“We need Pretoria,” I panted.
“Agreed.”
On the other side of the tapestry something shattered and the lantern went out. My Eventide eyes took a moment to adjust, every desperate second taut with tension, then I seized Lewis’s hand and ran.
Through the shelves we sprinted, he blindly following my lead. I expected Wake to unfold from any direction, and my dread mounted as we sprinted alone, uninterrupted.
Wake, of course, waited for us at the door of the vault. He stood calmly, head tilted slightly to one side, revolver in hand.
I anticipated a threat, a demand. But instead, he simply opened fire.
Two muzzle flashes, directly after one another. I threw myself backwards into Lewis at the same time as he fired back, discharging his weapon right beside my ear.
Lewis and I hit the stone floor. I was briefly aware of his body beneath me, a tangle of limbs, then a horrific ringing over whelmed my senses. I rolled, struggling to gain my feet.
Something struck the back of my head.
I came to in fits and starts. There was light now, distant but expanding, and a cloying scent of smoke.
I pushed myself upright, hair in my eyes and something warm and salty on my lips. Blood. I looked down and discovered I had been lying in a smear of scarlet, glistening in a rising dance of firelight.
The smashed lantern had started a fire. The artifacts, the shelves—the vault was burning. It was a terrible realization, but distant, down a dark and echoing well.
Had I been shot? I felt no pain, felt very little at all. My vision was short and blurry, and my ears still rang, loud enough to make me cringe and clamp my hands over them.
Movement pulled my gaze right. There, Wake perched atop Lewis, hands cinched around his throat. Between us, bloodied and waiting, lay the artifact.
I tackled Wake, snatching the artifact on my way by and smashing it into our assailant’s head. It connected with a satisfyingthunk, jarring my hand and lancing pain up my arm.
We toppled off Lewis’s other side and into a row of shelves. A box fell beside us, muffled in my damaged ears, and clay dust plumed. Coughing, half-blinded, and tangled in Wake, I struck at him again with the artifact.
He reeled out of the way and grabbed my wrist. With the contact came Leeching, draining the strength from my muscles and reviving his own.
He pried my fingers apart with terrifying ease and kicked me down. The artifact fell and rolled in a tottering rhythm. I barely managed to bring my hands up to soften his next kick, aimed for my head.
“Lewis!” I cried.
The kick never landed. There was movement around me, a scuffle and an impact against the shelves. Another crate fell along with numerous smaller objects, then hasty hands helped me stand.
I steadied myself on Lewis’s arm, partially tucked into his chest, and looked back to see fire spreading through the vault. Heat rolled towards us, scented with the destruction of centuries, millennia, of precious things.
It was an Archivist’s nightmare made real. Old wood flared, tapestries turned to ash, and pottery cracked—all bizarrely muffled to my ears.
Lewis turned to stand between me and the flames. He was speaking to me, I realized, his mouth moving as his hands cupped my cheeks. The firelight illuminated him from behind, outlining him like a painted saint.
“My ears,” I managed, my throat thick for more than one reason. His hands were tender, his expression urgent, and his concern sincere. It was the rawest I had ever seen him, and to be the subject of his care was a momentous thing.
Then, somewhere to the side, the vault door opened.The influx of fresh air made the fire flare, surging closer and throwing us into bright relief. A figure rounded the newly opened door, about to lunge through with the artifact in hand.
Lewis lunged, but he was limping. He toppled into the back of the door and discharged his pistol after Wake. I saw the pop of light, but even the gunshot was a distant muffle to my ears.
Wake hurled himself out into the hallway. The artifact fell to the floor and rolled into the smoke, each side glinting in the firelight as it turned. I instinctively flinched towards it.
Then the vault door closed with a swirl of smoke. I saw the mechanisms automatically spin, felt themthunkinto place like nails into my own coffin.
Lewis threw himself down on the internal lever. I joined him, casting a frantic glance for the artifact as I did. Nothing, just thickening smoke and shelf after shelf, relic after treasure, waiting to be devoured by the flames.
I brushed stray hair, smoke, and dust from my eyes and turned my focus to the mechanism, searching for another way to open the door. Surely, there was some safety device, something Wake had used to open it from this side.
