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.