More men barreled toward them. They had to keep running.
Ward pushed away from the tree, his feet slipping on the
wet
leaves and mud. His rucksack pounded against his hip, his
illegal book on surgery and equally illegal case of
surgical
implements a weight pulling not just on his body, but his
soul, as well.

Of course, it hadn’t been surgery that had gotten him
into
this mess, but necromancy.

It had been his only career option after getting kicked
out
of the physician’s academy, and his first job, to wake
Celia, had turned his life upside down and set it on fire
for good measure.

The trees opened up, and beyond lay the hint of black sky
dotted with stars. But the sky, framed by gray clouds,
was
too low. It lay in front of him, not just above him. With
a
jolt, a single word formed on the tip of his tongue.

Cliff.

The sky meant a cliff.

He skidded to a halt, smashing into a jagged stone
outcrop.
Pain shot up his leg, and he bit back another cry. Celia
slammed into his back. He stumbled forward, grasping at
the
outcrop and teetering on the edge.

Far below, water rushed gray and frothy, spilling over
its
banks, swollen from the days and nights of summer
downpour.
The cliff face was sheer. Not much hope for finding
handholds to climb down, even if it weren’t slippery with
rainfall. And they’d be exposed during the descent. Easy
targets for the bounty hunters and their arrows.

He turned to Celia. She was already scanning the area but
hadn’t dragged him in a different direction because there
were no other paths—they’d run through a break in the
rock
wall hidden by shadows and thick pines onto a wide ledge.

Steep granite towered above them. Not even a bush or
scrubby
tree clung to its side. They could try going up, but
faced
the same problem either way: target practice.

There was no place to go.

She grabbed his arm. “Cast something.”

“What?” The last time he’d tried to use necromancy to
stop
someone, nothing had happened.

“There’s no other option. Cast something.” She lengthened
her stance and held her sword ready. “I can hold them off
for a little while.”

“I can’t.” Just because he wanted something didn’t make
it
possible. He wanted to go to Gyja, have another kiss with
Celia, live a long life, and myriad other things the Dark
Son was denying him.

“Try,” she said with a growl.

Three thugs stormed through the break, swords drawn. In
the
moonlight, they looked like demons, with pale faces and
wild
eyes. Their shirts clung to well-muscled bodies, their
wet
hair hung limp about their faces. Ward’s heart thudded
against still painfully bruised ribs. He drew a breath.
For
what? He didn’t know—to cry, fight, beg, or cast a
reverse
wake that would never work. There was no way he’d be able
to
shove the men’s souls from their bodies. But Celia was
going
to die…again…and he along with her.

The closest man swung at Celia’s head. She blocked the
strike, dropping to one knee from the force of the blow.

Goddess, their options were death or the impossible.

She shoved her assailant’s sword to the side and kicked
him
in the gut. He stumbled back, but another man rushed into
his place with the third man at his side and two more
crowding behind. There were too many. The only place to
go
was over the cliff.

Of course. The cliff.

They might not survive the fall, but they wouldn’t
survive
at all if they stayed.