"Let them go!" Thomas roared. His mild German friend hardly ever shouted, and he'd never unleashed this particular volume before, not that Jess had ever heard. "Or this one's dead!"
"Back away!" Jess heard his father shouting, but it was harder to hear now; between Thomas's enormous bellow, and the fast, loud beating in his eyes, nothing quite seemed right. He was fighting, he could feel that; his hands scrabbled at Thomas's fingers, trying to pry them away.
It wasn't going to work. Thomas was going to kill him, and they were going to kill Thomas, because Callum would lose a valuable hostage rather than his younger son. Besides, Thomas had already built his press. Drawn his plans. In Callum Brightwell's calculus, Thomas's value had already fallen below Brendan's.
There was only one chance, and Jess was just barely clear minded enough to realize it. He stopped fighting, dropped his right hand to his pocket, and fumbled inside. Found the tag.
He clipped it to his coat and slapped at it in the same motion. Couldn't tell at first if it worked, because the only sensations left to him were the black, panicked struggling of his lungs, and the cold, because it was getting so cold . . .
He didn't think he screamed, but if he did, it wouldn't have mattered. He caught one last glimpse of Thomas's fury shattering, and Thomas's hands opened to let him drop.
As the wolf took him midfall, Jess saw his friend's lips move. Saw the recognition slip into Thomas's face like a strike of lightning.
Jess?
And then he was gone, into the rushing darkness, where he would have to kill the wolf to survive.
EPHEMERA
A contingency-of-death letter filed with the Scholar's Archives, from Scholar Christopher Wolfe to High Garda Captain Niccolo Santi. Interdicted to the Black Archives. Not delivered.
Nic,
If you're reading this, my ghost is speaking to you. Ink and paper, and a memory, because I'm gone. I hope I died well. I hope I died for something, as I lived for it. But even if I didn't, if accident took me, or illness, or a thousand meaningless happenstances, then it doesn't matter anymore.
The only thing that matters now is that you loved me. You never should have, you know; I was, and remain as I write this, an unlovable man, full of flaws and cracks and terrible habits. From the moment I saw you, I felt drunk on possibilities, but I knew I would never deserve you. And I never have, through all of it. But still, you remained.
I know you will be angry. I know you will want to drive out your grief with action. Don't. For my sake, don't throw yourself into battles, or pick fights with giants, or whatever mad thing comes into your head. Live. Because when next we meet in your Christian heaven or my pagan afterlife, or some shadowy, hidden corner where those two may touch, I want to hear that you lived a long and happy life after me. That you did as you liked, and loved as you liked, and left the world shattered and empty in your wake.
Because that is the Niccolo Santi I know, and if a ghost can speak of love, then know I adore you still. You are my beloved, and I will be waiting, and you must not take offense when people speak of me harshly, as I surely deserve. We never cared for their opinions, and we shouldn't now.
And if, with the help of the gods, you find I'm not dead, I will expect a proper good welcome, a bottle of wine, and to find the heaven I spoke of in your arms, because after being away from you, I will never want to be parted again.
Wolfe
CHAPTER TWELVE
When Jess came back in the world, he was on his back on a cool stone floor, and all he knew for a second or two was that he was going to be horribly, violently ill. He rolled on his side, but the spasms passed, and when he opened his eyes, he saw a blurry smear of color and light, heard shouts and voices. Saw running feet go past him, and then there was a hand holding him flat and a gun in his face.
The man kneeling over him wasn't familiar, but the uniform was: High Garda. Jess took in a slow breath and felt the familiar air of Alexandria fill up the empty ruins inside him.
Home.
"Who are you?" the soldier snarled. Jess coughed. Tried to get his breath. Tasted blood and that rotten smoke, and thought, Who am I?
But he knew who he had to be.
"Brendan Brightwell," he managed to croak. "I'm the one with gifts for the Archivist Magister; you know I'm coming. Get off me, you bloody fool; I'm expected!" His throat hurt like he'd gargled broken glass, and his head throbbed where Wolfe's fist had connected. He felt cuts and scrapes down his back, where Thomas had pulled him through the broken wall.
All in all, it was a miracle he was still breathing. But he'd have to resist the urge to collapse and enjoy it, because he'd hardly even begun this dangerous night.
The soldier looked up and over to someone else. "Who have you got there?"