by Tanith Frost
The guard hauls me to the rear of the group and presses his gun against my ribs.
Penelope glances back at me. I can’t tell what she’s thinking as she looks me over—bruised, bloodied, but not yet a fraction as damaged as she was when Lachlan was done with her under similar circumstances. She shakes her head. “I can’t go through it all again, ’Viva,” she says, and turns away. “I ’ope M’randa’ll understand.”
Tears burn my eyes. I don’t know whether Miranda will understand or forgive Penelope’s betrayal, but I do. Our high elder has asked so much of both of us.
The first door swings open, and Lachlan nudges her through. “Miranda shouldn’t be your concern anymore.”
We all pack ourselves into the vestibule, and the door swings shut behind us. It’s so crowded I can barely see the light from the other keypad. I can see enough to know when it goes out, though. And in the same moment, Erimentha’s power washes over me, throbbing and humming with deep vibrations only Bethany and I can feel.
Bethany draws a soft breath. She’s told me that she perceives non-void powers primarily though negative physical effects—nausea, irritability, pain. I hope this one’s hurting her bad.
It’s pitch black in here. I have a rough idea of the room’s layout—a gap in the floor just ahead of us, shelves and tables on this level, a tight, spiralling, iron staircase leading up to a balcony against the back wall.
Someone’s shoe squeaks against the floor. Above us, the vibrations shift, rising in frequency as Erimentha stirs. My stomach clenches.
And then Penelope begins to sing.
Her voice catches at first, rough and scratchy as it is when she speaks. But then it changes, rising in pitch, becoming so sweet I can almost taste it. There are no words in her song. Only a melody, rich and haunting, simple but somehow powerful despite the fact that she’s not drawing on any power at all—she’s still bound up in silver manacles, and an Agonite has no gifts aside from those related to pain.
The vibrations settle again.
“Wait here, I c’n light a lamp now,” Penelope says. “Then we’ll go up. Ye can speak, but softly.” It’s only a short break in the melody, but Erimentha is already growing agitated before Penelope begins her song again.
Such a tenuous barrier to have between us and certain destruction, but Penelope sounds confident. Even relaxed.
Her voice moves away from me, and a few seconds later, a soft, pale light shines from a small lantern set on a table on the other side of the gap that stretches a metre deep and almost as wide across the floor, waiting to trip up anyone who might chance breaking in, making them an easier target for an airborne predator. Penelope waits as Lachlan, Bethany, and the terrified keeper of the codes cross the gap to join her. Lachlan glances back to make sure I’m not getting too close.
The lantern Penelope’s picked up doesn’t provide much light, but it’s enough. It’s a shame the archives are kept in darkness and seen by so few. It’s actually a beautiful room. The shelves, tables, and chairs are all made from carved, polished wood, and the file boxes on the shelves are covered in deep crimson fabric—not at all like the plain cardboard boxes I was imagining—and they’re not the only items on the shelves. There must be a thousand books here, all bound in cloth or leather.
It would be a pleasant place to spend an evening if it didn’t smell a bit like bird shit and rotting meat.
The guards who aren’t in charge of me step over the gap, and one of them looks upward. I follow his gaze more slowly, letting myself take in the ornate staircase that’s barely visible at the edge of the lamp’s light and the railings of the balcony in the shadows above before I let myself see her.
Erimentha.
She was terrifying in the darkness, when everything I knew about her came from that weird power and the sounds of rustling feathers, beating wings, and enraged shrieks.
She’s worse with the lights on.
She lurks in the rafters as she did last time we met. I let my eyes adjust as the others follow Penelope across the floor, and slowly the details become clear. She’s as large as I thought, so big that it’s hard for my brain to translate anything of that scale as bird. The clawed toes that grip the scarred wooden beam are massive enough that she could carry an adult human in each, and it’s easy to imagine she might once have done just that if she ever had young to feed in a nest somewhere. Her beak is heavy and ends in a sharp hook made for tearing flesh, but she could swallow a child whole if she wanted to.
