I sigh, about to close the book when I catch a glimpse of a familiar picture.
It’s the same picture of Mortuus from Gerith’s textbook, the god of ruin baring his teeth in a snarl as Anoxian looks on, that strange, dark sword in his hand.
I wouldn’t have thought Mortuus’s imprisonment was relevant to Senthara’s history. Until I get halfway down the page.
The year before I was born, an earthquake struck. The epicenter was in northwest Senthara—close to the Myrestorn border. Great cracks opened in the ground, while thick, dark mud poured from those cracks as the earth shifted.
Some blamed Mortuus, convinced the god had used his time free of his cage to create destruction.
Most chose to believe it was a natural occurrence. One that would have been much worse if the quake had struck closer to the capital city.
According to the book in my hand, it was indeed Mortuus breaking free of his cage. Every twenty-five years, on the longest night of the year, the bars weaken enough for him to temporarily escape and cause havoc. The power within those bars pulls him back inside his cage the moment the sun rises.
Just like the vampires, his freedom is tied to the sun. That’s nicely ironic considering he was the one who stole it from them.
Even while knowing just how much more powerful—and how much more of a threat—the vampires would be if theycouldwalk in the sun, my heart still aches for Tiernon and vampires like him. Those who were allowed to grow beneath its warmth, all while counting down the days until it would be out of their reach forever.
I return my attention to the book—and to the destruction Mortuuswielded while he was free. According to the author, the god destroyed an entirecitybefore slowly moving south—his movements easily tracked by the trail of bodies he left in his wake.
And then the death stopped—hours before he was due to be whisked back to his cage. What was he doing?
Flipping the page, I freeze. I know this mark. I’ve seen it many times before—once, at the statue of Anoxian when I first arrived at the ludus. Once on Gradon’s neck. And once etched into the bracelet I found in Tiberius Cotta’s pocket.
My first reaction to it was so violent, I’m unsure how I could have forgotten the spiral, the tiny, jagged lines, the strange symbols.
A chill slides down my spine. Why would someone carve the mark of Mortuus into a statue of Anoxian? Why would Tiberius Cotta be carrying the mark with him—something that could have cost even a sigilkeeper his life? And why would someone be killing people and carving Mortuus’s mark into the bodies?
Thumping echoes reach my ears and my heart jumps into my throat. I’m not the only one who planned a late-night visit to this library.
Hauling the books into my arms, I sprint into the dark shadows of the shelves, keeping my own steps light. My breaths come in shallow pants, and I hold my hand to my mouth in an attempt to quiet them. The pendant around my neck hits one of the books with an audible click, but the footsteps continue their slow rhythm.
Rorrik prowls past me as if I’m invisible. I have no doubt if I drew attention to myself, he would hear me, but for now, the pendant he gave me is hiding my presence from him.
He looks … tired. Andthatmakes him look far too human for my liking. A thick book is wedged beneath his arm, and he slides it onto one of the tables near the statue of Staleia, flicking it open. Despite his obvious exhaustion, his muscles are tense, eyes sharp and alert. There’s a sense of anticipation about him, as if he’s about to get something he desperately wants.
He begins to read, and I hesitate, torn between attempting to sneak past him and staying put. The pendant worked in the emperor’s palace, but Tiberius was already asleep. Meanwhile, Rorrik is an awake, alert vampire.
I can’t help but watch him. What could someone like Rorrik be looking for? If he wanted, he could be spending his days in luxury in thepalace, but instead he’s constantly prowling around the ludus and wandering into this library to read ancient books.
He’s clearly searching for something specific in the book in his hands, because he turns to a particular place, eyes narrowed.
From here, I can see the way his hands—elegant and long-fingered—tense on the edges of the book. The way he leans forward, eyes intent as he scans the text.
Frowning, he flicks several pages, then flicks back. His shoulders slump. His eyes close. When they open again, they’re filled with dark misery.
Misery turns to rage and he picks up the table, throwing it against the wall. The action is so unexpected, I recoil, slamming my elbow into the bookshelf.
Rorrik doesn’t hear it. He’s busy turning the remaining tables and chairs into shards of wood.
My heart stops. This is the same man who wanted me dead because I saw him pet his wyvern. If he learns I’ve seen him truly out of control, he might do worse than kill me.
Finally, Rorrik stops, his back to me as he stares at the statue. He can’t be praying—vampires pray only to Umbros, and something tells me Rorrik isn’t particularly pious. After long moments, his posture relaxes. Abandoning the mess he has created, he moves toward the back of the library.
Slowly, I walk down the aisle between the bookshelves as he keeps to the outer edge of the room. When he sits himself at the table and glowers down at the books, I can’t help but peer around the closest bookshelf and watch him once more.
He opens one of the books and reads, his eyes dripping blood. I wince. I know just how much it hurts. Even if Rorrik’s eyes are continually healing.
And yet … he’s not reading. He’s copying something down onto parchment and comparing it to another book. A key? It seems the words in those books aren’t rearranging themselves for him.
