The Shadow Hour

by Melissa Grey

  Echo took the gloves out of her backpack and pulled them on. The palms had a rubber grip that would make scaling the gate that much easier. She tied her leather jacket around her waist. She’d be needing it shortly.

  It was not the most graceful of climbs. There weren’t any convenient footholds halfway up, and more than once, she slid down the wrought-iron rails before figuring out how to leverage her weight between them. She shimmied up until she reached the top, her eyes level with the spiked golden finials. With one hand and both legs clinging to the rail for dear life, she unwound her jacket from around her waist, said a quick prayer to whatever deity cared about garments, and draped it over the top of the fence. It would pain her to tear holes in the jacket, but it would pain her more to tear holes in herself. With a mighty heave, she swung one leg over the top of the fence. Getting down, she thought, would be a million times easier.

  Easier, that is, if it hadn’t been for what she saw rounding the corner. Two people—men, judging by their height and considerable bulk—approached, their forms outlined in the streetlight near the corner. Atop their heads were the unmistakable hats that marked them as London police.

  Echo’s leg slipped, the denim of her jeans slick against the iron rail. She flung herself over the fence, snatching her jacket as she tumbled, and landed on the museum side, her bones rattling with the force of the fall.

  Everything hurt. Echo forced herself to scramble into the bushes, hoping that, combined with the relative darkness of the evening, they would be enough to hide her. Her body would be one giant bruise in a few hours, but she’d gotten over the fence, albeit not quite the way she’d planned. The police officers’ footfalls approached. She held her breath. The pouch of shadow dust was in her pocket. If they spotted her, she would have to run to the gate’s entrance and hope that it had enough magic stored from all the people entering and leaving the museum to operate as a threshold to the in-between.

  The sound of the officers’ chatter grew louder. “—and then she said I wouldn’t know real romance if it bit me on the arse!”

  Manly chuckling, and then: “You reckon she’ll take you back?”

  More chuckles. “She always does.”

  They passed by Echo without so much as slowing down. She let out a shaky sigh, her rib cage aching from the movement of her chest. She poked her head out of the bushes. The coast was clear. With a final glance around the museum’s plaza and the street beyond the fence, she jogged toward a side entrance. She’d seen employees using it during the day, mainly maintenance workers. If she was going to sneak in unnoticed, it was a far less conspicuous option than the front door.

  A siren wailed as a fire truck sped down a nearby street. Echo stared at the locked door. Had it been a simple lock—even a dead bolt—getting through would be a breeze. She’d yet to meet a lock she couldn’t pick. But the key-card reader beside the door presented an interesting dilemma, its illuminated red dot mocking her. The author of the book of spells she normally relied on for heists hadn’t seen fit to include a chapter on disabling electronic card readers. Once inside, she knew how to disable the security cameras and induce temporary sleep in the guards, but she wasn’t sure the same spell would work on the door. She drummed her fingers against the plastic, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. If only she could cut the power to it…

  Sparks burst from Echo’s fingertips. She yanked her hand back instinctively, but it wasn’t burnt. A smile tugged at her lips as she rubbed her fingers together. The little red light blinked off as curls of smoke rose from the card reader. Securing her backpack more tightly around her shoulders, she opened the now unlocked door and went through it. She pulled it shut behind her, submerging herself in darkness, and entered the museum.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Ivy had expected to be kept in the dungeon. Now, as she took in her accommodations, she was glad that the cage chosen for her was a luxurious one. Decorated with fine silks and plush carpeting, the only real indication that the room was a prison were the bars on the bay window, and even those could be hidden by a heavy velvet curtain. The window was open, and the smell of the sea reached her, a faint hint of salt and ocean spray flavoring the air.

  “I hope the room is to your liking,” the Dragon Prince said. Tanith’s voice still held the rhythmic, rolling accent of the Drakhar language even though she spoke English for Ivy’s sake. “I want this visit to be more pleasant than your last.”