And her eyes… I want to look away, but I can’t. Her eyes are red as fresh blood and glow softly in the muted light. She’s awake and attentive. Calm for now, thanks to Penelope’s song, but she looks us over, marking each of our positions. She stretches her neck, leans back, and flaps her wings. The group on the floor freezes like rabbits caught in the shadow of a passing hawk. Then Penelope’s song changes, and the bird settles.
I let myself feel the vibrations again. I certainly don’t feel stronger. My powers are responding, but it’s not like void against fire. There’s no instinctive revulsion. Only the sense of dread that’s grown deeper at the sight of the source of that energy.
“Incredible,” Bethany says. I can just hear her over Penelope’s voice. “The power. It’s like nothing else I’ve felt. If we could harness this—”
“We?” Lachlan asks, and Bethany shrinks away.
“For your benefit,” she says. “For me to study, for you to use. If there were a way to take it into yourself… Once we get answers out of Ava—and we will—this could be the key to everything.”
Penelope is still singing, looking up at Erimentha with warmth and affection. Then she looks to me, her expression clear in the light of the lamp she’s still holding—sorrowful, but somehow bright and defiant despite the tears in her eyes.
I ’ope M’randa’ll understand.
The song becomes a scream. Penelope smashes the lantern against the floor, leaving us in absolute darkness, and her voice falls silent.
Her voice, but not the room. Erimentha picks up the scream, screeching at the same pitch, and the air is filled with the snap of her wings as she spreads them again. Drafts of warm air blow down over us.
I elbow the guard standing behind me as hard as I can in the ribs. It’s not much, given the body armour he’s wearing, but he grunts and releases me. Across the gap, a flashlight comes on.
Stupid fucker. A second later, the vampire screams as Erimentha catches him in her claws and carries him upward, then drops him to the floor. The flashlight rolls away—still lit, but no one dares pick it up.
Erimentha screeches and dives again. I leap over the gap and race toward the shelves to my right, closest to where I saw the code-keeper standing. Gunshots ring out behind me. I assume they’re aiming at Erimentha and not me, but I dive for cover as soon as I can and crawl behind the shelves.
I can’t see anything until I look back toward the centre of the floor. There, barely visible in the flashlight’s beam, stands Lachlan. He starts toward the door, but Penelope catches him by the arm. There’s not much to her, and she’s still handcuffed in silver. She can’t take him down.
But she doesn’t have to. She clings to his legs and screams again, drawing Erimentha’s attention. The bird dives, a massive shadow with talons outstretched, blocking the light as she lands.
Penelope’s scream ends.
I feel my way forward, following the sounds of someone else crawling behind the shelves. My fingers make contact with a suit jacket, and I pin the vampire wearing it against the floor.
The void flowing through him is anonymous, but familiar. He’s one of ours.
“Hey,” I whisper. “You. I’m on your side. We have to get out of here.”
He groans softly, and I clamp a hand over his mouth.
“The codes. What are they?”
“3-4-1-7-6. 7-3-5-2-1.” His voice sounds robotic. I hope he’s not scared so far out of his mind that it’s chased the correct numbers out of his head.
“Good. Now come on. This way.”
Erimentha has lifted off again. The flashlight’s beam is illuminating the staircase, which is enough for me. I head into the blackness in the opposite direction, staying behind the shelves, avoiding the chaos on the other side.
My fingers reach the edge of the gap, and I wait for my companion to catch up. “Climb down,” I whisper. “Then up the other side.”
I lead the way, feeling for the floor at the bottom, then reaching for the other side. The bullet wound in my side screams as I haul myself up and roll onto the floor, but there’s no time to listen. I crawl forward, hoping I’m heading for the door.
A hand closes on my left calf, and I jerk my leg away. It grabs again, and this time I kick back. My boot makes contact with a face, but a second hand joins the first.
