Mills didn’t crouch by the window; he collapsed. His legs burned and he was panting. He was not built for running around a city while Abyss monsters chased him. At the very least, he collapsed by the window, and could see what was going on outside.

  The lone statue fought against the relics that had overwhelmed the other one. The reaver approached, and held its hand out. Once again, black energy gathered at its fingertips, then slashed through the statue’s legs. The figure collapsed to the ground. Relics scrambled away off the damaged defender as it attempted to rise.

  The reaver blasted it through with another shot of dark energy. The statue exploded into rubble. The reaver’s head snapped toward the shops. Mills pressed himself against the wall, and hoped he was out of sight.

  Baz was at another window. He’d also pressed himself against the wall. He stared grimly into the shop.

  Mills steadied his breathing, trying to keep silent. Outside, the relics and the reaver made noise against the cobblestone. Mills still had his karambit drawn. He adjusted his grip. The relics would pass without finding him and Baz, but the weight of the weapon felt good in Mills’ hands. He wished he still had his sword, but that was gone. And now that there was time, Mills could replay his fight with the reaver. He replayed the moment when his sword shattered against the monster.

  The noise faded off, and eventually disappeared. Mills counted, and when he got to ten, he would poke his head out the window and see if anything was on the street.

  Baz did not count to ten; he poked his head up immediately. Mills grit his teeth so he wouldn’t snap. Baz scanned outside, then he rose to his feet.

  “We’re safe, I think,” Baz said.

  “There’s nothing out there?” Mills asked.

  Baz shook his head.

  Mills stood up, and his shoulder screamed at him. Mills swore and leaned against the wall.

  Baz tensed, but didn’t say anything or approach.

  Mills took deep breaths. Now that the adrenaline had faded out of his system, his body was happy to tell him what hurt. Everything hurt, but the injury on his back was pulsed the hardest. Blood made the back of his shirt stick to skin.

  Baz ventured deeper into the building.

  Mills finally looked at the shop. Judging by the painted vases, statues, and dolls, he and Baz found themselves in a sculptor’s workshop. The shopkeeper outside, the one forever clutching his mutilated guts, had made everything in there. Now he was dead, because relics got into the city. Mills wasn’t sure how the monsters did it, and with red hot pain coursing through his system, he couldn’t gather his thoughts to speculate.

  Baz ducked behind a counter, and came up with sheets of paper and a bottle. Baz held the bottle up to a lamp, then he looked at Mills.

  “Can you sit somewhere?” Baz asked.

  “Sure. What are you up to?” Mills said.

  “The…your back,” Baz said. “It needs to be bandaged.”

  And Baz hadn’t found any real bandages, so he would have to clean Mills up with paper and some glue. It sounded like a decent enough idea until Mills could get some actual bandages, or find someone who could patch him up well. Tress’ sewing abilities didn’t apply just to fabric, but to skin as well. Any experienced seamstress could sew someone up, but Mills would have wanted Tress to do it.

  Mills thought about all the familiar faces he’d seen on Main Street, the ones who’d been caught in the second explosion. He hadn’t seen Tress in the mix, but she absolutely could have been there. Mills pushed that thought out of mind. Tress was alive. She had to be.

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  Mills took a seat on the counter, then pulled off his jacket and shirt. Baz approached like Mills would lunge at him.Once he was close, he carefully applied paper to Mills’ shoulder, then used a brush to paint the glue onto him. Baz repeated the process with a second leaf of paper.

  “One isn’t enough?” Mills asked.

  “No,” Baz responded.

  “Can you tell how deep it is?” Mills asked.

  “Kind of deep,” Baz said. “I don’t know how bad it is.”

  “Yeah, neither do I,” Mills muttered.

  Baz finished his second paper. When Mills shifted, the paper crinkled. Baz stepped back and frowned at his work.

  “Is everything good?” Mills asked.

  “I need to do more,” Baz mumbled.

  Mills tried to look at the makeshift bandages, but he couldn’t turn his head far enough.

