We're running out of time. 

From across the room, James looks at me, his expression cross. The dark smudges beneath his eyes betray his sleepless nights, as does his grease-ridden hair and the way his jaw is set in a perpetually pissed-off position. Even from here, with a room of dim shadows and stacked furniture between us, I can feel the force of his animosity - my negative thinking isn't doing anything for his exhaustion, apparently.

"Clara," he whispers, his voice ghosting across the void to just barely hit my ears, "if you don't shut the fuck up, I am going to find the nearest blunt object and bash the thoughts out of your head myself."

"Duly noted," I deadpan, hooded eyes unwavering as I stare right back at him, equally vexed and equally obstinate. "If you're that annoyed, though, stop listening in on my thoughts."

"Oh, yeah, because I'm doing this consciously. Because it's so damn fun."

"The sarcasm won't get us anywhere, James."

"And your pessimism has just as much chance of leading us to an early grave."

I open my mouth to shoot back a sharp retort, but just as quickly close it. He's right, as much as I don't want to admit it. Damnit, I'm doing nothing but holding us back with this kind of thinking. But it's not like I can flip a switch and suddenly see the world through a half-full glass.

James huffs out a short breath, his point made, and turns his attention back to the door he's been keeping an eye on for as long as we've sat huddled in this storage room together. I've had the job of watching the windows, and although I know it's important that I stay vigilant, or whatever, the lull in the action has been weighing heavy on my eyelids; snatches of moonlight filter in through the grimy glass, lances of light that cut through the hollow darkness and illuminate the dusty white sheets cast over couches and tables and whatever else people tend to think they'll need somewhere along the line.

I mean, why else would someone willingly keep a grandfather clock? What sort of purpose would that serve in someone's life?

"Clara!"

My head snaps up at the sound of James' voice. He's not looking at me, his eyes trained on the closed door, but he's risen slightly from his crouched position, hands caught on the edge of a cupboard as he stares intently ahead of him.

"Voices," he says, his voice strained, lips hardly moving, "I can hear them. They're..." He suddenly bolts upright. "Clara, we have to go. Grab the books. Now." 

I hardly think as I make a grab for the books spread open atop a veiled table, even though I practically have to throw myself across it to ensure I scoop up every last one of them. If James says it's time to hightail it out of here, then I won't doubt him. He's helped to keep us both alive for this long, and I'm the one who's put us back into danger at every step of the way, so yeah, I think he's earned my trust in that regard.

James helps me push a wardrobe into place beneath one of the windows I was surveying. He then takes half the books from my arms and hops up onto an adjacent table, his balance wobbly but stable enough that he doesn't immediately crash back to the ground. He throws the books first, wincing as we both hear the distinct sound of old leather cracking (the spines must have taken a beating in the fall) before he follows suit, shimmying his way up until he's crouched atop the wardrobe. While he busies himself with prying open the window, I hurry to make the climb myself.

My heart's pounding a million miles a minute, and with that, combined with the blood rushing in my ears, I can barely focus on anything beyond the stiff, robotic movements of my arms and legs as I maneuver myself upwards until I can crouch beside James. He's just about finished with the window by the time I catch up with him, and I slide in beside him, digging my fingers into the opening he's created to yank back and widen the crack.

"James, go first, take the books," I order, sliding my share of leather-bound dead-weights closer to him as I twist around, scanning the shadows for any flicker of movement. We haven't heard the door open, or even the handle turn, but that doesn't mean anything when it comes to who we're expecting.

"I'm going, I'm going," he grumbles without real protest. He knows as well as I do that only one of us needs to keep going; we've stuck together this long to watch one another's backs, and because we were thrown together in the chaos that took hold of the world just a few months back. We're strangers who've saved each other's hides once or twice, nothing more, nothing less. 

I watch the door, on the off chance that I'll actually see something now that we know they've made their move, while James slides his slim frame through the window; there's a muffled yelp as he drops, followed by a moan of pain. I assume he landed awkwardly, seeing as he went headfirst, and dismiss the matter for the time being.

"Clara!" he hisses from below, and I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of green eyes, pale skin, and a scowl so bold it could curdle milk. "Hand down the books, then get your ass out of there!"
I nod, twisting around to sweep the books into my arms. But something snags my attention before I can swing back around and toss the books down to James. Voices - louder now, just outside the door if I had to guess. My eyes snap to the doorknob out of habit, but I force myself to look away, knowing that nothing will come of being focused on the normal entry points.

James hisses again, insisting I hurry the hell up before he decides I'm worth ditching after all. It's the only encouragement I need, and within seconds I've thrown him the books and slid myself through the window. James isn't expecting both drop-ins, and he swears viciously (and creatively) when I nearly land on top of him. As it is, I only clip his shoulder, and he rubs the tender spot as I straighten myself out.

"They're coming," I remind him, stooping to gather the fallen books again. He drops down beside me without hesitation, working quickly to pick up whatever I can't fit in my arms. I notice his hands are shaking but refrain from bringing it up. He won't appreciate my concern, and I know him well enough to understand he'll take it more as an insult than an inquiry with his best interests in mind. "James..."

"What, Clara?"

"Where are we going to go this time?"

