The Shadow Hour

by Melissa Grey

  “The spine?” Echo asked. “You hid something inside it?”

  Stirling clapped a hand to his heart. “You have no idea how it pained me to do so, but the nature of my research into Avicen and Drakharin mythology was of such a secretive nature that I had to become creative with my hiding spots. Forsythe had cracked the safe I kept in my office—the rotten little slug—but I knew that no one would ever suspect me, the greatest fan of Phineas Ogilvy’s work, to deface the most valuable text in his impressive oeuvre by removing and subsequently replacing its bindings.”

  Clever. Echo was fast warming to Stirling’s particular brand of insanity. “What did you hide?”

  “A map I had never been able to decode. It’s written in a language so ancient, I was unable to decipher it.”

  A map. Echo never wanted to see another one of those as long as she lived.

  The professor rummaged through the chaos of his desk, pushing aside piles of paper scrawled with illegible notes, notebooks so battered it was a miracle that their pages weren’t spilling out of them, and glossy photographs of what appeared to be ancient texts, full of scribblings that pulled at Echo’s memory. Though she couldn’t read Avicet, much less antiquated forms of it, she recognized the swirls and slashes. All those years spent riffling the Ala’s bookshelves had instilled at least that much knowledge in her.

  “Ah, here we go.” Stirling held a photograph with both hands, reverently, as if it were as fragile as the torn papyrus it depicted. “This,” he said, pointing at a line of text near the bottom of the papyrus, “is a reference to a sacred place in both Avicen and Drakharin mythology. I discussed my findings with the prince—nice young man, that one—and as far as we were able to surmise based on context clues from the rest of the text, it’s some kind of burial ground that dates to a time before the schism. The map in the spine of Ogilvy’s folio shows its location.”

  “The schism?”

  “The schism, or as some translations would have it, the partition. Or the rendering. All those sentiments are captured in the original language. It was the definitive division between the Avicen and the Drakharin. The birth, some say, of the firebird and the kuçedra. The starting point of the war.”

  “But I was told no one could remember exactly when or why the war started.”

  “No one alive, perhaps.” Stirling set the photograph down gently between them on the desk. He got up and stretched, the buttons of his waistcoat hanging on for dear life. After putting the kettle on to boil again, he started pacing the room, hands in his pockets. Echo was ready to scream at him, to demand that he get on with it, when he finally spoke. “Everything I’ve come across in my research tells me there’s something significant about that mystery location. It’s tied to the events of the schism somehow. There are precious few archaeological sites that can shed light on the history of the Avicen and the Drakharin. They’re both very good at leaving behind few traces of their presence.”

  “Mage fire,” Echo whispered. It was how the Avicen and Drakharin cleaned their messes up. The Ala had explained as much when Echo asked how magical races had existed undetected by humanity for so long. The graphic descriptions of its usage had haunted little Echo for weeks.

  “Come again?”

  Echo shook the memory loose. “Nothing.” She stood and brushed shortbread crumbs from her jeans.

  Always such a sloppy eater, came a voice at the back of her head.

  Shut up, Rose.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Stirling said, “what do you plan to do with this information?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Echo said as she collected her belongings. Her time in the professor’s office had been a much-needed reprieve, but she had work to do. “I’m going to break in to the museum and steal the folio. Or at least what’s inside it.”

  Stirling’s hands fluttered as he crossed the room to pick up a green pitcher with a long spout on the windowsill. Echo got the feeling that he needed something to do with his hands to still their nervous movement. It must have been one hell of a folio. “Oh, do be careful with it,” Stirling said.

  “I will be,” Echo said. “Scout’s honor.” She slung her backpack over her shoulder. “One more thing?”

  The professor looked up from his watering of a half-dead fern. “Anything for a friend of Caius’s.”

  “Don’t tell him I was here.”

  Stirling froze, the water sloshing over the sides of the fern’s earthenware pot. “Well, he is a dear friend of mine….”

  “It’s for his safety,” Echo said in a rush. “I might be heading into some dangerous situations, and I don’t want him to follow me.”