  Visit. As though Ivy hadn’t been kidnapped and carted off half unconscious like a sack of potatoes by warlocks sent to ransack Perrin’s shop in the Agora. As if she hadn’t been forced to listen to Perrin’s torture and his final shuddering breaths. As if Tanith hadn’t used pain to extract information from Ivy that she didn’t have.

  Ivy didn’t acknowledge Tanith or turn to look at her. She couldn’t face those bloodred eyes or the self-satisfied smirk on Tanith’s face or the fire-bright gleam of her golden armor. Not yet. Instead, she continued to catalog her surroundings. The bedroom was decorated with the detached elegance of a guest room. The spacious bed was enveloped by a deep green damask canopy heavy enough to block out the brightest morning light. In front of the stone fireplace was a small sitting area with a divan upholstered in aubergine velvet and two high-backed chairs with curving arms and matching footrests. A mahogany table sat in the midst of it, a silver tea set atop it.

  It was the highest room in the keep’s tallest tower. Ivy felt a little like a princess in a fairy tale, one of the dark, twisted ones. Her room may have been outfitted for comfort, but it couldn’t be more clear that she was a prisoner, not a guest.

  She turned to face her captor. Tanith cocked her head to the side, blond hair falling in soft waves over armored epaulets. Ivy opened her mouth. And closed it again. She was too afraid to speak. Tanith cut a terrifying figure and knew it.

  “I’m afraid we got off on the wrong foot,” said Tanith. She clasped her hands behind her back, perhaps in an effort to look harmless. It didn’t quite work.

  The inanity of the comment was too much to stomach. Ivy found her voice at last. “You tortured me.” The words came out stronger than she herself felt. She held tight to her anger. It was better than being afraid. “ ‘The wrong foot’ doesn’t even begin to cover that.”

  Tanith was silent for a moment, eyes narrowed as if assessing Ivy’s mettle, and Ivy fought not to wilt under that gaze. “I would apologize for that, too, but we both know that would be a lie,” Tanith finally said. “I did what I believed I had to do. I will not ask for your forgiveness, nor do I expect it. I merely hope that you and I may come to an understanding.”

  “And what sort of understanding would that be?”

  Tanith strode across the room, coming to a halt in front of the fireplace. She dragged a finger over the mantel, then inspected it as if looking for dust. Caius was a bit of a neat freak; maybe the character trait was genetic. “Contrary to what you believe,” Tanith said, “I don’t like to cause pain. If pain is the most efficient way to bring about a desired result, however, I will inflict it as I see fit.”

  “You don’t have to threaten me,” Ivy said. “I know what you’re capable of.” For a moment, she could almost feel the burn of Tanith’s fire again, held so near to her feathers that they singed. The smell of that had lingered in Ivy’s memories for weeks. “I remember.”

  Tanith turned her gaze to Ivy. “You have no idea what I’m capable of. What I did to you was nothing.” The effort it took for Tanith to soften her voice was obvious. “But our situations have changed. It wouldn’t be in my best interest to hurt you now. Or kill you.”

  “I didn’t think my life mattered to you at all,” said Ivy.

  “In the greater scheme of things, it doesn’t. I’ve slaughtered hundreds of your kind. Your death would be but a drop in an ocean. But there is someone who cares if you live or die: the firebird. Your demise would be devastating to your friends.”

  “If you’re looking for information, I won’t give y
ou any. Unlike you, I don’t betray the people I love.”

  Tanith’s smile was tight-lipped. Ivy hoped her words had hit close to home. She couldn’t hurt Tanith with weapons or fists or swords, but words…words she could use.

  “You see,” Tanith continued as if Ivy hadn’t spoken, “killing the firebird wouldn’t have accomplished anything other than removing a piece from the chessboard. But I don’t want that piece removed, I want it in play. And I want it at my mercy. I cannot force Echo to cooperate by threatening her, but I can use you to persuade her. She is a brave girl, I’ll give her that. She faced me in the Black Forest with the courage of a seasoned warrior.”

