Page 77 of The Lies We Conjure
“Stand back.” I press both my hands to the hollow piece.
Moisture floods from the brick into my fingers until the paint and mortar flake and crust just enough that the brick dislodges with a satisfying little sigh, dehydrated, not unlike the ivy.
I wedge it free, and there, behind the hollowed brick, is a dark vial—magically preserved, completely without dust, mold, age. I fish it out and turn to our little group and the fraying, narrow light.
The vial is cobalt blue and ringed with protective iron and astopper set in wax, and more iron crosshatched over the top and neck like a spiderweb. We peer at it, foreheads bent and nearly touching as I rotate it slowly in my palms. A liquid roils within, sloshing against the sides, and leaving a film that darkens the vial to near black with every revolution.
And there, on the side that had been pressed into my palm, is the thickest piece of iron in all its protective trappings, letters etched in a hand that is blocky and efficient.
The Blood of Nostradamus.
“Wait, like, the prophet?” Kaysa asks, voice thunderstruck and eyes nearly cartoonish. “The guy with the long beard who predicted the rise of Hitler?ThatNostradamus?”
In answer, the security wards detonate.
The Blackgates yelp and cover each other, while Evander and I track the wards as they ring us in a ten-foot diameter. This time, instead of a wall of fire, it’s pyrotechnics—gun smoke and magic exploding in a string of light and sound, all beginnings and fizzled endings. Again, the security wards just show their hand, they don’t do anything near the lethal capability they once had.
“I suppose that means this is the right one.” Kaysa gives a relieved little laugh once the wards dissipate and the smoke clears. “Good job, sis.”
She tags Lavinia on her healed arm, but then yelps when her fingers come away sponged pink with her sister’s tacky blood. “Ugh, gross. Maybe we’ve earned you a shower. You too, Evander. Might be time to throw away that shirt.”
His lips kick up in something of a smirk. “It’s not a shirt, it’s a jersey, and for your inf—”
Whatever pithy, flirty, grumpy response Evander had at the ready goes unheard, cut off by the long, desperate howl of a scream from inside Hegemony Manor.
CHAPTER24
AUDEN
The stench of blood coats the back of my throat as we climb the stairs.
It’s as sharp and fresh as the scream we heard, new and distinctly different from what happened in the woods, hours ago now. The recovered knives clink heavily in Evander’s waist pack as we hustle, the wail ebbing into sobbing by the time Lavinia, Kaysa, Evander, and I trace the noise to the second floor and then the solarium.
Inside, Infinity and Winter are huddled beside the Victorian settee closest to the hearth on the south wall, the dying day weakly illuminating the space through the massive windows. The fire has snuffed out yet again, and as I light it the terrible scene adopts a golden hue.
Infinity is on their knees, hands pressed to their face. Winter’s tears sparkle in diamond streaks down her cheeks as she cups their shaking shoulders.
I already know exactly what we’ll see as the entire Cerise family bursts in from the terrace door.
Luna, dead on the antique cushions.
What I don’t expect is the fresh golden sunlight wrapped taut and shimmering over her still form.
A victim’s shroud.
We’ve got more on our hands than a tragedy—we’ve got another murder.
One that we can’t assign to Marsyas Blackgate.
One orchestrated by someone in this room.
There’s a noise like a collective gasp and a shuffle of involuntary movement—hands flying to lips, knuckles squeezed, steps hitched,and in the case of Evander, completely stopped dead—as we take in the scene.
A teacup lays in shards on the rug, a half-eaten croissant growing stale on a plate atop the side table. Upon closer inspection, a book of large-print crosswords is abandoned next to Luna’s shrouded form, the stub of a pencil still clasped in her gnarled fingers. Her sable lips are tinged blue, but it’s impossible otherwise to tell how she died. Given our recent encounter, I anticipate a knife slash—a murdered witch receives a victim’s shroud whether or not it was magic that did the deed. But I don’t see it.
We’re too late for a soul’s truth. The phenomena appears once—there’s no automatic replay. It’s there and gone. I wish we’d seen it; I feel lucky that we’d seen Ursula’s, though it meant witnessing her end too.
“Infinity,” Evander nudges, more gently than I’ve ever heard from him, “what happened?”
