I feel the blood drain from my face, my arms, my legs. It pools around my feet like cement, rooting them to the floor.
“Miss Mowbray, I presume?” Blackwell says. “I know it’s not the done thing to call you out before the unmasking. But I simply couldn’t let a cherished guest go by without offering a word of condolence.”
John sucks in a sharp, quick breath.
“Thank you,” I say. I keep my voice soft, hoping he won’t recognize it.
“I was so sorry to hear about your grandmother,” he continues. I nod, remembering Humbert mentioning the duchess was ill. “Such a pity.” I nod again, waiting for him to excuse himself. But he doesn’t. John steps forward and takes my arm, but Blackwell’s undeterred. “Might I persuade this young man to allow me one dance?”
John pauses a beat too long. “Of course,” he says, his voice tight.
“I’ll have her back soon,” Blackwell adds carelessly. He takes my arm and pulls me into the crowd. I look back at the others, their masks unable to hide the horror on their faces.
“Enjoying your evening?”
“Hmm,” I reply, too horrified to speak. All I can wonder is, does he really believe he’s dancing with one of the queen’s ladies? Or does he know it’s me? Did he somehow figure it out? I realize how stupid we were to think we could outsmart him. Blackwell knows everything that happens in his home. He knows everything that happens everywhere. I feel like a fly, fluttering on the edge of a spider’s web. I could escape, unharmed. But one false move and I’m dead.
“Good,” he says, seemingly oblivious to my terror. We dance along the hall, and I try my best to appear adept. Or at least not trip over my feet. But he seems oblivious to this as well. He barely seems to notice me. Instead, he looks around the room, craning his neck as if he’s searching for something. Finally, the music begins to wind down. He leads me back to the doors, only on the opposite side of the room from where the others stand waiting. I can see their anxious faces bobbing through the crowd, looking for me.
“It was a pleasure,” he says, releasing me. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some matters to attend to.” I nod and dip a curtsy, and Blackwell turns to leave. As I back away from him, he turns around. “Oh, and Miss Mowbray?”
“Y-yes?” I stammer, too frightened to remember to disguise my voice.
He pauses, and I see a flicker of something cross his eyes.
“If you’re going outside for some air, do be careful. As I understand it, we may have some unwanted guests this evening. But don’t worry. My men are on it.” Then he’s gone.
For a moment, my mind goes blank with terror. Does he know we’re here? Are we the unwanted guests? I don’t know. But I know I need to get the others out of here. Now. I don’t have time to wait until the masque starts, and I don’t have time to wait for Peter. And if I’ve got any hope of destroying the tablet, I’ve got to do that now, too.
I look to where the others are standing and catch John staring at me through the crowd. I’m sorry, I mouth. Then I turn around. And I run.
I hurtle down the stairs, into the entrance hall. Lining the walls is a series of arches, set about a foot or so into the stone. They’re purely decorative, all except one. I go to the third archway, place my hands against the flat stone surface, and push. It slides open to reveal a wide stone tunnel running the length of the great hall and beyond, all the way to the other side of the palace.
I gather my dress and squeeze through, pulling the door shut behind me.
“Schuyler,” I say. “Blackwell knows we’re here. Get the others out and meet me in the woods in ten minutes.”
The tunnel ends in a simple wooden door. On the other side is another staircase leading downstairs, into the dormitory. I pause a moment, listening for voices. It’s just a precaution; no one lives here anymore. But you never know.
I don’t hear anything, so I run down the stairs and into my old room. It’s somewhat of a shock to see it again. Tiny, windowless, dark. I never realized how much it looks like a prison cell. I haven’t been here in nearly a year, though you’d never know it. My bed is still unmade; one of my uniforms lies crumpled on the floor. There are a few weapons laid across the trunk at the end of the bed. It’s almost as if I never left.
Quickly, I pull the Azoth from the scabbard under my skirt. Strip off my dress, yank the jewels from my ears and the combs from my hair, grab my uniform off the floor. I don’t really want to wear it, but I can’t destroy the tablet in a dress. And the last thing I need is for someone else to mistake me for Cecily Mowbray.