Just behind me, the deafening beat of wings descends. Someone screams back by the gap, and Erimentha takes off again. Now the void in here is all Tempest.
God, I hope those codes are correct.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going, eh?” I don’t know which of the Tempest soldiers is rasping in my ear. I don’t care. All that matters is getting to that fucking door. I twist, buck, kick—anything to get free from the weight that’s holding me down. I know I don’t have much chance, injured as I am, but I’m not going down without a fight. I focus on channelling my energies into physical strength and throw punches blindly as quickly as I can.
One connects, and the soldier goes limp. A thrill of hope passes through my body despite the chaos that surrounds me.
Weak. Her power is making them weak.
Another shout—a female voice at the other end of the room. Bethany. I crawl forward again, feeling for the wall, wincing at the sound of my belt buckle scraping the floor.
A foot comes down on my lower back, followed by hands—grasping, feeling out my position as I try to roll away. Lachlan. His power washes over me, amplified by his rage. He grips the back of my shirt tight and grabs on to the back of my neck with his other hand. I wait for him to unleash his punishing strength on me—his void, the pure brute force of his body. Instead, he drops onto me, driving one knee into my back to pin me, and leans in close. “What have you done?” He slams my forehead into the floor with far less force than he should be capable of. “Damn you!”
I gather my strength and push against the floor. Pain explodes in every injured part of me—my fingers, my side, the gashes and bruises on my face and head. Lachlan rolls off me, but he’s still holding on to my ankle.
There’s no point reaching the door with him clinging to me. I reach down and grip his fingers in mine, twisting them free. When he immediately grabs on again, I turn on him, kicking hard, connecting with his ribs, his face, his arm… the side of his head.
He releases me. I push away, expecting him to grab on again, but he doesn’t follow. I don’t hear anything but the sounds of footsteps and gunshots on the other side of the gap.
I crawl headfirst into the wall and claw my way up, feeling desperately with splayed fingers for any sign of the door or the keypad. I find the little box but am working blind—there’s no light on this side to show the numbers on the keys. I guess anyone leaving here is supposed to do so when Erimentha is under control, with the help of a bit of light. It should be laid out like the keypad on a phone, though. Twelve buttons.
7-3-5-2-1. He’ll have given them to me in the order he should have needed them, outer to inner.
With a soft click, the door pops open.
Lachlan groans softly behind me.
I consider waiting. I don’t feel anyone carrying Maelstrom’s void power, but Penelope is weak. Maybe there’s still a chance…
I remember the sorrow in her eyes. The determination.
Penelope didn’t plan to survive this. Her choice wasn’t between torture and doing as Lachlan wished; it was between torture or taking down the son of a bitch responsible for her suffering and that of so many others. If she’s gone, it’s up to me to make sure her final wish is fulfilled.
I slip through the door and pull it closed behind me. The other keypad lights up.
3-4-1-7-6.
Something hits the door behind me. I hope Erimentha hears it and tears the bastard’s innards out while he can still feel it.
And before he remembers the codes he so wisely made the code-keeper whisper to him.
I haul the heavy door open and race out, momentarily blinded by the lights. I slam into a body and bounce off, landing on my back and sliding across the floor.
“Aviva?” I squint up and find a burnt and scarred face looming over me. “What the hell is going on?”
“Clark! Lachlan said you were gone.”
“I was hiding.” He pulls me to my feet. “But my phone’s not working down here. I don’t know what they did, but no one’s is. I have to get out.”
In an instant, I’ve forgiven any bad blood between us. “Please tell me you know how they got in—how we can get out.”
“That’s where I’m going. I tried to get to everyone else, but they’re locked up. There’s no point going back for them on our own. We need help.” He looks at the archive door. It’s impossible now to hear what’s going on in there. “But what—”
“Never mind that. Just get us out of here. Quickly.”
