There’s something about dying that he really didn’t like, Riordan decided. He also didn’t like the fact that he’d come to this edge again for the second or third time in a week or so. Death kept trying to pull him under peacefully. To make him accept it. And maybe Riordan should accept it, because he had a feeling that rejecting death and then dying anyway might be a good way to get ghosts. Yet, a mantra repeated in his mind.

Fight. Survive. Win.

Even here, at the brink of loss, with no control over any part of his fate, Riordan wasn’t done fighting yet. The swamp of death magic was nearly unrecognizable from its waiting form. The gunk of stagnant magic was gone, transformed into a swirling dome of shadow that shimmered like an oil smear in the light of the spirit tree. The constant oozing liquid that had dripped from the skeletal branches became braids of darkness flowing smoothly around bare branches of glittering light. Its leaves were still hidden in this space, leaving the tree a stark entity in the center of the maelstrom, but its beauty was undeniable in this play of light and shadow.

A wind that wasn’t a wind howled as the magic rose, a storm to represent the force and fury behind that pool of power now that it had been roused. Under the branches of the tree, all was calm, the wind barely a whisper that stirred the gossamer mist rising from the void of the spirit realm. It was almost peaceful, a gentle repose, as the fog curled about Riordan’s body and the breeze sweetly rocked him where he hung from the branches, bound with the ropes of the killing tree.

They were all here, every ghost that Riordan had originally pulled out of this swamp and sheltered inside the spirit through the gateway of his soul. They hung like strange fruit from the boughs. Light washed them, fog and shadow wreathed them, and they were powerless. Some had turned inside themselves, unmoving and unseeing. Others cried or yelled or screamed, both at the ritual and at Riordan for failing them. Riordan himself felt… cold and distant. Removed from the immediacy of everything. The color of his spiritual body was leeching away, draining away down that rope he could never remove. The bindings kept his badger trapped inside of him, leaving his altered soul visible with its own swirling void.

How appropriate to be laid bare here. This place of awe and wonder brought all the worst and best of their souls to the surface. Frankie hadn’t mentioned that rawness in her lecture on the dangers of the spirit realm. Or perhaps she had, if obliquely, when she mentioned the alienness of spirits and how they communicated and the responsiveness of the mana of this place. There were no masks to be worn here except by those who had become accustomed to that alien vulnerability and made it their own.

Below him, the fog began to coalesce. Unlike with the proxy ghost, this apparition felt more like a reflection seen darkly through a distorted mirror, outlined as a presence by its very absence on this realm. The mists draped over a space in the form of a human, draining into it and drawing in the shadows like a trailing cloak.

The ritual’s master had come.

Anger rose in Riordan and he struggled, weak and helpless or not. Despite everything, Phenalope lived and had him trapped and rescue had not come in time. He had gambled and while he might have lost, Riordan was going to spit on her the whole way to his grave. Twisting in his ropes, Riordan couldn’t escape them, but he could climb, damn it. Maybe that would kill him faster. He didn’t care anymore. He would rather run to his death than fade into it.

The mist poured into that humanoid absence, the portal to a soul that wasn’t manifest in this realm. As the conduit of the ritual to its master, the mist slowly built the gateway to transfer the storm of power into her. Riordan had no idea how much hubris Phenalope must have had to believe she would be able to control that deluge of power, but perhaps there was some support provided by the ritual itself to compensate.

Everywhere Riordan touched the ropes of magic that bound him, his body turned the colorless shade of a ghost. His existence felt thin and flickering. Growling, Riordan called on his well of power, still accessible through the thread of life he clung to. The shifter affinity was part spirit magic and part life magic. Against this assault of death in the spirit realm, no one would be more suited to resist than a shifter. He shoved his magic into his form, pouring life and spirit into the fragile form of his body. Color restored and the flickering ceased, except for the places he could not avoid direct contact with the draining ritual. The void in the center of his chest began to whirl faster, unnoticed by Riordan as he climbed with single minded determination.

The branches of the light were warm to his touch when Riordan reached them, pulsing with a power and intention all its own. Despite the sense of awareness Riordan got from the tree, it didn’t react further to his presence than that. Riordan managed to get himself braced on the branch before reaching the limits of his current capabilities. The ropes pulled him up short, tethering him to that useless perspective. The ghosts nearest him watched him. Riordan didn’t let himself look at them, unwilling to let that guilt wreck him right now. If he let himself look at them and see resentment and judgment, Riordan’s fragile hold on action would shatter. Even if he couldn’t do anything useful, it still felt more right and important than doing nothing at all.

Instead, he turned his gaze downward at the scene below him. Riordan could see Phenalope now. The density of power concentrated from this place into her created a link that pierced the realms. She stood in the physical world, lit by the dying twilight, decorative lanterns, and the ghastly glow of a robe of mist-like power. The expression on her face was one of manic ecstasy, lost in her delusion as she approached the cusp of her ascension. She was a mad queen, bathing in blood to become a god. The stark red of fresh blood coated her hands and arms like satin gloves, shining in wetness.

