7
As the harsh cry of the crow sounded, Perry tried to summon his magic, reaching for the flame inside. But the bony hand reached out like a pincer and snapped tight shut around him. As it crushed his body and dragged him inside the gatehouse, it snuffed out the flicker of light inside, his scream cut off before it erupted from his throat.
The gatehouse was pitch black inside. Perry couldn’t see the Scryer but he could smell its breath, like wet body parts, as rank as a drowned corpse. Its bones creaked as it moved toward him, the sandpaper scrape of its skin on stone. It raked its bony fingers over his body and the violation cut deep into his muscles, into his heart.
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.
His father’s words came back to him, as they sat by the fire on the Mercator est