  Tanith turned toward the door, sweeping her cloak behind her. “But love makes us uniquely vulnerable.” Something flitted across the Dragon Prince’s face, too fast for Ivy to comprehend. “I’m relying on the firebird’s love for you to trump that steel will of hers.” The door opened as though the guard on the other side had some sort of sixth sense. Tanith glanced back at Ivy. “In three days’ time, you will be escorted to the courtyard through which you entered the keep, secured to a stake with chains as thick as your wrist, and set alight by my own fire.”

  Ivy’s stomach dropped as if she were standing aboard the deck of a ship in danger of capsizing. An execution. Tanith was planning her execution. Ivy had known she was walking into the viper’s nest, but she hadn’t expected a fatal bite to come so quickly. She swallowed past the thickness of her suddenly dry tongue before speaking. “Why three days?” she asked. “If you’re just going to kill me, why wait?”

  Tanith smiled, slow and satisfied, as if Ivy’s fear were exactly the succulent snack she’d been craving. “It’s not that I particularly want to kill you, little bird. But I want Echo to believe that I will. And I need to give the news time to reach her ears so she’ll come running to your rescue. She doesn’t fear death. Not her own. But yours? That she fears.” With that, Tanith stepped through the door, one hand tapping a jaunty rhythm on the knob. “I’ll have some food sent up. You’ve had a long day. You must be hungry.”

  Before Ivy could muster a reply, Tanith was gone. As the door closed, its lock turning with a decisive click, Ivy caught a glimpse of a single guard. She must not be seen as enough of a threat to merit more than one. And why would the Dragon Prince see her as anything but a means to an end? A wriggling worm on a hook designed to draw out bigger prey. To Tanith, Ivy was barely a pawn in this game, an inconsequential piece that could be sacrificed with few consequences. To Tanith, Ivy was nothing.

  A trembling hand rose to clutch the pendant at her neck. Its thin edges dug into the flesh of her fingers. In three days’ time, Ivy would be dead. Three days.

  With a ragged exhalation, she released the pendant, her fingers aching but now steady.

  Three days.

  Three freakin’ days.

  It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The maintenance entrance of the British Museum let Echo into a pitch-black hallway, where she promptly knocked over not a single broom but a small army of them. She groped wildly, hoping to catch at least one or two before they fell, but the handles danced out of her reach and clattered to the floor, the sound of wood hitting marble echoing through the corridor. She cringed.

  Well, that was certainly one way to announce her presence.

  Shlemiel, she thought. Yiddish. “Someone likely to spill a steaming-hot bowl of soup at dinner.”

  The beam of a flashlight slashed through the dark. Echo ducked behind several boxes of cleaning supplies, the smell of disinfectant tickling her nose.

  The security guard holding the flashlight called out, “Who’s there?”

  With a silent curse, Echo began the spell she’d used a hundred times before. She traced an Avicet rune on the floor, the lines and swirls summoned from sheer muscle memory. “By the shadows and by the light,” she whispered furiously, “may I pass beyond all sight. From here to there, as quick as air, as I will it, so shall it be.”

  With each word uttered, she felt the power of the spell rising within her. She concentrated on the words, on the way they felt in her mouth, on the sounds they made in the shadowy stillness of her hiding spot. The symbol she had traced with her finger appeared on the marble floor, glowing with a faint white light.

  Huh.

  That had never happened before.

  The symbol faded as quickly as it had appeared. Motes of light danced in the air before her and dispersed, like the delicate seeds of a dandelion in the wind. The flashlight cut out, and a second later, Echo heard the thump of the guard’s body as he slumped to the ground, overcome. The green light on the security camera near the ceiling faded to black.

  Echo’s head began to ache from the spell’s magic. It was a small price to pay, and if it was the worst thing she had to deal with in the museum, she’d count it as a blessing. Maybe things would be easy from here on out. Maybe she would find what she needed; figure out a nice, bloodless way to stop the kuçedra; heal the Ala and the others stricken by its dark poison; and be home in time for supper.

  But then again, maybe her next trial was simply waiting to spring when she least expected it. Because that was just how her life tended to work.

  Echo rose, dusting herself off, and headed down the corridor to the Great Court, at the museum’s center.

