Chapter 16

The candlemaker's son was a humble soul. After years of listening to his arrogant father discuss his dangerous plans, the son knew immediately what had happened when he found the winged god trapped inside his father's shop. Fearing retribution, the son immediately released the god, snuffing out the arcane candles. "For helping me," the god said, "I will grant you a boon." But the son understood the nature of gods and the way selfish choices impacted eternal consequences. He insisted that the god return to his travels without giving him anything. "Tell me what you want," the god demanded. "I'm a lonely widower," the son confessed. "All I want is your friendship. Leave here and return to your travels as my friend." For his humility, the lesser god did just that, leaving behind no trick and casting no curse. Even Death himself was pleased by the son's request. Now all of Death's servants carry with them a lantern powered by a special arcane candle made in the shop the son inherited. The son soon became a wealthy man with many, many companions.

-Hecate's Guide to Arcane Philosophy

Quiet

I watched, not for the first time, as Rorick took another pinch of the alchemical bread, ate it, and then stood out on the balcony in the cold, waiting for a memory to come to him.

I drew my traveling artifact out of my hat. It was in rough shape and in need of repairing. I leaned it near the fireplace to encourage its regeneration by the heat, and I requested additional help from my scar-weaver spiders. Anita led an army of arachnids in repairs. They bound the chipped wood, filling in dents and scratches with their silk, wrapping it tightly along the staff. It would be good as new soon.

While they worked, I removed a book on arcane symbols from the small library in my void. Still dressed in only my shift and drawers, I sat cross-legged beneath the revealed blackboard of equations and began deciphering what I could.

Rorick stormed back inside forty minutes later, his overcoat dusted in fresh snowfall.

"Any luck?" I asked him.

He shook his head, looking grave. "I was definitely murdered. But whoever they were, they pushed me over this balcony from behind." Averting his eyes, he paused and swallowed hard. "I didn't see them. How about you?"

That felt like a very decisive change of subject. I sensed he'd just left something unsaid, but I'd given him permission to leave out a few things, hadn't I? Especially anything that might have to do with constants or consequences. I could batter him into giving me answers or . . . With effort, I chose to swallow that impulse.

I trusted Rorick.

"There are two alchemical principles your equations appear to be tackling in your notes, here," I said instead, dragging my finger down the page of symbols. "The first involves laying a trap powerful enough to hold a god, and the second is the law of sacrifice used to appease an eternal consequence. You've mapped out the exact cost of a soul . . . It's incredibly impressive. The others are either too sophisticated for me, or they're—"

"Nonsense," Rorick finished with a frown.

For a man who'd recently had a fantastic feast and multiple orgasms, he was in a very grumpy mood, but I didn't dare point that out. I didn't want him thinking too hard about what it was that had him so distressed.

In a rare turn of fate, I was in a great mood, carrying around enough good humor for the both of us. I too had had multiple orgasms, and now I got to work on math. From my perspective, our entire situation was looking up.

He came to stand close to me, violet eyes seeing through me. Nervously, he rubbed at his mouth, the fingers of his free hand flexing at his side. Tension poured off of him in waves, immediately dampening my good mood.

Well, that didn't last very long.

I stood up beside him. His violet gaze flickered over me but still seemed not to perceive much of anything.

"Why don't you help me dress?" I slid my hand into his and squeezed his palm.

Meeting my eyes as though he was truly seeing me there for the first time, he nodded.

Rorick helped me with my clothing, fastening my corset over my shift. It disappointed me only a little that my state of undress wasn't enough to completely distract him from his worrying, though his fingers did linger a bit longer than was necessary in all of his favorite places until I was fully back together again: blouse buttoned, skirt on, feet inside my loose boots, hair braided, hat pulled down over my brow.

"Is there something you need to tell me?" I offered, unable to bare the charged, strained silence a moment longer. "I mean . . . I know there are things Hecate warned was best left unsaid, but the way your stress continues to mount, perhaps it would be better for you if you shared your burden with your partner instead of—"

"No," he said briskly. Then seeing my expression, he gentled his tone. "Not necessary."

I had more to say on the matter, but the words caught in my throat. The walls began to shake, and the fire in the fireplace dimmed. In the corner, the blackened mirror flickered to life. The darkness evaporated, replaced by an image of the inside of the Castleway Circus, walls striped in black and red. We peered down from the top of a full amphitheater. Geds stared in wonder at three large rings, cooing and cheering over whatever illusions the specters played for them there.

I could see nothing.

Centered in the middle ring was an empty grave, dirt piled high on its right side, a gray tombstone at its front. It was clear from the reaction of the crowd that this wasn't the image they were being fed. Awed heads turned, following the display of ghostly acrobats or charming clowns. An act put on by a graveyard full of dead children.

I shifted closer, and the image rippled across the glass like water.

Rorick caught my wrist. "Careful," he warned me. "Don't get too close."

Dominion moved into view, wearing his undersized shirt stuffed with feathered wings and his large painted frown. He beckoned to me with a gloved hand, but when I tried to step closer, Rorick stopped me, gripping my shoulder.

