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extinguishing—killing—it.
    Of course, it would kill an ordinary human, too.
    “Is that really necessary?” she appealed to Simon.
    After a pause, Miriam answered. “The patient shouldn’t exert himself. The best things for him now are quiet, dark, and limited physical activity.”
    A binding spell would limit his activity all right.
    Taking a second, shorter cord, Zayin slipped it under Justin’s ankle and then rolled back the cuff of his jeans.
    Lara stiffened, staring at the black leather sheath strapped to Justin’s leg.
    “Dive knife.” Zayin shot her a brief, hard look. “Still think he’s harmless?”
    She didn’t say anything. They would not expect her to.
    But Justin didn’t draw the knife, she remembered as Zayin unbuckled the sheath and laid it on the counter. In the bar, he’d bought a round for two sailors rather than pick a fight. He’d stuck up for her with Gideon. Saved her from the demon.
    She didn’t know what he was, but she knew what he wasn’t. He wasn’t a threat. Not to her. At least, not in the way they all believed.
    Lara looked down at Justin’s gaunt face, the angry lump, the line of black stitches, the purple bruise around one eye. After all he had done for her, he was being treated like the enemy. Tied like a prisoner. Like a dog. The unfairness of it made her knuckles turn white on the rail.
    Simon regarded her with cool, blue, assessing eyes. “If you’re quite satisfied, I believe we’re done here.”
    The others did not move.
    Lara met his gaze, her heart banging in her chest. She was done here, he meant.
    She was dismissed. Freed of responsibility, of blame, of consequences.
    All she had to do was walk away.
    “Good night, Lara,” Simon said gently.
    She dropped her head, relieved and disappointed.
    “Good night, Headmaster.”
    The door closed behind her with a small , defeated click.
    * * *
    Justin dreamed he was floating, up and down, moving with the rhythm of the waves, tied to the remains of . . . a boat?
    A mast, splintered and heavy. Thick wet rope constricted his chest and chafed his armpits. Cold ate his flesh, seeped into his bones. He could not feel himself, his swollen hands on the mast, his frozen legs in the water, anymore. Only cold and a throbbing in his head like fire.
    He was not afraid of dying. The very concept of drowning was ludicrous, unacceptable, to his dream self. But his body would not respond the way he wanted—expected—it to. He had a memory ( or was it another dream? ) of scything through the clear cold dark, his nostrils sealed, his eyes wide open, fluid and free, sleek and solid beneath the wave. In his element . . .
    Voices drifted to him in the dark.
    “Watch his head . ”
    “Get the door.”
    “We need a light.”
    He was lifted up and carried along, swiftly, smoothly. He heard gravel crunch and insects chirr, felt the air roll under him like the sea, bearing him up on its billows. The night embraced him, alive with the scents of tilled earth and worked stone, cut wood and cultivated flowers. Land smells. Human smell s. Confused, he stirred, opening his eyes.
    A pattern of leaves overhead. The outline of a rooftop, silhouetted against a sky full of stars. He floated down a path like a river, dizzy and without apparent support, flanked by tall , moving figures. A silver globe like a tiny moon hovered almost within reach. He licked cracked lips, staring at the light dancing above his head. Impossible.
    A shadow swooped between him and the moon.
    The rope tightened around him, dragging him back into the dream.
    The pulse of the surge was his pulse, the rush of the ocean filled his empty heart, his aching head. We flow as the sea flows.
    He shuddered with loss and cold, clawing the mast, clinging to consciousness. The horizon moved up and down, gray and empty as far as the eye could see. As long as he hugged the spar, he could keep his head above water.
    But after long . . . Hours? Days? . . . his concentration and his arms