There was no way in Nine Hells I was going to give up.
There might be another blade somewhere in Graysen’s room. A crossbow? Perhaps even a gun? He was a Crowther, after all. He probably had an armory tucked away amongst the ordinary things.
I’d always assumed Graysen would have some kind of frat-boy bedroom with piles of dirty clothes strewn across the floor and pictures of naked women tacked upon the walls. But it wasn’t anything like that at all. It was extremely neat and tidy, with no TV.
The bathroom and a walk-in closet walled off a quarter of the room. But what I hadn’t noticed before was the set of doors running along the outside wall of the bathroom. They folded inand out like a concertina, and when they opened, they revealed a small, hidden kitchen. I swept a palm across the granite countertop, its dark stone swirled with black and flecked with navy. There was a steel sink, a stovetop for cooking, a fridge inset between the sets of drawers below the counter, and above were cupboards and exposed shelving holding glasses, mugs, and crockery.
I yanked open the top drawer with a clank. Spoons. Fucking spoons. The drawer was empty of everything else. There wasn’t a single cutting knife or ordinary dinner knives either. Not even a fucking fork remained.
While Penn stood silently watching me, her hands clasped together at the middle of her waist and her big eyes unblinking, I rifled through the cupboards. Bitterness tasted like ash in my mouth. I quickly found there wasn’t one bit of junk food among the stored provisions. Even the fridge was filled with fresh, healthy vegetables. There wasn’t a single godsdamn can of soda pop.
Carelessly folding the doors closed, I shifted over to the row of tall cupboards that jutted into the circular room across from the bathroom. They didn’t reach as high as the vaulted ceiling either, leaving a band of open space above where shadows pooled and light drifted. Their placement partially obscured the view of Graysen’s elaborate bed on the other side, creating a subtle partition within the studio-like expanse.
Behind the row of doors, I discovered a linen cupboard, wash baskets, neatly stored boxes, and cleaning equipment. Slamming the doors shut, I strode purposefully to his workstation. Nothing. Only staplers and pens and other types of stationery, which I hurled petulantly over my shoulder like a toddler having a hissy fit.
I hit up the tall set of drawers, and I went through each drawer like a raccoon going through a trash can. Just neatlyfolded clothes apart from the top compartment, which was full of knick-knacks, seashells and subway tickets, coins, screws and bolts, acorns, beer coasters, rings and silver chains and loose change, useless things.
I shot Penn a suspicious look. “You’re not going to stop me?”
“He said?”
“He expected me to go through his things?” I straightened, offended.
“His words,‘She won’t be able to help herself.’” She gave back a small, polite smile and gestured for me to continue with a wave of a slender hand. “You’ll not find a weapon. He collected them all up before he left. He didn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
The sonovabitch!
“But,” she added, digging into the pocket of her uniform and pulling something out. She placed it carefully on the dining table. “He suggested you try to cut through the collar.”
An adamere dagger lay before me. I watched like a ravenous wolf as she procured a second blade—a wyrmblade—placing it next to the first. And then a third. The darkness spilling from the blade transfixed my attention. Its form undulated with mist and shadow. Zrenyth’s Dagger.
Penn minutely adjusted the dagger to align its tip perfectly with the others.
I was rushing across the room, snatching the first, a second later.
The adamere hilt was cool against my fingers, and the dagger’s blade useless.
I tossed it aside, grabbing hold of the wyrmblade. It hummed a song against my flesh. Its off-kilter melody strummed through my bones as if like sang to like. And my mind whirled back to that moment a few days ago when I’d picked up Graysen’s cursed sword to defend him. There was no time to think about it then, how the curse hadn’t tainted me, or how the sword vibrated withlife in my hands as this one did too. It made sense now, knowing what I was, what I carried somewhere hidden within me—a wyrm.
Again, nothing.
I threw it onto the table. The off-white bone dagger clattered and skidded over the smooth surface, but I was already reaching for Zrenyth’s blade. My hand wrapped around the hilt, and tendrils of mist and shadow skittered about my fingers.
Fear that I wasn’t going to be able to cut through the rope—the lesson I expect Graysen was trying to teach me—soured the pit of my stomach.
Please, please, please…
Zrenyth himself had forged the dagger.
Ancient, savage power raked across my palms, crackling down my arm and raising all the fine hair on my body. It reverberated right through my very being. Wild, dark magic. Cruel. Merciless. Willful.
Its misty, shadowy form wavered like fog curling off a grave at dawn. As I brought it to the collar, I felt a resistance as I sawed the blade back and forth, careful of the angle, making sure the sharp edge wouldn’t pierce my flesh.
I knew with growing despair that I would not slice through the braided cords. “Godsdammit, but this is Zrenyth’s blade.” Surely it could cut through the rope—both were crafted by the very same God.
Penn spoke with a regretful note in her voice. “Nothing can cut through it. Only a Crowther wielding a dagger can.”
My heart sank.
