Page 8 of Librarian

I also still have that tracker in my spine. There’s nowhere I can go that Isidora won’t find me. The fake covenant mark on my cheek won’t fool her forever either. It took weeks of research to create the spell that would slice into my flesh in a perfect replica of the real thing. Even now, the wound stings, adding to the symphony of aches and pains singing through my body.

I’ve just undone Kyrith’s last shackle when a rhythmic squeaking breaks the sepulchral silence. I whirl, grimoire rustling as it flies out of my holster.

There, trundling out of the stacks of grimoires on my left, is a rickety old book cart. It wheels to a stop beside the altar, expanding slowly until it’s just long enough for a person to lie on.

Like a fool, I gawp at it until it nudges my hip. It doesn’t look particularly stable, but I can take a hint.

Kyrith is practically weightless as I lift her corpse from the altar and deposit her gently on the cart. The second she’s ready, it rolls away.

Where is it taking her?

“Hey, wait.” Damn, it’s faster than it looks, and it’s dark down here.

Did I accidentally just give her over to Mathias? Or is the Library still… No. That’s not possible…right?

I’m panting as I struggle to keep pace, my marrow protesting each and every step.

A thin door, nestled almost invisibly between the shelves, flies open on my left. The cart turns sharply, disappearing through it without waiting for me. I step across the threshold and wince.

It’s a crypt.

The walls are the same grey stone as the floor, and they’re inscribed with hundreds of lines in ornate script. Kaye McKinley, Elizabeth Winthrop, Maureen Carlton.

It doesn’t take a genius to realise that these are the names of the dead liminals the parriarchs used to power the Arcanaeum. The building must’ve created this place to remember them.

The cart rolls over to the centre of the room, lowering and slipping Kyrith’s body onto a dais. Just one more in a long line of sacrifices.

My fingers trace the names on the walls as my gaze falls on the cat tree in the corner. It’s so out of place, a lone pop of colour in this gloomy little room. The white cat Kyrith adopted is currently snoozing in one of the hammocks. He opens one eye, spots me, and meows a greeting.

At least he’s safe. Maybe I can find a way to sneak him out of here. Unfortunately, he’s not exactly small or inconspicuous.

Like magnets, my eyes are drawn back to her. The Arcanaeum has cleaned her and changed her clothes, replacing them with a soft velvet wrap dress and a warm cardigan. That’s good. It’s cold down here…

Not that it really matters to her anymore.

Only…

Her blood is gone.

Her wound is still there, but it looks days old. Scabbed. I close the distance between us, kneeling on the floor beside her as I brush aside the neckline of her dress to check for myself.

That’s when I notice the tiniest magical drain where my fingers brush her skin.

I stand so quickly that my knees protest, and I stagger backward.

Kyrith is bound to us by magic. My grandfather made me pay attention to my magical well when I cracked her, and the feeling I experienced then was eerily similar. Testing the theory, I bend and stroke her knuckles again.

Definitely the same draw. Is her wound healing?

Even if it is, I can’t fix her alone. I need my magic, now more than ever, and it took all six of us to crack her last time.

I need to get the others here. Now.

Only…the Arcanaeum is still closed. I have no idea what Mathias’s plans are. Will he reopen it to other patrons?

As long as he has that dagger, he has control.

My teeth grind as I pace across the flagstones.