  Clutching the pitcher to his chest, Stirling hesitated. “Oh, I don’t know….”

  He was so close to agreeing. She could taste it.

  “Please,” she said. “I don’t want him getting hurt.”

  Sometimes, the truth is the very best weapon in one’s arsenal.

  “Oh, all right, then.” He mimed zipping his lips closed. “Mum’s the word.”

  Echo smiled, surprised by how genuinely it came. “Thank you.”

  “And for the record,” Stirling added, returning to his plants, “Walt’s wife never loved him anyway.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Ivy had never been to Scotland as anything but a captive. She’d never felt the need to visit, not just because it had a reputation for being cold and damp, but also because all Avicen knew it was off-limits. There were parts of the British Isles that were relatively safe; London was too massive a city for the Drakharin to patrol—they were far more insular a people than the Avicen, and as far as they were concerned, the fewer dealings with humans, the better. But Scotland? That was their seat of power, and had been for hundreds of years. Few Avicen set foot on Scottish soil and lived to tell the tale. Ivy had defied the odds once. She wasn’t entirely sure she’d be able to do it a second time. She shivered, though the grayish afternoon sunlight in the Highlands was warmer than she had thought it would be.

  Quinn’s hand on Ivy’s arm was firm but oddly gentle. Perhaps, she thought, he’d taken Dorian’s warning to heart, but when she felt his warm breath stir her hair-feathers as he leaned down to whisper in her ear, she knew that threats were not something that struck fear into his cold, dead heart.

  “Frightened?” he asked, the smile she couldn’t see evident in his voice. The question was rhetorical. She was shaking, and it had nothing to do with the weather; it was a full-body tremble, from her feet to her shoulders, and she knew the bastard could feel it.

  “Of this place?” she said, jerking her head at the portcullis before them. The gaping maws of two stone dragons were situated on either side of the gate, reminding Ivy of gargoyles. Their fangs were sharp and their eyes seemed to follow her as she walked over the wooden drawbridge, which had conveniently been left down. The people inside Wyvern’s Keep knew she and Quinn were coming, and had probably known for some time. The plan was, after all, to simply walk up to the front door, subtlety be damned. She fought to still her trembling. “Please. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.”

  The words were such slim bravado, a page torn from Echo’s book. How could she not be frightened? For herself. For Echo—wherever she was. For her Avicen brothers and sisters, dead, dying, banished from their home. In the span of a few months, the world had become a very frightening place.

  Quinn snorted, disturbing Ivy’s hair-feathers once more. She jerked her head away from him, and he laughed, tightening his grip on her arm. “None of that, now,” he said. “You’re supposed to be my prisoner, remember?” His fingers dug into her muscle painfully, and she winced. “Act like it.” He released the pressure, but the warning was clear. It wasn’t just her life at stake. If the Drakharin knew they were being deceived, Quinn’s head would roll, just as surely as hers would.

  They reached the gate. The bridge might have been left down, but the gate was still shut, its points nearly scraping the arched entryway. The courtya
rd on the other side was empty, but Ivy spied movement in the shadows. They were not alone. And they were being watched. One of the slim windows above the portcullis darkened. It was a thin, rectangular hole cut into the stone, just wide enough for an archer to fire an arrow through it. Drakharin archers were the stuff of legend. Bedtime stories designed to frighten little Avicen children were full of them. Supposedly, they never missed. Ivy hoped she wouldn’t have the opportunity to find out if the reality measured up to the myth.

  The keep’s battlements soared high into the cloudy sky, impossibly tall from where Ivy was standing. She gulped, feeling the contents of her stomach roil with her rising anxiety. “So,” she said, “do we just ring the bell?”

  There wasn’t a bell, but if Ivy had learned anything from ten years as Echo’s best friend, it was that sometimes the best way to handle a crisis was to quip one’s way through it.

  As soon as she’d finished her sentence, the gate started to descend, more silently than she would have expected. Behind her, she could feel Quinn straighten. It was showtime, and Quinn, she had deduced in their brief time together, was nothing if not an expert showman. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” he said. “Our welcome party has just arrived.”

