I continue to retreat, using touch to guide myself around the desk. I now understand how foolish this mission has been. No one knows ofmy whereabouts. Down and down my thoughts spiral, amplifying the hysteria until I reach a place of such brutal clarity that I am momentarily separated from the fear: my lamp. It has been extinguished, but there must be a means of lighting the wick.
Carefully, I place my stolen books onto the desk and begin pulling open the drawers. The ground trembles with the unmistakable rhythm of a four-legged gait, and the scratch of nails over stone makes my jaw twinge. With shaking hands, I grasp hold of what feels like flint and steel. Two, three, four strikes, and the wick of my lamp catches. Light drives the shadows into hiding—and draws the creature’s attention as well.
There is a scratch at the bottom of the door. A single nail dragged across the warped grain. The whiff of decay is stronger now, layered with a faint trace of woodsmoke. As I gather up the books, something heavy pushes against the ancient door. It bows from the pressure, groaning, and I shrink against the desk, teeth chattering as my gaze flits from corner to corner. There is nothing. No window, no means of escape, and now—
The door shatters. Something tumbles forward, a mess of elongated limbs, jutting bones, and oozing shadow patched across a body that appears to have been wrenched apart and stitched back together haphazardly. Its fangs are so numerous they bulge outward, dripping black fluid.
Darkwalker.
My mouth is dry as the desert sand. How did one manage to slip into the capital? The city gates, carved with protective runes, are shut prior to sundown.
The beast’s head snaps toward me. I scream and stumble backward, narrowly missing the snap of its teeth. The books tumble from my arms. I snag one within reach, tuck it close to my chest—this one small hope that might lead to further information about the labyrinth—and dart to the opposite side of the room. Two steps later, the darkwalker cuts off my escape.
I pivot, ducking beneath its jaw to scuttle back toward the desk, the only shield in proximity. The creature is massive. Overwhelming. I’vebarely time to throw myself sideways as it strikes, toppling the desk as it rushes past. The beast rams snout-first into the wall, and I’m up, sprinting for the doorway.
I cut left, back toward the main atrium. I didn’t realize how deeply I’d ventured from the special collections, for the narrow passage continues, on and on, an endless stretch of shadow. My lamp swings wildly in one hand, the other clutching the book. A furious roar rattles the air. Then my foot catches on a crack in the slab, and I stumble, hobbling awkwardly as pain licks through my ankle. Another crash draws my attention over my shoulder where the darkness seethes. It is coming.
I’m steps away from the back stacks when a great stench rolls forth. I abandon the lamp, force my legs faster, the pain in my ankle a distant memory. Turning right will lead me to the main atrium, the library exit. But the darkwalker is mere steps away. If I continue toward the main chamber, it will tear through my body long before I ever reach safety. I’ll need to lose it in the stacks.
I veer left. The beast, too bulky to make these hairpin turns, rams into the wall. Grit showers down from the ceiling, and I dart along the shadowy aisle. The brightness of bound parchment flickers past as athumpsounds from behind, followed by a groan of wood. The shelving unit to my right wobbles.
I reach the end of the row. A corner—the worst place to be. When I peek around the shelf, I find that the beast has reoriented itself, sniffing the area as it seeks my scent. I wait until it turns its head, then dash down another aisle. If I move carefully and quietly, perhaps I can evade the darkwalker long enough to reach the front counter.
I place as much distance as I can between myself and the beast before ducking behind a row housing scrolls of Ishmah’s recorded history. A darkwalker’s sense of smell is keen. Its hearing and sight, less so. I can use that to my advantage.
With the stolen book still pressed to my heaving breast, I slide a bookend free from a shelf and ease around a bend, ears straining to catch the slightest sound. There—a handful of rows away. Its snifflinggrows louder. Breath held, I launch the bookend as far as I can in the opposite direction of the front counter.
It scuttles toward the crash with a shriek. I duck behind another row before it realizes I’m on the move. If not for the small, cutout windows in the vaulted ceiling, I would be navigating the stacks blind.
When the beast fails to find me, it returns to its previous position, smashing into one of the shelves in the process. I watch it wobble from a distance. The idea emerges sleek and fully formed. I grasp its smooth shape in hand and consider my next move. If I can lure the darkwalker to the very end of the stacks, I can tip the shelves against one another, potentially trapping the beast beneath their weight long enough for me to flee the library.
Unfortunately, I’m on the wrong side of the room. To lure the beast, I must give it something to chase. Which means I will need to run faster than the toppling stacks, timing it just right.
The moment I ram the shelf hard enough to tilt it forward, the darkwalker catches sight of me. I dart down a row, leading the beast to its demise.
The shelf crashes into the one before it. Then that, too, tilts. It creates a domino effect, ancient texts and centuries-old documents tumbling to the ground in bits of parchment and dust. When I reach the penultimate row, I am near collapse. The final shelf topples forward as I dig deep for that last bit of speed. But I am not quick enough. My fingers catch the bookshelf. Momentum hauls me around, so fast my feet slip out from under me. I slam into the floor.
Seconds before the bookshelf crushes me, I scramble backward. The darkwalker strikes, quick as an asp. I scream and scuttle sideways, wiggling into the small space created by the collapsed unit propped against its neighbor.
“Sarai!”
A sob of relief builds in my chest. My fingernails scrabble at the stone as I drag myself forward through the scrolls and maps and tomes, while the darkwalker, steps behind, is destroying everything in its path searching for me, the parchment ripped as easily as dried leaves. I donot stop. Every fallen book is an obstacle to overcome. “Notus!” I cry back.
“Where are you?”
Teeth clenched, I push through the next wave of exhaustion. It is too far, his voice. My gasps are ragged, my throat inflamed. I haven’t the breath to respond. The plan has failed. And I have blocked my only way out.
“I’m in the back stacks!” I scream. “Hurry!”
The darkwalker is too preoccupied demolishing the shelving to notice when I wiggle free on the opposite side of the aisle. At the next doorway, I duck inside, hobble behind the open door. Breath held, I wait.
It emerges from the stacks as something constructed in my nightmares. Pits for eyes, broken wisped tail. Saliva drips from its long, serrated fangs.
Wherever these darkwalkers hail from, I am certain it is a place of darkness, the chasm of some demonic hell. Prowling forward, it lifts its snout to the air. I watch it through the crack in the door. Once it kills its victim, it sucks out their soul through the mouth.I am marble, I think.I am stone.
Even my thoughts have stilled, as if they, too, fear to attract the beast’s attention. Snout pressed against the crack, it exhales a noxious breath.
A blast of wind shatters a nearby shelf. Yellowing parchment spews in countless directions. The darkwalker whirls, a furious roar tearing from its throat.
