Page 62 of The Baker’s Shadow

They peel off from the main mass, smaller but more agile, with something like wings made of hardened mud. Gargoyle-shaped things that shriek as they rise into the air and dive toward the van.

The first one hits the windshield hard enough to crack it. Mud splatters across the glass, and I can’t see, can’t breathe, can only keep my foot on the accelerator and pray I stay on the road.

Above me, Malak moves. I hear the sound of claws meeting flesh, the wet rip of something being torn apart. Ichor rains down on the windshield, mixing with the mud, and it’s worse than before.

I turn on the wipers. They smear the mess across the glass but clear just enough that I can see the road ahead.

Another curve. Another fishtail. The van’s tires are screaming, and so is the engine, pushed past its limits.

More of the flying ones dive, and Malak meets each one. His shadow-claws extend longer than they should be able to, cutting through the Rot-creatures like they’re made of paper. But for every one he kills, two more take its place.

“How much further?” he shouts over the wind and the shrieking and the sound of the van’s struggling engine.

“Two miles!” I take another curve and the van goes up on two wheels for a heart-stopping moment before crashing back down.

The dough in the back is glowing so bright now that I can see it reflected in the rearview mirror. It’s still calling to them, still pulling them after us, and the chase becomes a kind of procession. The Rot behind us. Us in the middle. The Hollow ahead.

The storm that started this whole nightmare hasn’t let up. Rain lashes the windshield, making it even harder to see. Lightning splits the sky, illuminating the massive shapes pursuing us.

One mile left.

The road narrows further, trees pressing in on both sides. Their branches scrape against the van’s sides, leaves and twigs snapping off. One of the flying Rot gets tangled in the branches and Malak rips it apart before it can free itself.

The van’s engine is making a sound like it’s dying. The smell of burning oil fills the cab.

“Come on,” I mutter to it. “Just a little further. Just hold together a little longer.”

The trees open up, and suddenly we’re at the edge of the swamp.

The breach is massive. A swirling vortex of dark mud and broken magic, thirty feet across and growing. It tears at the fabric of reality itself, making the air shimmer and warp around it. The smell is overwhelming, rot and ozone and something older that makes every instinct scream to turn around and run.

And standing near the edge, looking small and terrified, is Preston.

He’s staring at the breach, at the Rot pouring out of it in an endless stream. His expensive suit is covered in mud. His glamour is completely gone, revealing the translucent skin and black veins and eyes like voids.

He sees us and his expression shifts from terror to rage.

“What have you done?” he screams over the storm. “What have you done?”

I slam on the brakes and the van skids to a stop twenty feet from the breach. Behind us, the Rot are seconds away.

Above me, Malak drops from the roof and lands beside my door.

“Now what?” he asks.

I look at the glowing dough in the back. At the breach ahead. At Preston standing there like he has any right to be angry when he started this.

“Now,” I say, “we feed them.”

CHAPTER 17

Malak

Preston sees us coming.

His hand rises, corrupted magic gathering around his fingers like black lightning. The air between us and the breach starts to solidify, a wall of wrong energy meant to stop the van dead.

I don’t think. I just move.