  In the courtyard, figures materialized out of the shadows. They wore simple leather tunics bearing the insignia of the Dragon Prince on the chest. It took two of them to pull open the massive wooden doors at the far end of the courtyard. Ivy’s blood chilled as she caught sight of a familiar form, silhouetted by the firelight inside. Tanith stepped through the open doors, her scarlet cloak draped over a gown of golden silk, flanked by half a dozen Firedrakes in full armor. Halfway across the courtyard, she stopped and waited, her blond hair moving slightly in the breeze. Her silence was terrifying.

  Quinn pushed Ivy forward, and she stumbled, her stubborn feet refusing to comply. The warlock showed little mercy as he pulled her along, his grip on her arm as tight as a vise. “I’ve come bearing gifts,” he called out, his voice echoing across the courtyard.

  As they drew closer to Tanith and her guards, Ivy’s heart fluttered in her throat. She was afraid she might vomit. And wouldn’t that be a shame, to puke on Tanith’s lovely golden gown. The thought made Ivy giggle, and even she could hear the hysteria that colored it. Tanith arched an elegant eyebrow, her crimson gaze inscrutable, and the laugh died in Ivy’s throat like an open flame doused with water.

  “I believe there was mention of a reward,” Quinn said as they came to a halt two yards from Tanith. He was playing his role well. Too well, Ivy thought. Not for the first time, the incongruity of the situation hit her. She was entrusting her life to someone who was, by all accounts, not to be trusted. “An accomplice of the firebird,” he continued, “in exchange for enough riches to make the pope blush.”

  Quinn released Ivy’s arm and shoved her toward Tanith. Ivy hadn’t realized until that moment how much the warlock’s touch—abhorrent as it was—had anchored her. Now, presented before the most fearsome person she’d ever had the misfortune to encounter, she felt alone, small, weak. Like a frightened animal. If she had a tail, it would be tucked between her legs. The fact that she kept her feet under her was a minor miracle. Her body was quaking so hard it felt as if her skeleton would shatter. One of the Firedrakes to the rear of the group caught her eye. It could have been her fear-addled mind playing tricks on her, but Ivy could have sworn he nodded at her almost imperceptibly, as if to encourage her to stand her ground.

  “And who are you?” asked Tanith, her eyes drifting from Ivy to Quinn. On anyone else, it would have been a lazy gesture, but the new Dragon Prince’s gaze was sharp. She was calm, but she missed nothing, not a single detail.

  Quinn stepped forward, placing himself even with Ivy. He bowed deeply, head dipped low in reverence. “They call me Quinn, Your Grace.”

  Tanith scoffed. “Save your bowing for someone else.” She stepped closer to them, and Ivy bit her tongue. Better to focus on the pain rather than the terror. She needed to do something to prevent herself from falling victim to panic. Quinn straightened. Tanith’s hand shot out and grasped his chin, turning his head from side to side, studying his features. Quinn bore her appraisal with uncharacteristic silence. “You’re a warlock,” she said.

  Quinn winked. At Tanith, of all people. Ivy wondered if he had a death wish. “The eyes aren’t meant to deceive, my lady. The effect is merely to enhance. I take no shame in what I am, so I see no need to hide it.”

  “Of course you don’t. I would think shame would be one of the first of many traits sacrificed on your path to power.” Tanith took a step back and dipped her head in Ivy’s direction. Two Firedrakes seized Ivy’s arms, bracketing her between their considerable bulk.

  “To the dungeon?” one of them asked. Ivy was surprised at how young his voice sounded. It was the one who had maybe nodded at her. But then again, maybe he hadn’t. It was entirely possible that fear was causing her to hallucinate. The mention of the dungeon, where she had spent several lonely, maddening days before being rescued by Caius and Echo, made her head feel strangely light.

  Tanith met Ivy’s gaze and held it for a brief, silent moment. Eventually, her lips curled into a small smile. “No,” said Tanith. “Prepare the uppermost room in the tower.” She stepped closer, her cloak brushing the toes of Ivy’s shoes. Tanith stared down at her—she was taller than Ivy remembered—and continued, “Bring the warlock to the great hall. We’ll discuss the terms of his reward there. And then I’ll head up to the tower to join our guest. Perhaps the little bird will sing if she’s comfortable. My preferred methods proved so disappointingly fruitless last time.”