I pull on the tight black trousers, the wrinkled white shirt, the knee-length black boots. Draw on the long tan leather coat, fasten the leather straps across my chest. After refastening the Azoth around my waist, I strap my weapons belt over my shoulder and holster everything I can find. A couple of large, serrated knives, a handful of daggers. An ax and an awl. It’s not as much as I’d like, but it’s better than nothing.
As I slip in the last dagger, my hand snags on something. I look down and realize I’m still wearing Humbert’s sapphire ring. I start to pull it off, and then remember what he told me. It’s a lucky ring. I keep it on, just in case.
I climb the stairs and follow the tunnel to one of several doors that lead outside. I can hear the bells in the courtyard clock begin to chime.
Nine o’clock.
I move quietly across the shadowy grounds, past the tennis court and the archery butts, the stables and the hedge maze, until I reach the edge of the grounds. It spreads out before me, vast and dark. I remember all the things I’ve faced out here and feel a tug of fear. There’s no telling who or what is prowling around tonight.
When I reach the forest, I take a sharp right, walking along the tree line, heading in the direction of the river. The last time I took this walk, I was on my way to my test. I still remember hearing the echoes of ships as they passed, the waves slapping against their hulls. The tomb is somewhere near the water.
I hear the tiniest rustle of leaves, and I whirl around, dagger drawn.
“Easy, bijoux. It’s only me.” Schuyler steps up beside me.
“What happened? Did they get out?”
He nods. “On the dock as we speak.”
I huff a sigh of relief. “What did you tell them?”
“The truth. Said Blackwell knew you were here, and you were off to get the tablet.”
“And?”
He shrugs. “And that’s it. They’re gone. Peter will be here soon, and they’ll be safe. Just as you planned.”
It is what I planned. But what I didn’t plan was how their being gone would make me feel. Empty. Hollow.
Alone.
I look up to find Schuyler watching me carefully. He doesn’t say anything. He only nods.
We’re getting close to the tomb now; I can feel it. The air is getting colder, my breath coming in little plumes, and the woods are eerily silent. No crickets chirping, no owls hooting, no mouse or rat rustling the odd branch or two. There’s only silence.
Then I see it. From the outside, it’s harmless. A simple wooden door set into a patch of dying winter grass, partially covered in a carpet of leaves. It’s so unremarkable that if you weren’t looking for it, you would miss it.
“Schuyler,” I say. He had walked right past it.
He turns around, following my gaze. When his eyes land on the door, he swears under his breath and exhales loudly. I guess that’s just for emphasis. Revenants don’t need to breathe.
I start to pull the Azoth from the scabbard. It’s halfway out, the silver blade and the emerald hilt glinting in the moonlight, when Schuyler holds out a hand to stop me.
“Don’t,” he says. “Use it to break the tablet, but not for anything else. Not unless you absolutely have to. You already killed that guard. You don’t want to give the curse another chance to take hold.”
“Okay.” I ease the blade back down. “I don’t know what shape I’ll be in… after. I’ll do what I can from
the inside, but in case I’m not able, I need you to attack it from the outside, too.”
Schuyler nods.
“Don’t come for me until you hear me call for you,” I continue. “If you hear me scream, ignore it. It’s just… part of it. And if they come for you—for us—don’t wait for me. Run.”
I walk to the door and reach down, grab the heavy iron ring, and pull. I yank once, twice. On the third try the trapdoor creaks open. Down the wooden steps to the other door, the door that only after fear, after magic, after illusion, and after death, is the Thirteenth Tablet.
Pressing my hands against the splintered wood, I push the door open. A crack at first, then wider, the hinges shrieking into the silence. Rancid air comes pouring out, the smell of my nightmares. Beyond that: dank, dark nothingness. I slide through the opening, pausing once to turn around and look at Schuyler. That dark shadow passes before his bright blue eyes again.
“Be careful,” he whispers.