I patted Rorick's fingers comfortingly. "I just want to see better. I wouldn't dare touch the glass," I said, thinking of the clown who'd reached right through the old painting near the library to hand Rorick those darts.

Whatever I was unsure about—and there were a great many things at the moment—I did not want Dominion to touch me.

"What are you trying to see?" he asked, reminding me he had keener senses than I.

"The name on the tombstone down in the ring, there. Can you make it out?"

Rorick squinted. I knew the moment he'd read the words. His face blanched. His jaw hardened, and his gaze turned to angry slits.

"Rorick?"

He pulled me into his side, cupping my waist tight. "We're leaving."

But I was at my limit with his bossing. I had no idea how he ever put up with it from me. I couldn't let him leave details out in order to protect me from consequences a moment longer. "Tell me what it says."

He tried to tug me toward the door, but I planted my feet in the ground. He raised a brow at me in warning, and my stomach churned. For the tiniest moment, I thought he might toss me over his shoulder and exit the room whether I liked it or not.

"Tell me what it says now ," I said sternly.

Almost instantly Rorick softened. "It's your name on that tombstone."

"Quiet?" I couldn't make out all the letters at this distance, but there seemed to be considerably more than five.

He shook his head once sharply. "Not your witch name. Elizabeth Woods, the one your father gave you."

The surprise about knocked me off my feet. I blinked up at him, then over at the mirror where Dominion beckoned to me fiercely.

"Well, that's disturbing, but . . ." I paused to study Rorick's face. He attempted to reassure me with a tight smile. The gesture fell short of its mark. "How do you know my birth name? I don't recall us ever talking about it before."

He tapped on the side of his head where his hair went silver. "There are multiple magical cooks loose in the kitchen that is my brain right now. When I read that tombstone, I remembered . . ." His throat bobbed, and he hesitated. "Before we met, before you ever knew me, apparently I knew you. I knew you very well. I wasn't supposed to—Hecate told me not to, but I let curiosity get the better of me. Just before I was murdered, I put a lot of time and effort into learning everything I could about you as discreetly as possible. You see, I ached to know you well before I properly met you."

I felt my brows pinching closer and closer together. I couldn't make any sense of his words, hard as I tried to piece their meaning into something comprehensible. "Rorick, I don't understand."

His fingers at my hip dug in, not enough to hurt, but enough to let me feel his urgency. "Everything I've done is for you. It didn't matter in the end. Alex betrayed me with blood honey, and I lost all the information I'd gathered . . . Then again, perhaps that was for the best." He stared off, lost in thought. "Perhaps that was the only way our meeting would have happened naturally, the way Fate intended."

"Rorick, if you don't start explaining yourself better, I'm going to wring your neck."

The corner of his mouth crooked up at that. "It's not so bad getting your neck wrung. I'll survive it."

"I'll do worse than any specter's balloon ever could," I warned, holding up my hands and cupping them in a visual threat. "You need to start from the beginning, and quickly, before I get these around your throat and start squeezing. My patience is gone. I can't be held responsible for what I do to you anymore."

"I'll tell you more when we're out of here," he said.

I stopped him when he tried to usher me toward the door. He allowed me to gather my traveling artifact. I tucked it back into my void along with my scar-weaver spiders, then I let him guide me to the entrance, certain that when we were away from the mirror and its psychopomp and both more comfortable, he'd give me the information I demanded.

The moment his hand grasped the brass knob, the walls began to shake again. Rorick jerked away, pulling me with him. The entire room vibrated. Floorboards reverberated under my feet. Wood crunched and groaned. The walls shifted and moved. The frame around the doorway smashed together, turning the door to matchwood, destroying our exit.

I glared back at the mirror. Dominion's frown had intensified, exaggerating the bell curve of his painted lips.

"Stop it, Dom," I told him, but my bossy tone had no effect on the psychopomp.

Dominion crooked a finger at us.

Baring his fangs, Rorick growled, the sound more animal than man.

Ghostly clowns appeared around the room. They pushed at the walls, rattling the furniture, bouncing on the bed.

"We'll come to visit you just as soon as we've solved a murder," I said, but the edge of confidence in my voice cracked. I wasn't sure I ever wanted to visit. Not when they kept my tombstone under their tent. Not after they dropped me into the aqueducts the last time.

The walls were moving now, pressed together by specters, closing in on us.

"Stop it!" I screamed at the ghosts.

Rorick held me in his arms, and I was grateful for his sure grip. Paneling and crushed furniture shoved in closer and closer. My heart thundered in my chest.

Dominion extended his arms through the glass like he was offering an eerie hug, one I had no intention of taking him up on. I didn't want to go with the psychopomp but couldn't see any other option. This didn't feel at all like any of the trials we'd dealt with before. The specters had let go of the pretense of teaching us things. Perhaps because we'd had an arising, they were done being gentle.

They were bullying us now. I tried to pad closer to Dominion, but Rorick anchored me in place. He hissed through his fangs at the mirror, only he didn't sound like some house cat this time. He reminded me of a viper or a cobra, eyes sharp and deadly.

"What choice do we have?" I shouted. The walls shook so loudly, I could hardly hear my own thoughts.

