Nicola crouched beside him and sang a low hymn. “There’s no pulse. No mental activity. He’s dead.” With all the experiences I’d had since the Porters found me, those two words marked this as the most unreal. It was like she had announced the sun would no longer rise each morning. “He died almost instantly,” she continued. “He would have felt the impact, perhaps a split second of pain, but nothing more. The scepter is no longer magically active. I’m not sure about the book.” Ponce de Leon raised his cane. “Get back.” His words were utterly cold. We scrambled out of the way. He pointed his cane at the book, and death poured forth. White fire disintegrated a three-foot hole through the floor, but the book floated in the air, pinned by magic. Another ghost tried to crawl from the pages. The light seared it to nothingness as it emerged. The air smelled of salt and ice.
