They have identical marks. A shared wound.
He did it. Dorian saved him. They’re both alive.
They’re both breathing.
The malum hisses, drawing my gaze upward. It circles us, prowling like an animal, looking for any way into the cell. It stretches its claws, as if desperate to use them.
I stare at the beast. This creature, was it the same one that killed Pippa? The wounds on Atticus’s back, now Dorian’s…they match what I saw that day. The malum seems to watch us, with an unnerving, intelligent patience.
It’s not of this world. A deep, dark magic created this thing. And my shock and fear is replaced by a fuming rage.
“If this cage could keep you in then, it can keep you out now,” I say.
If the creature understands me, it gives no indication. It simply melts into the darkness, hissing. The shadows lengthen. The lantern provides some small amount of light, but it won’t burn forever. When the oil is expended, the room will darken, and we’ll be left alone with the malum, unable to see it.
The bars shake.
I’m reminded that the demolition will soon begin. If we don’t find a way out before it starts, we’ll be crushed beneath the rubble.
26
Dorian
Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.
—Oscar Wilde,The Picture of Dorian Gray
There’s a lightglowing faintly in the distance. Warm, inviting, safe…I wonder if I’m dead. My body feels heavy. My limbs are like stone. There’s a comforting finality to dying, a relief in knowing that it’s over, that it’s done. There’s nothing left for me to do. No more effort needed. No more scraping by. No more trying. And failing.
The last thing I remember is trying to save Atticus.
I hope it wasn’t all for nothing.
I have no answers.
I wonder if this is how death feels: trapped in a body forever, unable to move, sensing them burying you, thinking, feeling, knowing…?
I wonder, what will my mom do? What will happen to her now? I want the coroner to tell her it was quick for me, that it was over before I realized what was happening. Then something hits me.
I can still smell things, the scent of iron and copper—blood. I remember what happened.
There’s sunlight. Faint through my closed eyelids. I slide them open, aching from head to toe. I’m lying on the stone floor, and my back feels as if it’s been cut to pieces.
Sunlight shines through cracks in the stone ceiling, fissures that illuminate the narrow cell where I lie. The lantern light is gone, replaced by the dim and hazy rays of the early morning sun. Am I dreaming?
I try to sit up, but when I shift, pain shoots through me, and the world snaps into focus. Faces hover over me. Atticus. Raven.
They’re pale, and worried. They’re covered in filth and blood, but they’re alive, and still frightened. I recall everything that happened: The malum. Atticus. His bleeding wounds.
I don’t care about the pain. I grab Atticus by the shoulders and pull him into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I tell him.
“Me? Never better.” He’s pale and weak, but he wraps his arms around me. He’s warm and in my arms, safe. I close my eyes and breathe in his scent, burying my nose into the slope of his neck.
“How long was I—” I start to ask, but I cough, which makes the ache in my back feel like a solid punch to the ribs.
“You’ve been unconscious for a while,” says Raven. She wipes her nose on the back of her bloody wrist. Atticus’s clothes are stiff with dried blood.
“What happened?” Atticus asks, pulling away. “You healed me, but injured yourself…”