  Ivy supposed that was a nicer way to say that being tortured hadn’t worked so well. A swell of pride surged through her, but it was quelled when Tanith reached out to cup her chin.

  Her next words pierced Ivy like shards of ice. With another cruel smile, Tanith added, “Welcome back, little dove.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  London, to Echo’s surprise, was beginning to feel a bit like home. She’d gone straight from Edinburgh Waverley station to King’s Cross, emerging from the blackness of the in-between through a rarely used utility closet. Wisdom dictated that she should have hopped from station to station by way of a scattered path across the globe, muddling her tracks to make it that much harder for anyone to follow her through the in-between, but shadow dust was not an infinite resource. Conservation was key. A rare surge of gratefulness went through her for all the days she’d learned to live on little before the Ala—

  No.

  She couldn’t let herself think about the Ala. Couldn’t let her mind stray to places where she would find only pain. She had to focus on the task at hand, and the task at hand was navigating the rush-hour crowd in one of the world’s most notoriously busy rail stations. Hopefully, it was busy enough that she would be nearly impossible to find. A needle in a stack of needles, as it were.

  Hands in her pockets, Echo passed besuited men and women hurrying to catch their trains, gaggles of tourists taking pictures of the high glass ceilings above the National Rail tracks, and harried Underground employees barking into walkie-talkies held in one hand while pointing out directions for the lost with the other. In the station’s main concourse, a small queue was forming, where both children and adults had stopped to photograph themselves pretending to push a half-submerged luggage trolley through a wall. The smell of Cornish pasties wafted from a nearby stand, reminding Echo of her empty stomach and her even emptier wallet.

  As soon as she stepped outside the station, the familiar scent of London assaulted her. Every city had its own smell, some more noxious than others. New York in the summer was all sweat and asphalt, with the occasional whiff of hot garbage. London’s atmosphere almost always held the promise of rain, even on clear days. It wasn’t humid the way New York was, but then few places were. It was more like there was always a reprieve from the summer heat on the horizon and you knew you wouldn’t
have to wait too long to experience it.

  Echo’s path was a straight shot down Tottenham Court Road and a left at Great Russell Street; then she came upon the British Museum.

  Standing on the sidewalk, facing the building’s Greek Revival facade with its massive Ionic columns framing the front doors and its pediment depicting the progress of human civilization, Echo realized that breaking into this vaunted institution was going to be far trickier than strolling into the Met with Caius at her side.

  It was an hour until opening, and the dark, imposing gates—spiked at the top to discourage plucky heroes and curious youths from scaling their heights—were still closed. Echo weighed her options with care. She could try to find an entrance that would allow her to access the in-between, but her knowledge of the museum layout was scant to say the least. The last time she’d visited, two years prior, Rowan had been at her side. The museum had been showing an exhibit of drawings on the grotesque. Rowan was dismayed to find the show had more of a scholarly bent than he desired. It was a little too much Temptation of Saint Anthony and not enough graphically envisioned viscera. The only thing to catch his eye had been the “mermaid” in the Enlightenment Gallery, which was actually just the upper half of a monkey sewn onto the bottom half of a fish. In the great scheme of things, Rowan wasn’t terrifically difficult to please.

  With her supply of shadow dust running low, Echo would have to be crafty about entering the museum after hours. The time she’d bought herself by leaving Avalon in the dead of night was rapidly dwindling. Echo shoved her hands in her pockets and huffed out a breath. Waiting might be the death of her. As if she hadn’t already died once.

  —

  After sunset, Great Russell Street was relatively quiet. A few stragglers wandered past, on their way toward the much busier Tottenham Court Road. Soon enough, the street was empty and Echo was alone. Now all she had to do was climb the fence—which was going to be harder than it sounded—find a way in that didn’t involve shadow dust, disable the guards, and locate the book Stirling was certain Forsythe had hidden in plain sight.