  Schlemazel, she thought, feeling along the wall to find her way in the darkness. Also Yiddish. “The person likely to have the steaming-hot bowl of soup poured on her.”

  —

  Dr. Walter Forsythe, according to Professor Stirling, kept meticulous records of every book under his purview and guarded the collection of texts in the Enlightenment Gallery, formally the King’s Library, with the tenacity of a mythical dragon protecting a trove of treasures.

  Unfortunately for Dr. Forsythe, the safeguarding of the current King’s Library had not been designed to withstand magic the kind of which Echo was ready and willing to wield. Nobody ever saw her coming. That felt like a superpower in itself.

  The exit of the maintenance corridor opened into the museum’s central hub, the Great Court. Echo stepped over the guard, mindful of the flashlight that had tumbled out of his hand as he fell into his sudden slumber.

  Even at night, the Great Court was resplendent. The soaring glass roof let in just enough light to illuminate the triangular panes that created a curving, dome-like effect. Echo kept her footsteps quiet, though the chances of her being discovered were slim. Every guard and security camera in the vicinity would be out of commission.

  She passed through the Great Court and entered the foyer near the main entrance. The Enlightenment Gallery was on her left, and if the memory of her first time in the British Museum after hours served, the door was locked at night. But this time, the door was partially ajar. Hushed voices came from the room, too quiet for Echo to pick out words. She tiptoed closer, pressed against the wall so she would be out of sight of whoever was speaking. Everyone should have been asleep by now. That was how the spell worked, and it had never failed her before.

  There were at least two people, maybe more. She crouched to slip the dagger from her boot and then inched forward, straining to hear the conversation. The voices fell silent.

  She could wait, but the spell she’d cast wouldn’t last forever. And she’d come too far to turn back now. Whoever was in there must have known she was coming—she could only hope they didn’t know exactly what she’d come for. Either way, she would have to fight them for it. Echo steeled herself and laid a gentle hand on the door.

  Now or never.

  She sprang forward, pushing the door open and staying low. People had a tendency to aim at chest level when caught unawares, and she had no clue what kind of weapon her adversaries were armed with. Hopefully, if they pulled a trigger—literally or metaphorically—any shots would go right over her head.

  The door bounced off the wall. No shots came. No arrows were fired. The gallery interi
or was dark save for the light from the blue-tinted spotlights that illuminated the building’s facade. Marble statues so white they seemed to glow cast eerie shadows on the bookcases lining the walls. Near the front of the room was a fireplace full of neatly arranged logs meant purely for show.

  And leaning against either side of the mantel, not looking the least bit surprised to find her there, were Caius and Rowan.

  Caius cocked his head to the side, his grin almost lost to shadow. “We really need to stop meeting like this.”

  With a groan, Echo rose. “Really? You had how many hours to come up with a good opening zinger and that’s what you went with?”

  Rowan rolled his eyes. “That’s enough, both of you.” He cast a look at the dagger in Echo’s hand and frowned. She wondered if he recognized it. The last time he’d seen it, it had been protruding from between his Warhawk partner’s shoulder blades. But if he did recognize it, he neglected to say anything other than “I don’t think you’ll be needing that.”

  Echo relaxed her grip on the hilt. “Guess not.” She knelt to slide it back into its sheath, pulling her pant leg down to hide the tip of the pommel sticking up from her boot. “How were you unaffected by the spell?” she asked. “It should have knocked you both out.”

  They both reached into their pockets and produced two identical pouches with an Avicet rune scratched into the leather. Rowan shook the contents of his pouch into his hand, revealing a chunk of amber, a few seeds, and the head of a spoon that had been snapped off its stem.

  “Protective charm bags,” he explained. “Remember that time you brought me here and showed me how to do the spell?” Echo nodded. Rowan poured the ingredients back into the bag and said, “Well, I got curious and looked up counterspells after that. Turns out all you need to repel an attack like that is some amber, a couple of quince seeds, and, for some reason, a spoon. Something about deflecting the spell from the wearer. We made these in a bit of a rush, but they did the trick.”