Chapter 32

Thirty-Two

Dakari

“ I t starts in the foyer,” she admits, tossing her braid over her shoulder as she leads the way, and then…disappears barely three steps in.

I pick up the pace, my footsteps echoing strangely as that creepy mist starts to fill the Rotunda. Kyrith is there, pausing where the silvered letters of the building’s motto are written across the floor, before she follows her murderers along the Botanical Hall. I meet her halfway, but she doesn’t see me. Or at least, her eyes don’t move. Her face doesn’t crease in recognition, and I dimly realise her ever-messy braid has sorted itself into a neatly pinned bun.

It’s like she’s a medieval doll. A puppet. Repeating the same script I’ve heard a dozen times on rote.

Taking a deep breath, I shove down the automatic urge to panic and walk beside her, leaving space in case she moves to the side—because I’ll be damned if I crack her again.

Only her face and legs are untouched, and they show no sign of healing. Lambert was right. She’s still beautiful, and I can’t take my eyes off her as we reach the Rotunda and she hesitates before the trapdoor.

She’s so fucking strong, to have endured centuries of this by herself. But she doesn’t have to do it alone anymore. If I’d known about it before claiming sanctuary, I would’ve made the offer sooner. There might be no way of stopping this—she would’ve found it if there was—but if keeping her company makes it bearable, then I’ll be here every night for the rest of my life.

The darker presences usher her along, and I try to ignore the blur of a familiar conversation. I can’t quite manage it, and I bristle because their condescending tones are much easier to make out now. Kyrith takes the first steps quicker than I do, but I’m still half-expecting her or the building to change their minds and slam the trapdoor closed.

It doesn’t happen.

For some reason, I always assumed that the stairs would be straight, but instead they curve down into the darkness, illuminated by the faint glow of the spectre before me. My hand floats to my pocket, and the scraps there, but somehow lighting one seems wrong. The steps are uneven, and common sense says that I should, but…

I’m so distracted by my internal debate that I almost step straight into Kyrith. She’s fiddling with her skirts, looking uncomfortable. The others are quizzing her on the history of the Arcanaeum, testing her like nothing’s amiss while she stutters out answers awkwardly.

“I know you probably can’t hear this,” I murmur, breathing in the faint scent of ice and lilies that accompanies her wherever she goes. “But they have no power over you. If you were all alive now, you’d kick all of their asses.”

The first glimpse of the Vault steals my breath.

I knew it was large, but this is insane. It’s got to be bigger than a shopping mall. The stairs circle this strange blade-like stalactite in the centre, and I’ll bet my grimoire that it’s some kind of magical artefact. I’ve seen a few in my travels, but only one or two have come close to the energy this thing is throwing off.

The heart of the Arcanaeum.

Now I see why Kyrith was so reluctant to let us down here. Not only are there over a dozen floors crammed with powerful grimoires, but the spire on my left is something that the parriarchs would kill for.

The ghosts have fallen silent, giving me time to examine my surroundings. Purple flames light this place, making it easier to keep my footing as I trail behind them. It’s a good thing too, because the pathetic little railing won’t do shit to save me if I fall.

Then we reach the bottom, and I see it.

Kyrith’s tomb.

Fuuucccckkkk.

“Baby girl, I am so sorry,” I whisper under my breath.

Because there she is, a masterpiece of diamond-like crystal atop an altar of death, her face caught in a scream, a dagger buried deep and gleaming into her heart.

“Ah, Rector Carlton, Magister Ackland. We were beginning to worry you’d lost your way,” a squeaky-voiced female says.

Like a veil has been lifted, the shadowy forms sharpen; not enough to make out the finer details, but enough for me to note their body shapes and the gleam of their eyes—a burst of colour in the darkness. Five of them are gathered together at the other side of the room.

Kyrith curtseys but is ignored.

“Never fear, Magister Winthrop,” one of the ghosts who escorted her says. “We’re right on time. Is everything ready?”

