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“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Lore said, voice a low rasp, out of breath. “All right, Gabe? I don’t want you to get hurt, so let me go and help you, because otherwise you are absolutely going to get hurt.”

He stopped. Turned. Stared down at her with that one blazing blue eye.

“Fine,” Gabe said, and then he was stalking toward the open door, and she was running after him, and it was closed and locked behind her before her foot fully left the threshold. The door wouldn’t open again until the Mortem leak was taken care of.

Either Anton would lock her in the Church instead, or he’d let her come. And Lore didn’t think he’d turn down another set of Mortem-channeling hands.

Her assumption was proven correct as they all rushed to the Church door on the other side of the gardens. Anton looked behind him, did a double take when he saw Lore. “What—”

“You know you don’t have enough channelers to handle a leak of any significant size,” she said, brushing past him and through the second interior door that Malcolm held open. “I’m coming.”

The Priest Exalted didn’t try to argue. He stared after her, the scarred side of his face in shadow, dark eyes glittering. “Yes,” he murmured, after a moment. “I think that might be a good plan.”

Lore didn’t pay attention to the Priest Exalted. She walked past Malcolm and into the cool darkness of the Church. It smelled like polished wood and incense, a scent that reminded her of Gabe’s.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Malcolm murmured, falling into step beside her. Anton passed them both and led them away from the double doors of the South Sanctuary, down a gray stone hall toward what looked like cloister rooms. “To say it’s not pretty is an understatement.”

Lore nodded, resolutely ignoring the flip of fear in her middle. “You need me.”

“I won’t argue there,” Malcolm replied.

Anton led them at a brisk pace, winding through hallways that felt nearly as labyrinthine as the ones in the Citadel, finally stopping at a wide, doorless room full of other scarred people—the Presque Mort. There were only around a dozen, all of them in varying states of undress, changing out of white robes that mirrored Anton’s for dark, close-fitting shirts and leather harnesses. The harnesses held daggers, but only two, on the off chance they needed to defend against a human element rather than a magic one. The Presque Mort stayed armed, but that wasn’t their purpose. Inked candles flashed in all their palms.

Every eye in the room locked on Lore, some in curiosity, others in outright suspicion. She tipped up her chin and stared right back.

Anton waved a hand as he descended the short set of stairs. “Another Mortem channeler,” he said dismissively, as if Lore were of no consequence. “We’ll need all the help we can get.”

They didn’t run to the Southeast Ward—they rode. A phalanx of black horses, cantering over the cobblestones, rushing around corners so close that Lore was afraid she’d gash her head. Everyone moved out of the way with a quickness, the news of the Mortem leak having spread through the city at a blessedly faster pace than the magic itself. Most civilians wouldn’t be able to see the Mortem, and that added an extra edge of panic. The closer they drew to the Ward, the emptier the streets became, everyone who was able fleeing to the opposite side of the city.

Lore pressed her chest against Gabe’s back and held on to his waist for all she was worth. She’d never been very comfortable riding horses. Her own feet or a cart were infinitely preferable.

But there was no denying the speed. They were in the Ward within half an hour.

And the very air tasted wrong.

Gabe dismounted, then reached up and grasped her waist, swinging her down behind him. Lore nearly stumbled. The ground felt unsteady, almost, a thin membrane over something decayed, ready to break at any moment. A sour, fetid smell permeated the air and made her stomach twist in on itself.

“Do you feel that?” Lore’s voice sounded as shaky as her legs. “Smell it?”

“What is it?” Gabe narrowed his eye as he handed off the horse’s reins to a waiting clergyman—not one of the Presque Mort, just a plain acolyte, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. “I don’t smell anything.”

Gabe’s face looked blurry. The edges of him weren’t clearly defined, as if he might morph into something else at any moment. His tattooed hands were slightly outstretched, like he thought he might have to catch her, steady her.

“Nothing.” Probably just nerves. Lore shook her head and started walking, following Anton.

Nothing else looked blurred, she noticed as she walked, concentrating on keeping her gait steady. Only Gabe seemed like something in flux, caught in a state of unbecoming.

Just nerves.

The Southeast Ward was the part of Dellaire closest to the countryside, where farmers came to sell their crops. Farmland was visible past the houses lining the square, rolling green hills dotted with small barns and the faraway specks of livestock. It was the least-populated Ward in the city, but now it was completely barren, everyone either fled to western Wards or locked in their homes.

The only sound was boots on empty streets as the Presque Mort followed Anton toward the leak. He’d changed, too, swapping out the white robe of the Priest Exalted for dark clothes and a leather harness like the rest of them. It looked strange on Anton, like someone playing dress-up. He still wore his huge Bleeding God’s Heart pendant, though, glinting gold and garnet in the falling evening light.

Lore felt the leak before she saw it. Her middle curdled, her steps faltering into a near-stumble as the sour smell in the air grew stronger. She caught herself before she could fall, though the sharp look Gabe shot her way said he still noticed.

The awareness of death pressed around her, like smoke searching for a crack to seep through. She tried to think of forests, of trees and blue sky. It kept the awful feeling at bay, but only just.

Up head, Anton stopped. “There.”