It was almost impossible to see, and as hot as a furnace. The fire had spread quickly; already, it seemed to be everywhere at once. Parts of the Crossroad writhed as if in pain, and a horrific wailing filled the air. Luc stumbled through the darkness and the smoke. He had to get back to the tunnels, to figure out how to turn back time and stop all this. He felt a moment of seizing dread—was this what Miranda had wanted all along, to destroy everything?—but forced himself to stay calm. If the fire spread from the Crossroad into the worlds they connected, it would be catastrophic. Last time he had made it into the tunnels of time by accident. He had punctured the Crossroad, peeled it apart like skin. He shivered, remembering the way the Crossroad had sweated thick black liquid, almost like blood. But he had no choice. The noise of the fire was tremendous. The Crossroad screaming, withering. Dying. And if the Crossroad failed, he’d never make it home.