He doesn’t ask again. The corridors down here are quiet and remain so as he leads me deeper through the maze, using a key card to unlock doors that lead to more hallways. It’s not quite the maze the Agonites have set up, but I can see why everyone was so confident about the security of this back door—especially when we reach it and push our way through, emerging into what seems to be a cluttered basement. When I look behind me, the door has swung shut, becoming an invisible part of the concrete wall.
But they still got in.
And even if Lachlan gets torn apart by a monster bird, Tempest is now in control. This war isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
19
Ryder’s got the stock hidden in the west end of the city. I’m glad it’s not a long drive. Sunrise is upon us, and on a clearer day, Clark and I would be in real trouble. As it is, he’s still struggling to stay awake at the wheel.
“Why didn’t you go with Miranda?” I ask. Seems as if she’d want her assistant with her—he goes everywhere else she does.
His fingers tighten on the wheel. He’s seemed tense even in the safety of the car. I’m guessing it’s a reaction to my fire, but I can’t suppress it now when it’s helping me heal. He’s just going to have to deal with it.
“I tried,” he says. “She said that this time the stakes were too high—wouldn’t even tell me where she was going. She’d left Raymond in charge of things in the city, but I think Viktor’s betrayal shook her. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Raymond...”
“She just wanted someone there she was really sure about. I get it.”
He’s silent for another block, eyes glued to the road.
“You don’t like me much, do you?” I ask.
“No.” His voice is soft, but not apologetic.
“Thanks for getting me out of there, anyway.”
He glances over. “I wouldn’t have left you behind. It’s not personal.” He clears his throat. “I mean, it is. But you’re a symptom of a bigger problem, one that goes back to before you or I were vampires.”
I twist in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position. It’s impossible. “What problem?”
He shrugs. “Her interest in the unknown and the hidden. Her belief that there’s more to the supernatural world than we understand.”
“Wild cards,” I add, and he nods.
“That’s as good a description as any. Miranda hasn’t been careful. She knew other clans were watching, even wishing her ill, but she’s always been determined to do things her way. I don’t know why she made you a project, but here we are. And now everything’s coming to a head.”
There’s no malice in his voice. No judgement. He speaks of her like
someone who’s watched his soulmate go astray, though such a thing should be impossible for soulless creatures.
“She deserves better than this,” he says, flicking the windshield wipers on against a faint drizzle that’s barely heavy enough to require them. I’m not sure he’s really talking to me anymore. “She’s amazing—strong, clever, wise, powerful—but it’s too much for anyone. I wonder sometimes what things would be like for her if she’d been denied the chance to lead a clan, or if she’d just been a little less stubborn about things like the werewolves.”
I shoot him a glance from the corner of my eye. “That was her decision to make. I don’t think she regrets any of it.”
“But some of the responsibility lies with you, doesn’t it? If she’d been proven wrong and the werewolves exterminated, tensions with other clans might have settled. Viktor wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
“She wasn’t wrong, though.” I’m too focused on my pain to feel any real irritation, but it’s as if he’s talking about a fictional version of events.
“I know.” He glowers at me, though it’s actually friendly compared to what I was getting from Lachlan and Bethany. “If you’re right about all of this stuff with our powers, she’ll be convinced she was right to be so bullheaded.”
She was, I answer in my head, but there’s no point arguing. At least, not yet. Clark is one of the few vampires Miranda seems to trust. The last thing I need right now is to get on his bad side.
The city passes outside my window, too slowly for my liking. “What would you propose she do now?”
“If I thought she’d listen?” Clark shakes his head. “I don’t know. Fake her demise and run away to start over somewhere else?”
I snort. “Good luck with that.”
“One can dream.” He squints ahead. “We’re almost there. Is there anything I should pass along to Miranda when I talk to her?”
I’m about to tell him everything, but hesitate. Despite good advice to the contrary, I do have vampires I trust. But Clark’s not one of them. And Miranda’s good faith—anyone’s good faith—isn’t enough for me anymore.