“Everything except the offering,” Magister Winthrop—Lambert’s ancestor—snaps.

My hands clench into fists. While Kyrith is too busy staring at the altar like it’s a puzzle, the ghost of Rector Carlton has opened his grimoire and starts casting. One of the others has detached from the group and begun to sneak behind the shelves towards her. He has yellow eyes that mark him as North’s ancestor, and my gut sinks as I put two and two together.

If this isn’t the Edmund she screams for every night, I’ll eat my grimoire.

Magister Ackland’s echo orders, “Edmund. On with it.”

Kyrith’s mouth moves in a quiet plea that rips my gut up into my throat. She fights. Fuck, I’m proud of how hard she fights. But he’s a man in his prime, and she’s fragile and slender. Without her grimoire, she doesn’t stand a chance.

My nails cut half-moons into my palms as she’s wrestled onto the altar like a pig for slaughter. Her body writhes, overlapping the glass figure—like she’s glitching—and I’m close enough to see that they’re both cracked in the same places.

“Edmund!” she screams. “Edmund, please! You promised this would be my new start! My chance to finally do something with my life!”

But the slimy fucker is stepping away. Abandoning her without a second thought. Ignoring the heartbroken betrayal in her voice. I watch her face, trying to silently reassure her that I’m here as I pick a spot directly beside her. The hardest part is trying to tune out the blithe chatter of her murderers.

“Don’t touch me! Please. Don’t do this. Magister? Magister, please!”

“Does everyone remember the incantation?”

“We’re not students. I’ve been practising this school of magic since before you wrote your first thesis, Cynthia.”

“Quickly now. Once we’re done here, we can retire to my parlour. I had my butler bring up a bottle of Commandaria from the cellar. We can enjoy a glass before you all return home.”

“If they were alive, they would die a hundred times over for this,” I promise Kyrith in a low voice. “I swear to magic.”

But she’s gone silent again. Mute from fear.

I barely manage to hold back when she tenses like she can levitate herself out of the shackles and screams . It’s an unearthly sound, a thousand times worse down here than it was in the Gallery above.

Someone forces her head back, and Magister Ackland plunges a dagger over the one embedded in the glass.

Blind rage overtakes me.

Maybe it’s stupid to get possessive over a ghost, but really, it’s more like protectiveness. Kyrith has been there since I was chucked out by my own family. When she took me on as a collector, she gave me money to feed myself, not that I’ve ever told her that. The Arcanaeum paid well enough that I could pay the UAA’s insane tuition fees on top of everything else—and I always wondered if that was purposeful. Now she’s protecting Jasper and me from the Carltons, even though the two of us have caused so much damage. Just having us around is a risk for her.

She might be prickly, formal, and a little grouchy at times, but she’s more-than earned my loyalty.

The mist and the dark shadowy echoes of her murderers disappear like they’ve been sucked into the blade, and Kyrith flings herself from the altar like she can’t get away fast enough. I almost don’t have enough time to dodge.

Whatever held her has lost its hold, but she doesn’t do anything besides cradle her knees on the floor. My blood is still pounding in my ears, adrenaline blazing through me as my body remains coiled and ready for a threat that isn’t there.

So I take three breaths before I drop into a crouch before her.

Her spirit is so dim that she barely casts a glow, and I grab that scrap I debated earlier, feeling the paper burn away between my fingers as the wisplight floats beside us. It illuminates the Vault, but makes her even harder to see, so I shift it behind my body as a compromise.

Kyrith’s head rests heavily on her knees as she pants like she’s run a mile and cradles her head in her hands, shrinking back from me like she’s ashamed.

If anything, my respect for her has skyrocketed. She should, by rights, be a maddened wreck, haunting the Arcanaeum like a crazed poltergeist.

Instead, she’s still here, still sane.

Most people might try to say something, but I’ve never been great with words. I’m not sure they would help here, anyway.