This is our fifth "safe house" that's been discovered in the last three months, and it only lasted two weeks. The intervals between flighty escapes are getting narrower with every near-capture. I'm not so stupid that I think there won't come a time when one of us doesn't make it out in time. Maybe both of us. And we can't have that, no matter what we have to sacrifice to keep it from happening.

James meets my eyes for half a second before glancing away, his cheeks burnt slightly. My tense expression softens. James gets to his feet, waits a moment to make sure I've done the same, then says, "Somewhere, Clara. I don't know yet." He pauses, then adds quietly, "Don't ask questions you don't really want the answer to, idiot."

We're running, then - our feet pounding against the pavement, breaths huffing in sync out of habit alone. James leads the way into the night, his attention flitting between the waning moon and the path ahead of us. We make use of the unlit storage units that populate this space, ducking in and out of shadows, catching our breaths behind buildings whenever we feel we have the time for it. We've no plans beyond finding our way out of here and moving on, wherever that ends up taking us.

The books clutched to my chest seem to give off their own reassuring warmth, and I cling to them without reservation. When James and I stumbled across these in Seton Square Library, we thought it had to be a joke. Because people have been searching for these books for decades, according to what we've heard from the snippets of news we've managed to snatch from radios we've passed by. More importantly, they have been methodically searching for these books. James and I don't know what, specifically, is contained within these books, but we've made it our mission to keep them out of their hands - whatever the cost.

"Clara!"

James' shout startles me, and I collide heavily with his back, unable to stop myself in time. He holds his ground, gritting his teeth, his grip on the books never faltering. He whispers something, too low for me to hear, but... it had the cadence of a prayer. And that terrifies me.

Because James said he abandoned God months ago.

"What is it--"

I cut myself short, biting into my tongue until blood gushes into my mouth. The air has gone frigid without my noticing; gooseflesh ripples across my skin, and the tips of my fingers feel as though they've been plunged into arctic waters. I shiver in my too-thin jacket, and I can feel the sensation echoed in James' back.

We're surrounded by an army of the dead.

Spirits hover around us, no two of them from the same time period. There's a Revolutionary soldier clutching his bayonet standing beside a Victorian woman fanning herself and cupping her cheek, as though in shock over the current situation; over there is a WWII pilot, decked out in a bomber jacket, hands stuffed into his pockets and expression utterly devoid of care; there I can see a girl no older than myself, wearing jeans and a Nirvana shirt, her makeup sultry and dark.  

I flip myself around, pressing my back to James'. I can't tell who's shaking anymore, me or him; it doesn't matter either way, I know, but I'd feel worse knowing it's James who's reacting so violently to our impending deaths.

"James," I whisper, craning my neck slightly so that my words have a better chance at reaching him. "You're going to run. Alright?"
He stiffens, the muscles of his back tensing beneath my own.

"How can you be any more annoying than I already thought you were?" he hisses back, much to my surprise. Before I can protest, he goes on, "If either of us are running, it has to be you. Clairvoyance and a bit of telepathy don't really compare to what you've got in your arsenal, Clara."

I swallow thickly. James hasn't brought up... that in weeks. It was a fluke, something I haven't been able to replicate since. And James knows that. I'd rather trust his intelligence to keeping the books safe than my own questionable powers.

"I can hear your thoughts," James says, soft and low. He shifts, backing me up as the circle of spirits tightens around us. "You're right to be scared, you know. You're a full-blown imbecile, and yeah, you might end up dead within a week. But... you don't have a choice, Clara. Neither of us do."

"James..."

"Clara."

"The Apocalypse... wasn't as bad with you."

He must be reading my thoughts again, because he's rounding on me even before I've finished speaking. Too late, though, as I'm moving as well, throwing my books back towards him as I dart forward, charging directly at the nearest ghost. It's the adrenaline, or the urgency of the situation, or maybe it's only my own fear lending me strength, because when I raise my hands they're glowing with ethereal blue light and the words come to my lips as easily as I've spoken them all my life.

"Kneel."

That's what I've said, even if the sounds that escape from my mouth don't resemble that word at all. It's not English that I'm speaking, it's something older, darker - something powerful.

The ghost I've targeted looks baffled at first, then smug, and then - and then they're dropping to their knees, their mouth agape and eyes wide with shock. Their transparent limbs tremble as though they're trying to fight me, but they remain locked in their position.

When I'm three steps away from the spirit, I say, "Gatekeeper, reclaim your charge."

Two steps away and the spirit is staring at me, bucking now against his invisible restraints.

One step away and I close my eyes, thrusting my hands forward.

Then I'm on top of him, my hands flush against the cold, flimsy body. But my hands are colder, and the spirit is screaming something awful, and then -

Nothing.

I blink open my eyes to watch as the glow drifts away, winking out of existence and leaving my hands unnaturally frozen to the point of trembling. The ghost is gone as well, and the others are gawking at me in a mixture of worry and astonishment.

The only ones they've seen with such power... are the necromancers who summoned them initially.

I turn back to James, a weak smile on my lips - but he's not there. A quick search of the area reveals he's completely vanished, along with the books. My smile grows a little brighter at the thought of him making his escape, keeping our last flame of hope alight.

And I don't even stop smiling when the spirits regain their senses and close in around me.