At last he came to a raised platform at the far end of the room. He knew what he’d find before he reached it. He climbed the steps, his boots thudding against the marble.
A tomb lay in wait.
“Bravo,” St. Silas murmured. He felt the electric hum in the air again, the demon’s power so condensed his skin felt feverish with it. He circled the vault, his brows furrowed as if trying to decipher a puzzle. The stone felt real beneath his hand, the rough texture familiar, scraping the calluses on his palms. There was no name on the lid.
It could be his father’s. It could be his own.
Swallowing harshly, he pushed on the lid. The color drained from his face as the smell of spoiled meat enveloped him. His father’s corpse lay inside—not a smiling skeleton, but a bloated, mangled body that still retained its flesh. He was only recognizable from the tufts of still-golden hair crowning a face half eaten by rats and maggots, the sinewy muscle glimmering underneath, the eyes blue and gaping. A sword had pierced him in the chest, plunged so deeply that only the bronze hilt showed. Nestled between the corpse’s folded arms was the red diary. All St. Silas needed to do was move the arms and grab the book.
He knew it was not real. His father’s actual remains lay behind him, in the family crypt. He knew that this was another layer of the demon’s magic, convulsing his mind, consuming him.
Still, St. Silas stood paralyzed.
You were always guarded,the Duke of Fray had told him once,even as a child.
He could not force his hand to move.
Such a waste,Orley had said.I cannot get a feel for you at all.
Fear constricted his lungs, a slow asphyxiation.
Do you tear hearts for a living?
A change overtook him. The terror receded. His expression flattened, blackened—a derisive curl to his lips, a cold fury in his eyes. St. Silas’s own promise, the one he had made when he was sixteen years old, head bent as his life was debated by the Duke of Fray, rang louder than the rest.
He would not falter.
Reaching out, his actions firm and steady, he took the red diary. The crypt and the image of his putrefied father shattered into nothingness.
A demon’s trick.
There he stood—Bram St. Silas, Bramwell Avon, waist-deep in vows, in vengeance, born to privilege, marked by brutality. There he stood, the Saint of Silence, triumphant in the dark.
It was twilight,and snow had begun to fall in earnest.
Rami exercised in the courtyard, far away from the flutter of departing guests and carriages rolling through the broad iron gates. Most of the hunting party had bid their farewells and the gentlemen’s chambers were empty.
St. Silas had been absent for nearly the entire day. They still hadn’t found the damned red diary, and he understood that they could not afford to remain much longer than tomorrow morning. Already, they were overstaying their welcome.
He sheathed his sword and stood motionless in the remnants of twilight. Although there were no city noises to distract him here, an uneasy silence made his ears ring.
HehatedWeavingshaw.
It never failed to elicit a phantom ache in his shoulder, forcing him to recall the sawing of the surgeon’s blade. As if Weavingshawitselfwas a knife, hacking at its occupants slowly. He felt its presence even now, breathing down his neck.
A sudden noise disturbed the hush.
Running footsteps, then Rami was wrenched back to see Martin hovering over him, his face quivering with rage.
Rami swallowed, and he knew with utter clarity that the ruined Tar had been discovered. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.
He’d really thought that they would be out of Weavingshaw by the time the Tar was found. There was no reason Martin should return to the crypts to check on the drug so soon after his previous visit. Still, he cursed his own rash actions.
Martin was standing so close that Rami could see the bone protruding from his nasal bridge, healed improperly from a past break. His voice was grating, his pale lips barely moving. “You. Did. It.”
Rami kept his face neutral. “Didwhat?”
A sudden blow struck the side of Rami’s head, quick and thunderous, causing his vision to erupt in black dots. A boxer’s punch, full of weight. Rami swayed slightly before regaining his posture, unsheathing his sword in one fluid motion.