"They won't do it," he said sternly. "You were right. They don't want to hurt us."

The walls closed in faster, responding to him calling their bluff.

"I don't want to get turned into a pancake on the off chance you're wrong!" I yelled.

The bedroom shrunk farther, driving us closer to the mirror and to that image of the inside of the tent, those outstretched arms, the tombstone with my name on it. Wood crunched and feathers flew as the bed was obliterated between the crush of ethereal walls.

"Trust me," he whispered in my ear. "I know they're ghosts. When a psychopomp wants to kill someone, he uses his voice."

Rorick squeezed me to his chest so hard I struggled to breathe, like if he held me tight enough and he was wrong, he could pull me right into the next life with him.

I squeezed my eyes shut, no longer able to watch the walls closing in around us. Images of being swallowed whole flittered through my mind. My heart leapt into my throat.

"Oy," I cried. "If you're wrong and we die, Rorick, I'm going to murder you again in the Nothing!"

He brushed cool lips over my forehead comfortingly. More furniture splintered.

The walls came so close I felt the paneling brush my elbow, felt the slow press shoving me farther into Rorick. Too terrified to look, I buried my face in his chest. I struggled to fill my lungs. It was like my rib cage was already being constricted.

Glass shattered. The floorboards stopped rumbling under my feet. I opened my eyes. Slowly, the walls pulled back, returning to their original places in steady increments. The mirror had been obliterated. All around, furniture was destroyed.

All save for one piece. The pewter lantern sat upright on the floor, the table it once rested upon destroyed.

Rorick tried to pick it up. He used both hands, straining to lift it, but it wouldn't budge off the floor.

Curious, I came to stand in front of him. The magic coming off the metal was heady. I felt it like smog tickling my legs through my skirt and stockings.

I bent low and scooped it up with ease. To me if felt no heavier than a typical lantern. "Where did you get this from?"

Rorick scratched at his hair. "Hecate gave it to me, but I don't remember why. She brought it inside this room after having a look at my equations . . . She found them impressive. And that's all I can remember."

"I don't like this room anymore," I said.

"I don't either."

Arm in arm, we marched out of it.

* * *

In the foyer of Eckert Castle, Rorick took some time to mourn the loss of his equations. I took a moment to fret over what we were going to do next. We talked in circles around each other, pacing in the hall.

The sun would rise in an hour. Leaving the horrid castle right this instant felt pertinent but wasn't an option. The sun slumber would hit Rorick before we made it to safety.

A knock at the brand-new front doors startled us both. Who would come here at this early hour, so close to sunrise? Together we answered the summons.

"Inspector Sheridan," I greeted warmly as Rorick lugged the big doors open wide.

The inspector politely removed his hat as he came inside, revealing walnut-colored hair. A woolen scarf wrapped his neck tightly. "Greetings. I received your message and— What are you doing?"

Rorick hovered close, sniffing at him. "Don't mind me. I'm just double-checking that you're actually you."

Looking puzzled, Sheridan frowned at him a moment before his easy smile returned to his face. "I spent the night tracking down every last document I could find on the death of one Jonathan Rorick."

Sheridan handed Rorick a thick manilla envelope from inside his duster.

"There's more in there about his more recent disappearance than his fall," Sheridan explained, "but I assumed it was best that I bring you everything we had on the late duke."

"Thank you for this," Rorick said politely. "Please feel free to stay and rest before you tackle the trip a second time."

"Does your horse need tending to?" I asked because I hadn't seen one outside. But perhaps he'd already brought it to the stables.

"No need for that. Yes, I think I'd like to stay for a bit. Got anything strong to drink? I wouldn't say no to a pick-me-up," Sheridan said.

Rorick guided him toward the parlor, a room I was unfamiliar with because it had been blocked off by menacing darkness during my past visits.

While Sheridan helped himself to the bar, Rorick and I made ourselves comfortable in the armchairs that flanked the fireplace. I lit the grate with a burst of blue flames from my wand. We halved the documents and began to read them over at speed.

Twenty minutes later, we traded papers, the sound of liquor hitting the bottom of a glass and the fire crackling in the background.

"Well," I said, trying and failing to hold on to my optimism, "that was . . . that was something."

"That was completely useless," Rorick grumped.

I sighed. I couldn't disagree with him. The police had interviewed a few staff members after Rorick's fall. No one saw or heard anything amiss. It was determined to be an accident. Reports speculated that he'd possibly had too much to drink with his nightcap and stumbled over the rim.

Who even had a reason to murder Rorick?

"Would Alex want you gone?" I asked, grasping at straws.

Rorick shook his head. "We weren't even on speaking terms until I gifted him my blood and saved him from his illness. He never visited. I doubt he'd have gone to the trouble of murdering me back then when I was still just a ged. And I think my staff would have told the police if he'd visited."

I agreed with his take on matters. Having no other useful thoughts of my own, I rose from my seat and extended my hand to him. "Let's get you to bed before the sun rises."

"Make yourself at home, Sheridan," Rorick said as he rose to his feet. "Stay as long as you like."

Sheridan shot him a cheeky grin and saluted him with his full glass. "I intend to."