James had Durendal across his knees and an oiled rag in his hand when the phone rang.
Mum.
He wedged it against his shoulder and kept working the rag along the blade.
"I've eaten," he said. "Twice. Before you ask."
She didn't laugh.
"James."
The rag stopped.
"James, I'm—we're all right. I want you to hear that first. We're all right. But there's been—Adrian came to the house."
He was on his feet. Durendal was on the crate behind him.
"Is he there now? Did he touch you?"
"No. No, he—he had the fire in his hand, James. On the step. He was going to—" Her breath caught. "He said you shouldn't have a mother to come home to. He said it to my face. And she got in front of me."
"Nyra. Is Nyra hurt?"
"Not a mark. Not a hair. She's here, she's beside me, she's—" The phone moved, and came back. "He's dead, James. Adrian's dead. She stopped him."
James said nothing.
That Nyra could do it didn't surprise him. He had known for a long time what she could do.
