’t know what number to call Travis on!”

Through the haze of his brimstone-addled mind, it took him a minute to realize that he could call Atlas instead. Atlas could help.