  “I’m sure it’s a good job,” Mills said.

  Baz’s expression didn’t improve. Mills hadn’t really expected it to.

  He pulled his shirt and jacket back on. They were shredded in the back, yes, but it was cold outside, and even a bit of protection was good. Mills wrapped his scarf around his neck without bothering to tie it. It hurt to keep his arm up. Plus, the crinkling of his makeshift bandage annoyed the hell out of him.

  Baz headed to the window, and looked out.

  Mills reached into his jacket pocket, and produced his pen and cards. There was enough light for Mills to see what he was writing down–my healing will be quick. Mills held the card between his fingers, and coursed magic through the paper so it would burn.

  A thousand knives stabbed at Mills’ insides. He groaned, and pressed his palm over his heart like that would help.

  Baz hurried to Mills’ side.

  The sharpness in Mills’ chest pulled back, leaving the ghost of the pain. Mills took a few experimental breaths. Baz stared at Mills. Curiosity shone in his eyes.

  “I didn’t get a chance to explain writing magic to you,” Mills rasped. He cleared his throat, and tried again.

  “I can use my magic to change outcomes,” Mills said. “So, if I wanted to find a few coins on the ground, I could write that, and I’d find the money. But everything has a reaction–I can’t know what it is. The bigger my request, the bigger the reaction will be. It can break things, or hurt people. Myself included, as you saw.”

  “Oh.” Baz’s focus wasn’t on Mills’ eye, but a little to the side, to the eyepatch. Baz didn’t say anything about it, and Mills didn’t volunteer an explanation. Baz figured out the story all on his own.

  “I think that’s the crash course on writing magic,” Mills said.

  Footsteps rung against the cobblestone.

  Mills pressed his lips together. Baz’s eyes widened. The pair hid by the windows.

  A gray figure marched along the street. It walked through the bloodied cobblestones. Then it turned its attention to the shops.

  Mills’ heart hammered against his ribs. He and Baz heard the reaver arrive, but that didn’t mean it heard them. As long as they were still, they were safe.

  The reaver marched to the shops. It stopped at the far end, at what looked like a bakery, and looked through the window.

  Mills slowed his breathing.

  The reaver shoved the shop’s door open, then marched inside.

  Mills hurried to the back of the sculptor’s workshop, where the backdoor waited. He turned the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. Of course it was locked; why would it not be locked? He glanced around for a key, but couldn’t see it. The sculptor had probably been carrying his keys when he stepped outside and got sliced open by relics.

  “Mills,” Baz hissed. He’d flattened himself behind a table.

  Outside, another door was slammed open.

  Mills hurried to a second table, and rolled himself into a ball. His shoulder screamed at him, but Mills had to stay curled up. He grit his teeth, and turned his focus to the noise outside so he didn’t focus on the pain.

  Another door slammed open. The banging was louder. A silence followed for a few seconds, then the reaver’s footsteps hit the cobblestone.

  Another bang.

  Mills heard his breathing, and if he heard it, the reaver might hear it, too. He slowed his breathing further.

  Another bang.

  Mills could still hear his breathing. It was quieter, but Mills still heard it. How was Baz so quiet in his corner?

  A long shadow swept over the glass.

  Mills held his breath. He couldn’t hear his breathing if he wasn’t breathing.

  The shadow stayed on the glass. The reaver was peering inside.

  Mills tensed. The reaver would look inside for a moment, then it would–

  The door slammed open like a bomb going off. Mills twitched. He hoped he hadn’t made any noise.

  Footsteps entered the shop.

  Mills held still. He wished he hadn’t sheathed his karambit, no matter how useless the weapon was against a reaver.

  The monster’s footsteps went away. The creature left the door wide open, and chilly air seeped in. The reaver’s shadow passed the second window, then disappeared to the shop next door. Mills let himself breathe again, but he didn’t move. That might make too much noise. Baz, thankfully, had the same idea, and stayed curled up under his table.

  The reaver punched its way through a few more buildings, then its footsteps receded down a street.