Page 51 of The Lies We Conjure
“Wait.”Evander’s voice is strained, like he’s holding up a parked car and not a half-balanced, mostly rotted pulpit. “There’s something here—Auden, I need your help to grab it.”
“What’s wrong withmyhelp?” Winter whines as she works with me to gently right our pulpit.
“Nothing, just—come.”
I give her a hand, and to my surprise she takes it, standing and dusting her fingertips on her overpriced leggings. Across the summit, Evander has both hands above his head, a force of wind funneling through the calling power of his fingertips. Above him, the pulpit bobs steadily on the emerald updraft he’s created, like a hawk playing on the breeze.
The strain on his purpling face is enough that we both break into a run. When we crash in next to him, he grits out, “It’s in the recess. Nailed in.” He’s holding steady, fingers flexing and concentration unwavering.
I can see now why Winter can’t retrieve what’s inside. Though she’s tall, she doesn’t have enough height to reach inside the hollow pulpit where it’s currently suspended. It’s clear Evander’s doing all he can not to destroy it, trying to keep it steady and sturdy with pressure inside and out to prevent the ancient wood from flying apart.
“Auden,”Evander grumbles, impatience and strain in his voice.
“Trying not to defeat your efforts. Give me a sec.”
It really just takes a moment, and then I see my opening—the right place to enter the air stream Evander has created without upsetting it. I press my hands together and enter the hollow base of the pulpit like an Olympic diver, while leaning my torso away as not to inadvertently bump the updraft, working blindly, quickly, to retrieve whatever’s inside.
“You’re sticking your tongue out,” Winter teases.
“Concentrating.” Then, a weight drops delicately into my hands. “I’ve got it.”
Evander immediately shifts the magical air stream to whisk it straight up and off my arm. Next, he sets the altar gently on a patch of dirt beside the base, and presses forward, saying, “Let me see,” at nearly the same moment Winter whispers, “What is it?”
Almost in answer, the ground beneath us begins to shake.
It’s violent enough that Winter’s center of gravity abandons her and she falls into Evander. He catches her, and I work on instinct, clutching the relic to my chest with one hand and throwing up a spell to surround us with the other. The moment the magic locks into place, a cushion and a shield, I curse, voice strangled, “The safety wards.”
The same safety wards that Ursula promised had been disarmed for our protection.
The same safety wards that detonated ten years ago.
The perimeter of the chapel explodes in a wall of pure green fire. It rings us, hot and heavy, shooting twenty, thirty feet toward the rising sun in thick, flaring, dangerous magical power—
And then, as quickly as it came, the fire snuffs out.
Shield in place, I lift my head.
Nothing is left. Not even a thin curl of smoke.
That isn’t—
That shouldn’t—
This is not how it should work.
A security ward injures before any magical protections can be shown. It wasn’t meant to maim us, it was meant as a sign. A remnant of the wards removed by Ursula, proof that we are touching an artifact powerful enough to demand the strongest protective spells known to the Four Lines.
I swallow and present my tightly balled fist. “I suppose that’s as good a proof as the next clue that this is a master.”
“She could’ve warned us that the wards would still discharge,” Winter mutters, nervously sweeping wisps of wayward hair back into her ponytail. “Especially with… well…”
“Let me see,” Evander cuts her off with a gruff repetition of the very last thing he’d said. I’m prepared to point out that no one appreciates an asshole, especially when narrowly escaping a redux of childhood trauma, when I see his face. All color leached from his brown cheeks, eyes glassy, mouth turned down at the corners. He stares at my hand as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the here and now.
The memories of what was are hard on him too. He doesn’t want to talk about it.
Fine.
I extend my closed fist and open it. Together, we peer down in a little bent-headed circle at the item nestled in my palm.
