They ran, through the ballroom and the hallway with the panther on their heels, through an open doorway that should have led to a grand piano in an empty, echoing drawing room and instead led them straight into the heart of the Nightmare Room.
William had thought he'd been prepared for it, had wanted to lead them here and known when they had started to fade into it, but he wasn't ready for the shock of the knife lodging between his ribs again, cold and solid, and the slippery wet mess of his own blood coating his palms when he reached instinctively for the wound. He fell to his knees on the hard floor, wand dropping numbly from his fingers as he caught himself with one hand, struggling for breath. He couldn't see Brendon. Where was Brendon?
Not Brendon. Joe? Pain skirted the edges of his consciousness, blurring the memory of why they'd come here. The charm-web glowed menacingly in the center of the room, still whole and perfect the way he'd first seen it rather than as it should have been now, disintegrated as the charms went off all around them. He couldn't remember why, but it was important that it was this way.
Joe. Joe was important. William just couldn't remember why.