THE DOOR SLAMS SHUT BY itself, and I’m plunged into darkness. It’s not long before the world tilts and I’m thrown onto my back. I get to my feet and stand as still as possible, hands clenched into fists at my sides. I wait for the dirt to start falling. One heartbeat. Five. Ten. My palms are sweating and I’m breathing too hard, too fast. But still, nothing happens.
I see something flickering. Pale, yellow, like a faraway candle. It grows brighter, and as it does, I see I’m no longer in the tomb. I’m in a tunnel. I move in the direction of the light, but slowly. I’ve taken maybe ten steps when I hear a noise so loud it makes me jump. A thundering sound, like an angry fist on a wooden door. I ease a dagger from my belt and keep moving. The noise continues. Pounding, over and over. A splintering sound of breaking wood, the heavy tread of boots crossing a threshold. A shout. Then a scream.
My body reacts before my head does, and I start running toward the sound. I stumble along in the darkness, bumping into the walls, tumbling to my knees, and climbing to my feet. I follow the screams until the light grows brighter and the ground beneath me harder. I look down, and I can just make out flashes of black and white underneath the dirt. There’s a door up ahead. I push through it and find myself standing in the middle of Humbert’s entrance hall.
The black-and-white-checkered floors are dirty and chipped, the paintings torn off the wall. Cobwebs in the chandeliers, crystal vases shattered. The many diamond-paned windows broken. I take a tentative step, then another, glass crunching under my feet.
I feel my heart pick up speed. I know this is an illusion. Isn’t it? I can’t be in Humbert’s home. It’s miles away, and I’m here. At Blackwell’s. I try to recall Fifer’s voice, reminding me it’s an illusion. But she feels long ago and far away. This feels here; this feels now.
This feels real.
“Is anyone here?” I call. “Humbert?”
I check the sitting room, the dining room. They’ve been torn apart: tables upended, chairs toppled to the floor, curtains pulled from the windows. I back away, back into the hallway, and I trip over something: John’s weathered, brown canvas bag.
“John?” I dash up the stairs, into the bedrooms. Clothes lie in shreds everywhere: Fifer’s beautiful dresses, John’s dark green coat, even George’s hideous orange harlequin jacket.
“George? Fifer?” I can hear the panic in my voice as I call their names. I run back downstairs, to the library. The door is gone, ripped off its hinges. Inside, it’s dark. But I don’t need to see to know that it’s in ruins, too. A cold breeze blows through the broken glass ceiling, ruffling the pages of the books that lie in heaping pyres on the floor. In the moonlight, I can just make out the felled tree: its gray branches scattered through the room like bones in a graveyard, the leaves I made blowing through the air in swirling gusts.
I stand for a moment in the dark, broken library, trying to control my mounting fear. Trying to remember what Fifer said about illusion. Is it illusion that makes fear real? Or is it fear that makes the illusion real? And what does this illusion mean? It’s meant to show me fear, but I don’t know what I’m afraid of. Not yet.
I run back into the entrance hall. But instead of the black-and-white-tiled hallway I came in through, I’m somewhere different. Filthy stone floors, rugs shoved into the corner, more broken windows, stained glass this time. I can just make out a snake’s tail in one of the shards, dangling precariously from the frame.
“Nicholas!” I run through the house the same way I did at Humbert’s. The sitting room. The dining room. The bedrooms. They’re torn apart the way they were at Humbert’s. The kitchen. It looks as it did the last time I saw it: pots and pans and knives and food strewn everywhere. “Hastings!”
But no one answers. The house is quiet.
I turn in slow circles, my breath coming in gasps, my limbs numb with terror. What does all this mean? I don’t know. I just know I want to get out of here. I run back into the entrance hall, push open the heavy front door.
And I freeze.
I’m standing at the edge of a crowded square, watching the executioners light the pyre. They circle the narrow wooden platforms, their lit torches held high. At the top of each, chained to the stake, bundles of wood heaped around their feet, are John, Fifer, George, and Nicholas.
I sway on my feet; I actually swoon in horror. And even before the executioners touch their torches to the wood, I start to scream. Push my way through the jostling crowd, trying to reach them. I scream their names over and over, but they don’t hear me.