Riordan wondered if it was his blood she wore. Surely there was some macabre ironic justice if it was. He would have bathed in her blood if that was what it had taken to win and save those he’d sworn to protect.

Even now, he wanted to fling himself from this tree and tackle her to the ground and strangle her until life faded from her mad eyes. Instead Riordan perched like a netted crow upon the branches, able only to watch and caw at her, spitting insults she could not perceive. Forcing his way past the restrictions on him, Riordan spoke to the spirit who supported him. The connection was weak and garbled, but Riordan was stubborn. He held on, seeking a response, seeking aid.

An answer washed over Riordan. Patience and eager anticipation. The tree was telling him to wait. His moment was coming.

“What the hell does that mean?” Riordan growled, yanking against the ropes. It wasn’t his imagination. The ropes were getting shorter and thicker, drawing the hung ghosts closer and closer to the tree.

“Riordan!”

Riordan turned at the sound of his name. Daniel was dangling nearby, covered in twice as many ropes as Riordan but still struggling. The look of fierce determination on Daniel’s face belonged to a warrior, not a scholar, but clearly no one had told that to Daniel. Riordan was washed with both pride and sadness. Riordan hadn’t wanted his friend to have to suffer and fight, but here he was, sticking to Riordan’s side to the end.

With some effort, Riordan managed to stand on his branch. He reached out to Daniel, clasping the ghost’s hand and drawing him closer. As soon as he made contact with his friend, Daniel’s voice became clearer, audible even over the storm of magic that surrounded them.

Daniel clung to him, shaking slightly, but there was no hesitation in his young voice. “What can we do from here to help? Quinn and the pack are attacking the ritual site in the real world.”

A warm feeling of surprise hit Riordan at that news. His plans might have gotten messed up, but they weren’t a complete failure. Help had come. Even if it ended up being too late for Riordan, that team of reinforcements would prevent Phenalope from just having her way with everything. Knowing that help had come eased some of the frustration in Riordan’s heart, if not the fury. He might yet drag his enemy to the grave with him.

Daniel waited for his answer with shining, hopeful eyes. Riordan gritted his teeth and forced himself to admit his current helplessness. “I don’t know. The ritual is draining me quickly. I suspect my body is dying too. My magic is currently dedicated to holding that off as long as I can, just to spite her. The tree won’t help. It just told me to wait, though I got the feeling it had something it was waiting for in particular.”

Watching the hope in Daniel’s eyes dim crushed Riordan, but he firmly resolved not to lie about the current state of affairs. Still, Daniel nodded grimly. “They’ll get you free. I trust them.”

Riordan was filled with a morbid curiosity. “Where is my physical body anyway?”

Daniel’s expression got hard and angry, which just made that fuzzy happy feeling in Riordan’s belly grow despite the situation. He had someone who was willing to get angry on his behalf. Daniel glared down at the base of the tree where Phenalope stood.

“You’re tied to the base of the tree. Right in front of her, if I’m not mistaken. Shirtless, because of course they took your shirt. And shoes. Norris still had clothes. So did Billy, even if his were messed up.” Daniel snorted at this unfairness, though Riordan wasn’t sure if Daniel was upset Riordan had been stripped by someone else or that the others had kept their clothes--

“Wait,” Riordan said with a frown, “Norris and Billy are where?”

“They were near the altar. Both seemed awake but not aware, unlike you who was dead to the world. Billy had been hurt and looked like a bloody mess, but I think he was healing.” Daniel explained. “Being a shifter must be nice.”

“It can be,” Riordan replied absently, his brain still stuck on Billy and Norris being present as sacrifices as well. Was that their blood or his then? “Though it also can result in living through some traumatic things. And at least I burned the little lingerie Phenalope originally planned to dress me in. Why did she tie me to the tree?”

Daniel shrugged, looking back towards Phenalope. “Don’t know. Theatrics? Wait. Little lingerie?”

Daniel sounded way too interested in that for someone currently hanging from a spirit tree, watching his murderer absorb the power of their deaths. The ropes were wrapping tighter around them. Riordan hung on to Daniel as tightly as he could, knowing that he couldn’t hold on forever. His strength was failing in more than one way, lending to his slow thoughts and general distraction.

As such, it took Riordan a second to understand what he was seeing. Motion flickered behind the image of Phenalope, hardly a shadow in that distorted mirror. The blade drawing a crimson necklace across her throat showed clear and crisp. For a stunned second, Phenalope stood there, her hands still upraised. Her mouth fell open, blood trickling out noiselessly to join the deluge pulsing from her ravaged neck. Her eyes were wide and shocked.

Then her body crumpled to the earth, leaving only her ghost still standing there, wreathed in the power of the ritual.