He stalked toward her, blood soaked and awful. One thick pink hand yanked a reading lamp from a desk. He hefted the heavy bronze in his arms. His eyes traced a path through the air to Emma’s skull, as though rehearsing the blow that would crush it. Emma felt sweat dampen her back. Something ought to have been happening by now. She had bet her life on it. He had made a bargain; the Night City would come to collect. But he was nearly on her. She readied to spring, every muscle taut.
His gaze tracked over her head and stopped. Emma looked back. The corner of the tapestry was fluttering. Then it blew back, as if in an invisible gale. Behind was an earthen passageway, tree roots tangling into the distance. Richard stepped closer, mouth soft with amazement. At the end of the tunnel, Emma could just make out a carved door with a crystal knob. A door she had seen before, although she had come to it by a different entrance.
Emma stilled the joy leaping in her chest, and cued herself for a performance. She huddled her face into her hands, sobbing as best she could. With the adrenaline and the horror of the night, it was easier than she thought to call up some real tears.
“What is that? Answer me.”
She lifted her face, shining with tears. “It is the Night City’s place.” Then, with an obvious shudder: “It is bad, wrong, don’t take me there—”
He dropped the lamp. “The Power, guiding my hand at last.” He took her by the arm, pulling her into the passage. “It wishes me to deliver you. It shows me the way.”
The earthy scent of the Court tunnels wrapped around them. Mineral streaks glowed from the walls, bright enough that Emma could make out the door of the Room of Choosing, growing closer. A room that appeared when mortals had a bargain with the Night City, left unpaid. The sign of a debt, soon to be collected. She smiled to herself.
Richard wrenched the crystal knob of the door and tugged Emma through behind him. There were the five pillars with their glittering objects; there, the skeleton monk in his corner; and there, with its bright black eyes and mushroom skin, was the wizened creature who had guided her. She bowed to it. Respect was always worth showing. Emma knew the moment the creature recognized her. It visibly brightened, its thistle-flax beard twitching. She had always thought of it as a friend. She was glad to see it remembered her, and kindly.
For more reasons than one. Emma melted a step behind Richard and placed a finger on her lips, jerking her head at the Turnbull. She traced her bruises and the blood on her gown and again pointed at Richard. The creature gave a sly, sharp nod. She knew it understood her.
Richard strode to the pillars. The feather, the droplet, the ball of light, the rat teeth, and the claw floated gently above them.
“Treasures of the Power,” he breathed. He beckoned the creature. “You there. Servant of the Power. What do these do? Are they how I must fulfill the ritual?”
His tone made the creature stiffen. Before it answered, Emma slid in. “They will complete your bargain,” she said, choosing her words carefully.
Richard snarled over his shoulder. “As if I would trust you.”
“Oh no, the little once-a-mortal does not lie.” Overlarge black eyes glinted at Emma, and then back to Richard. Emma saw the mischief in their depths. “No, indeed. These will complete your bargain. Although—”
Richard turned away without thanks. The creature’s eyes narrowed.
“A trial of my worthiness,” Richard murmured, staring at the objects. “Of course. To fulfill my bargain, to repair the Turnbull ritual, I must choose.”
“Choose, yes.” The creature puffed its chest and drew itself up, delighted to perform. “Debtor, for the City’s payment / You must choose—” it began proudly.
“Leave off all that,” Richard snapped. “I’m trying to think.”
Needle-sharp nails quivered, as though thirsting for the touch of blood. Richard remained oblivious, musing before the objects. “I see it now. Each of these must grant a gift, a power… but I must choose correctly. Only one will prove me worthy to command the Night City: to fulfill the Turnbull ritual that was broken.”
Emma and the imp eyed each other, bemused. There was very little need for subterfuge when a victim was quite so determined on deluding themselves.
“A feather for obedience, as in the blazons of heraldry.”
He went on down the line. Emma could only watch in awe as he confidently misinterpreted every object.
“A teardrop to grant purity. The sun, for glory.” He passed from the glowing ball to the rat teeth and broke off, clearly puzzled. “An odd shape. Alchemical symbol, perhaps? Made of gold, for wealth. That’s it. And this claw—”
The amber claw on the final pillar was not glowing, as it had for Emma. But Emma could not bear for him to approach it. It was time to lure him into the final trap.
“Don’t tell him about the ball of light.” Emma shrieked, flinging an elbow over her head. “Oh, creature, I beg you. Let him not have that power—”
“Power?” Richard turned.
From under her arm, Emma winked at the creature, who was looking rather startled.
“The ball,” she said, through clenched teeth, “which he called a sun.”
The ball of light swirled upon its pillar, an angry star. Richard eyed it hungrily.
“Ah,” said the creature, eyes glittering. “Yes. Shame on the little once-a-mortal, seeking to hide this power from the so-noble gentleman.” Its voice dripped with glee. “I can tell him all about it.”
