her head against the wooden chair. In an instant Artaud was over her, his body pressing down on hers.
“Don’t be coy,” he growled at her, and she was suddenly very aware that his teeth were rotted brown stumps. She tried to turn away, but he mashed his mouth down over hers, pinning her arms by her sides. She screamed in her throat and tried to push him away. But Artaud worked one steel-clad hand up to the neck of her dress, and there was the sound of tearing fabric.
Then, another sound. A loud, abrupt humming.
A sudden flash of light came from the machine’s glowing archway, from the activated dimensional portal. Artaud looked back, frowning; the momentary distraction gave Emily the chance she needed to her free her hand from where the old man had it pinned. She reached up to where her silver hair sticks were. Seizing one, she drove it toward Artaud’s face.
The stick missed the old man’s eye, but delivered a sharp, painful smart just under it. Artaud drew back, bellowing with rage and surprise. As he did, a hand clamped down on Artaud’s shoulder, pulling him up and pushing him back roughly across the floor.
Emily scrambled backward, holding the hair stick like a dagger in her hand. But when she saw who had thrown Artaud off of her, she let it drop to her side.
“Mr. Stanton!” she breathed.
With two long strides, Stanton went to the portal and punched buttons in a rapid sequence. There was the sound of pounding from the other side—heavy hard pounding. Someone was trying to follow …
“Behind you!” Emily screamed.
Stanton spun, but it was too late. Artaud’s hand came up, intense radiance exploding from his fingertips, so bright that it made Emily’s eyes water. The outpouring of energy crackled and seared the air.
Stanton leaned into the blast, rhythmic Latin streaming from his lips. He twisted one hand over the other, small motions summoning larger forces—a cold blasting whirlwind, whistling angry and harsh. Emily was spun across the floor by the sudden gusting force; she grabbed at the legs of a heavy table to hold herself in place. Stanton stood before Artaud, feet planted firmly. With curt movements, he spun Artaud around and around, lifting him from the ground, battering him against walls.
Then, Artaud’s other hand came up, his fists clenched thumb against thumb. And with a bark that echoed even over the whistling cyclonic din, he sent a tremendous blast of concentrated brilliance against Stanton’s chest. Stanton flew backward, his body slamming hard against the far wall. The spinning gale he had summoned vanished abruptly, dissolving into small sighs, dusty whorls, gasps. Stanton slid to the ground.
And then, the only sound in the room was the pounding coming from the other side of the portal.
Emily scrambled to Stanton’s side, grabbing him by the shoulders. His blood-streaked face was gray and slack; his chest was still.
“Mr. Stanton?” Emily touched his face. His skin was ice cold.
The pounding on the door intensified. Sudden, familiar, searing pain sliced through her skull.
Carissima mia.
Emily’s whole body contracted with loathing and anguish. No, not that. It couldn’t be. It was too much. Grabbing handfuls of Stanton’s jacket, she hid her face against his chest.
Open the door.
Emily was not aware that Artaud had come up behind her until he reached down and grabbed her, hauling her to her feet.
Open the door.
The pounding on the door had become rhythmic, like the beating of drums. An ancient command, burning in her blood, a throbbing like the beating of her heart.
“Do you see what happens?” Artaud raised a fist; Emily watched it coming toward her slowly. “Faithless whore!”
Open the door.
Now.
The compulsion was too powerful to resist.
Emily ducked Artaud’s blow easily, then brought up a fist and struck him hard across the face. What the blow lacked in strength it made up in precision; Artaud staggered backward. Emily went to the portal and touched the buttons in the exact order in which they were flashing through her mind.
The portal cracked open and Caul staggered through. His face was pale with exertion and lined with strain; his body and hands were covered with cracked, dried blood.
“Finally,” Caul said. He placed a hand on her head. “Dormiente.”
Emily melted, suddenly exhausted, unable to keep her legs underneath her anymore. Caul held up the Otherwhere Marble, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Stanton remembered some tricks from his days at the Academy.” Caul looked down at Stanton’s body, and then at Artaud’s tanks. “But not enough of them,