Pain has a way of carving through a person, demanding its due. In those situations, well-meaning words of comfort can only assuage the guilt of the person speaking them.

So I give her what she asked for, my company, leaning back against the altar beside her and waiting for her to make the first move.

“It’s late,” she finally says, staggering to her feet. “And it’s cold down here. We should head upstairs.”

My joints are stiff from how long we’ve been sitting, so I rise slower than I ordinarily would. I take in the shelves full of grimoires one last time before heading for the stairs. While I recognise the value in all of these books, I’m not interested in reading any. I’m probably the only person in the world who has no interest in most of them.

I know where my talents are, and locking myself away with books all day isn’t it.

“I suppose I should thank you,” she mumbles, floating along beside me as I scale the staircase.

“Don’t,” I cut her off.

I don’t want her gratitude. Not for this.

She searches my face for a second, and I relax incrementally when she nods, understanding my meaning perfectly.

“It helped,” she admits.

Silence lapses, comfortable and serene between us. The only noise is the sound of my breathing and my boots on the stone. Even the flames in the braziers are silent.

“Creepy place,” I mutter.

“You think so?” she turns a quizzical brow on me.

Yes. I hate it. “Maybe it’s because there are none of your plants down here.”

She’s decorated every other room in the Arcanaeum to within an inch of its life. Just last week, the bathrooms had an art-deco revamp midway through my taking a piss.

Kyrith has no response to that, and I sigh.

“I get that you won’t want to talk about it, but that…altar down there…”

“My body.” Kyrith shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It turned to crystal a few minutes after I died. I never found out why. I think the Arcanaeum wanted me to have a grave.”

“It’s cracked like you are. Do you think it could be related to—” I wave my hand up and down at her floating and cracked form.

“Undoubtedly.”

“Then don’t you think you should tell someone?” Hell, if Leo—and I can’t believe I’m on first-name terms with an ó Rinn—knew, maybe he’d get closer to figuring out what’s wrong with her.

I may hate him on principle, but he’s probably smarter than half of the magisters at the university.

Kyrith’s mouth turns. “You’re older than the others. Surely you understand that some things are beyond saving.”

A fucking boulder settles in my stomach, and my feet are suddenly glued to the step I’m on, physically frozen under the weight of the realisation.

“You don’t think you’re going to survive this. You’ve given up.” The last three words are heavy with angry accusation, and I watch her brows climb up her forehead.

“I am a realist. I expected, given the number of times you’ve faced death yourself, you would be the same.”

“You want to die?”

Those luminous ghostly eyes go distant with sadness. “I’m not exactly living, am I?” She doesn’t wait for my answer. “My only fear is what will become of the Arcanaeum when I’m no longer here to defend it. The parriarchs will fight for control… Stars forbid they reform the alliance they had before and restart the sacrifices that led to this.”

“You can’t fucking die.”

She’s talking about a world without her in it. My chest is fucking seizing, and she’s prattling on about politics like any of it would mean a damn to me if she wasn’t…

“I’m being careful.” Her attempt to mollify me is too late. “Besides, perhaps we’re being dramatic. This could simply be cosmetic damage.”

Neither of us thinks so, and I’m so affronted that she’d even try to lie to me that I actually manage to make my legs work again.

“Tell someone. Let me put out feelers. If you don’t trust outsiders, then Jasper is a talented restorationist and?—”

“I don’t want them to see.” Kyrith tugs at her sleeve as she floats faster to keep up with me. “Even if it wasn’t horrid to look at, I’m sworn to protect the Vault, and the temptation is so great. Besides, Jasper’s still very clearly under the influence of Carlton magic.”

Excuses. “You let me see.”

“You’ve only taken out two books in your life,” Kyrith responds dryly. “I believe the Vault is safe from you. You’re the only exception I’m currently willing to make.”

She trusts me, but not enough to let me find someone who can save her. That kicks me in the chest in ways I’m not comfortable examining too closely.