I feel my strength fading too. I’m a magician, so I can operate in the absence of a window. But I’m nowhere near as powerful as I am when the air’s thick with the delirious energy of the Demonata.

It doesn’t matter. I’m not essential in this final stage. Nor are the mages. This is where the werewolves and soldiers come into their own. They rip apart the weakened demons with fangs, claws, bullets, and machetes. The demons don’t die, but they no longer have the power to put themselves back together, so they can only lie there in pieces and wait to dissolve as magic drains from the air.

Moe cocks a deformed eyebrow at me and grunts questioningly.

“Go on,” I sigh, wincing at the pain in my leg. That’s the downside of using magic to heal a wound. It’s fine while there’s magical energy in the air, but once that passes, pain kicks in with a vengeance.

As Moe joins the bloodletting, a pale, thin, icy-looking woman approaches me. It’s Prae Athim, head of the Lambs, a group that once acted as executioners of Grady children who’d turned into werewolves. Now they supply me with fresh recruits from Wolf Island.

“That looks nasty,” Prae says, nodding at my leg. It’s purple, and pus seeps from the cuts that have reopened.

“I’ll be fine,” I mutter. “I got rid of all the poison before the window closed.”

“Does it hurt?” she asks.

“Yes. But it won’t kill me.”

“Still, you should have it looked at.”

I grin. Prae loves to mother her wolfen wards, even a semi-werewolf like me. She’s cold with humans but has a soft spot for those who’ve turned into savage, mindless killing machines.

“Will you look after the others?” I ask.

“Of course,” she snaps. “Don’t I always?”