Chapter 16

Sixteen

Dakari

T he second the clock strikes twelve, the door to our room snicks closed and the lock engages. Jasper doesn’t move, though his colour is rapidly improving. His skin normally holds more of his mother’s eastern Mediterranean tan, but right now he’s almost as pale as his Scottish father. At least he’s no longer such a sickly yellow.

Kyrith’s healing has done wonders already, but I need him to wake up so I can figure out how he got into this mess in the first place.

I’m so focused on the hypnotic pattern of his breathing that, at first, I miss the menacing chill that fills the space. It takes the hair on the back of my neck rising to alert me.

Something is wrong.

Alarm fills me, and I head towards the door instinctively.

Is this some attack by the Carltons? Repercussions for my getting caught? Is Kyrith facing it alone? Or worse, is it the ó Rinn boy? That family can’t be trusted.

The handle won’t turn.

Drawing my grimoire, I let my magic rifle through the pages and chuck spell after spell at the stupid piece of wood between me and her. Nothing. It doesn’t unlock. Hell, I chuck a telekinetic wave at it, rattling the frame, but the thing won’t give an inch.

That should be impossible. I’m the Talcott heir because I’m a magical powerhouse. A simple door should not be able to defeat me.

If she’s in trouble, wasting her power to keep my door shut is a stupid move. The thought of her alone, in danger, makes my anger spike.

“Let me out!” I snarl at the door.

Yes, she gave us a curfew, and I would’ve respected that if not for the fact that the room is filling with smoke. No. Not smoke. Fog. Icy, cold, glowing fog. It swirls around my ankles, leeching the warmth from my bones.

I slam my fist against the wood, cursing, which achieves nothing beyond a bruised hand and the memory of my grandfather’s sharp voice in my head, reprimanding me for losing my temper.

Then I flinch backwards as the paint flakes away, forming a clear message.

“Do not interfere,” I read aloud. “With what?”

In answer, the lock flicks open.

Finally.

I tear across the parapet, still clutching my grimoire in one hand. But when I try to head down the stairs to the ground floor, they disappear entirely.

Cursing them, I tear through the stacks, heading for the balcony that overlooks the Botanical Hall. The mist below is so thick that I almost don’t notice the three figures crossing the foyer at first.

“Keep up, Kyrith,” a nasally old voice scolds. “We shan’t be late on account of you.”

I pause, wondering who would dare address the Librarian in such a demeaning manner. She’s at the back…but strangely, she looks less…jaded. Her eyes are wide, her expression open in a way I’ve never seen before, and her glow is dim.

She always looks vulnerable. Small and fragile in a way that stirs every single protective instinct I have, but normally there’s this weight in her bearing that speaks of a quietly honed strength. This is different. That experience is missing, replaced with a timidity that isn’t her.

But it has to be her. Who else could it be?

It’s so startling that it takes me a while to notice the others.

The two people before her are just as translucent as she is and seem to be made of shadow.

There are more ghosts in the Arcanaeum? Who are they? And why does nobody else talk about them? It’s hard to make out details beyond their male figures and the edges of their robes, which sweep along the floor, as they stride the length of the hall. Their pace is swift enough that I have to hurry to keep up, and Kyrith herself is practically jogging.

They don’t have her soft blue glow, I realise, grimly. If anything, theirs is an inky black.

“Ah, they’re already here,” the second announces, sounding pleased with himself, and I curse, knowing I’m about to hit a dead end.

The bookcase in front of me rolls aside, revealing a hidden door that opens, allowing me access to the Gallery. Is this Kyrith’s doing, or is the building acting independently of her again, like it did the day she gave me my most recent assignment?

Discreetly, I asked if my uncle had ever seen the Librarian arguing with the building. He looked at me like I was crazy. As far as he and every other arcanist is concerned, the building is just a building.

But I know what I saw.

I duck through the gap, just in time to watch the two men descend through a trapdoor in the floor of the Rotunda. It must’ve been previously hidden by the nearby rug, because I’ve never seen it before.

The Librarian hesitates, staring at the grate with trepidation.

“Kyrith!” one of the others yells from below, and she jerks like she’s been slapped.

I don’t like this. The Librarian I know would’ve beaten them both with hardbacks for taking that tone with her.

Once she’s out of sight, I head for the stairs, determined to follow, but whatever cooperation the building has granted me has worn off. The doors slam shut with a snap that echoes through the building. I’m honestly debating vaulting over the railing, and my hands land on the marble balustrade to do just that, when it leaps upwards, becoming a set of marble bars.

‘Do not interfere’ my ass. Something feels wrong here, and Kyrith’s headed down into some dungeon with ghosts I’ve never seen before.

I’m proved right a few minutes later when the building quakes and echoes.

“Please.” Her voice is shaky, begging, and as clear as if she were standing right next to me. “What’s going on? Magister!”

Magister? One of the ghosts is a magister? Shit, she sounds terrified.

“Why are you letting her suffer like this?” I demand. “Let me down there.”

The Arcanaeum doesn’t answer. Perhaps it can’t. Perhaps I was wrong, and it is just a building after all.

“Edmund!” Her scream pierces my chest “Edmund, please! You promised this would be my new start! My chance to finally do something with my life!”

Edmund? Who the fuck is Edmund? I grab for my grimoire, determined to find some spell that will get me down there.

Magic, she’s still begging. “Don’t touch me! Please. Don’t do this. Magister? Magister, please!”

Then, moments later, she screams in true terror. The sound rocks through my bones like lightning, leaving my heart in my throat.

Before I can do anything, the entire building bursts with painfully bright light, before the mist is sucked away like a vacuum. It rushes into the Vault, and the trapdoor slams closed, a carpet sliding over it.

By the time I’ve managed to blink away the sunspots, the Arcanaeum is midway through returning to normal. The moonlight streaking through the glass dome grows warmer, and the balustrade shrinks, returning to its usual size, but the Librarian doesn’t return.

I stare at the spot on the floor where the trapdoor is, waiting. That’s why I almost miss her as she staggers through the floor on the other side of the desk, collapsing against it. Her glow is still duller than usual, but that’s the only sign that she’s been affected by whatever happened. I want to go to her, but a book flies from the shelf and starts shooing me back the way I came.

Perhaps it’s right.

She told me to stay in my room.

Proud, capable Kyrith wouldn’t want me to see her like this, but I’m not comfortable leaving her when she’s sitting on the floor, hugging her own knees, looking like she’s been through hell. Especially not when her screams and begging are still ringing in my ears.

The book gets more insistent, bashing against my skull until I reluctantly turn and allow it to shepherd me back towards the room where Jasper is still sleeping peacefully, unaware of anything that just happened.

I settle on my own bunk, but I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep any time soon.

The next day, I watch her closely for signs she’s feeling unwell. But she continues working on healing Jasper, tutoring Lambert and Northcliff, and supervising patrons like nothing has happened. It should’ve been a clue, but when the fog seeps under the door that evening, my gut still drops in shock and dread.

I sneak down the stairs and watch it all happen again.

Standing there, on the Gallery, I watch as she pulls herself back together piece by piece in a state of mute horror.

Every night? She endures this—whatever this is—every single night?

How is that possible?

More importantly, how do I stop it?