I lunge for the platforms, but the guards grab me and throw me to the ground. I scrabble in the dirt, trying to get back up, but they hold me down, and I’m screaming and sobbing too hard to fight back. But I need to get to them, to save them before it’s too late, but then it is too late: There’s an enormous whoosh of flames and a billow of smoke as the fire engulfs them and they’re gone, forever.
Somehow, I stumble to my feet and push my way through the crowd and into the street. And I start to run. I don’t know where I’m going, just away from this. Away from the smoke and the fire and the screaming and the death. Eventually I reach an empty alley and collapse in a doorway, trembling and crying and completely terrified.
So this is it—my worst fear. It’s not dying alone anymore. It’s watching the people I care for die in front of me and not being able to stop it. Being responsible for it. Knowing that if I don’t destroy the tablet, this is what will come of it.
My heart is pounding too hard, my breath coming too fast. I have to make it stop. I remember what Fifer said: I have to eliminate my fear. That eliminating the fear eliminates the illusion. But how? I start to sing, but I can’t remember the words. I take a breath, but I can’t stop sobbing. I try to think of something else, but I can’t seem to do that, either. I don’t know how to do anything but be afraid.
Some men pass by me then, their arms looped around one another. They’re singing some kind of drinking song. I smell the ale wafting from them as they go by and wrinkle my nose. They’re drunk and it can’t be past noon, and—
Then I get an idea.
I leap to my feet. Skirt through the alleys: left, right, left again, until I see the familiar green sign that reads THE WORLD’S END. I shove the door open and it’s just as it usually is, just as it was the last day I was here. Crowded and loud, musicians playing, Joe pulling drinks behind the bar. As I approach, he slides me a glass of ale and watches me, his hands folded.
“Well?” he growls.
I take a tentative sip. But instead of the usual horror—roasted pig or absinthe or God knows what else—this time it tastes like ale. This time, it’s actually good. And just like that, my heart slows. My breathing slows. I know without a doubt that this Joe and this ale aren’t real. This is an illusion.
I start to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
I don’t answer him. Instead, I turn around and rush for the door of the tavern, flinging it open. There, on the other side, is the tomb, dark and dank. I’m right back
where I started.
I step inside and go still. For a moment I fear dirt will start falling, that the illusion still isn’t over. But after a few moments when nothing else happens, I make my way to the entrance. The moon is bright enough that slivers of light work their way through the cracks, illuminating what is no longer a rickety wooden door but the edges of a massive stone slab, the number XIII etched at the top.
The Thirteenth Tablet.
It’s big; I knew that. But standing in front of it, I realize just how huge it really is. Six feet tall, three feet across. Solid stone, at least a foot thick. It’s been down here a while, buried in the dark and the damp, the edges beginning to turn green with moss.
I stare at it a minute. Run my fingers along the words etched down the length of the stone. I can just make out runes along the edge, along with Nicholas’s name, written over and over among all the symbols and marks.
Nicholas said Blackwell did it. That Blackwell cursed him, that Blackwell is a wizard. I didn’t want to believe it then, and, despite everything, I don’t want to believe it now. It was just speculation, just a guess. There was no way of knowing for certain if it was true.
Until now.
There should be a signature on the tablet. The wizard’s name, a symbol, a pseudonym like the ones necromancers take on. Something to identify but not incriminate. A curse tablet won’t work without it.
I crouch to my knees. If there is a signature here, it will be somewhere along the bottom. But it’s hard to see. The moonlight’s not as strong down here, and there’s dirt clumped around the edges. I brush it away, and I see part of a symbol. Words. I keep brushing until, finally, it comes into view. A rose. And his motto: What’s done is done; it cannot be undone.
I fall back against the crumbling wall. Press my head into my hands, and I give myself a minute to feel it again. The betrayal, the disbelief, the horror, the truth: somehow sharp and numb, all at once.
Blackwell is a wizard.
I jump to my feet. Yank the Azoth from my belt. And, using every ounce of strength I have, I swing.
The Witch Hunter Page 26