“Remember what you’re seeing is a siren’s ruse,or you’ll die.”
“Get the piece before morning,or you’ll die.”
My gaze flits from Rainier to Gaëlle to Cadence to Adrien and back to Rainier again. I don’t know what kind of leadership seminar they all attended, but their motivational speech stinks. I’m giving them and their BrumianCome Out a Winnertutorial a zero out of five.
“All right! I’ve got the gist: one wrong move, andI die.”
The four of them blink at me, their faces drawn and pale. I spent the whole afternoon and evening with the motley Quatrefoil crew, preparing for this moment. We raided Gaëlle’s stock for any items that might kill a supernatural creature. I now own a bronze dagger, a silver hunting knife, and an iron pick, all strapped to my thigh. We hit the hardware store and bought rope and a headlamp. Adrien offered up his set of ultra-waterproof earphones. And then they threw me into three hours of intensive scuba-diving lessons with an angry, scar-faced ex-commander of the French Foreign Legion who made Vincent seem like a creampuff.
Now that it’s after midnight and the square is quiet, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be to get that damn piece.
In other words, I’m so fucking not ready.
I pound my feet on the cobbles to keep my circulation going. The ice is melting, and brown slush clings to my diving boots. We left the fins in the shop. Not even the short model would fit in the well. The floodlights are gone, as are the firefighters. Rainier told the brigade and other Brumian busybodies that I was a professional oil rig welder and that I was going to fix their belovedPuits Fleuri, but it might overflow again, so everyone was advised to clear the square and keep away until morning, or until Rainier gave the all-clear. De Morel’s command had them all skittering away faster than I can pick a pocket. I swear, the man is like royalty, esteemed and kowtowed to, more important than the mayor.
Most of the windows in the buildings surrounding the square are dark. The only frosty panes of glass glowing are on the third floor of the tavern. A curtain twitches, and I spot Nolwenn’s bulbous hair and shining eyes.
I’m about to tell Rainier we have spectators when he barks, “Roland!” He pats the pale wood box on his lap, the inside of which is lined with leaden sheeting. “When you come out, first thing you do, is put the leaf in here. No one else must touch it.”
“Or they’ll die,” I add in an ominous voice.
That doesn’t get a single laugh.
Adrien steps forward and clips the rope to the weight belt around my wetsuit. “If your BCD doesn’t work like it should, and you can’t ascend on your own, just give this a yank. I’ll reel you in.”
I test the buoyancy again, compressing the red button. My jacket fills up. I look for the little ball dangling at my back and yank it to free the air. Sergeant Suffering’s warning not to ascend too fast shrills in my mind, but getting the Bends is at the very bottom of my list of worries.
Cadence holds up Adrien’s phone. “I’ll talk you through it. We don’t know how deep the connection will work, but I won’t stop talking.”
Gaëlle huddles further into her yellow scarf, the whites of her eyes glittering. She clears her throat. “Good luck, Slate. And break a leg.”
I stomp my feet again, and my bruised toe throbs. With my recent lucky streak, I might actually break a leg. Or two.
This is the worst fix I’ve ever been in. And that includes the time when Tiny Tim found out I stole his lucky rabbit-foot keyring with the key to his storage unit.
I look into the well.
Before I put on this ridiculous seal suit, Adrien and I got the firefighters to help us lug the huge pot, remove the table, and snap off the grate. I’d been expecting to see Cadence or Bastian or even poor old Spike under the surface of the water, but there was nothing except an icy pool of darkness.
Most of the ice has inexplicably melted, and the water line’s receded. It’s now a good two meters below the lip of the well. I sit on the edge, small air tank strapped to my back.
I switch on the headlamp and adjust the diving mask that smells like chemical lemon. I shove the regulator between my lips, its edges scraping my gums, and suck in, hearing theka-shoookof the nitrogen-enriched oxygen filling my hose.
Putain.My heart is going a mile a minute.
“I’ll ease you down,” Adrien says, unspooling the rope.
There is no fucking way I am going to let him lower me into the eerie tunnel of gloom without keeping some sort of grip on the thing. I tilt forward to put one hand on either side of the interior of the well. Even through the diving gloves, the chill in the stone bites my fingers.
I slide my ass off the ledge, and for a split-second, I’m in freefall. Then I feel a jerk as the belt tightens around my middle, and I’m dangling a foot above the slick surface of the water. My headlamp shines on the dips and dents in the stones, but its reach isn’t long enough to fill the encroaching blackness.
Despite the arctic cold, sweat beads underneath my neoprene diving hood, and a crushing pain squeezes my chest. Bile rises in my throat, and I force it back down. There’s no way in hell I’m allowing a panic attack to set in. I’d rather die trying than die hyperventilating.
Suddenly, Cadence’s voice is in my ears. “Adrien’s giving the rope slack. Once you’re in the water, adjust your buoyancy. You’re doing great, Slate.”
Oh, yeah. Abso-fucking-lutely. I haven’t shit myself yet. That’s a win.
I twist my neck, catching a sliver of Cadence’s moonlit face. The backdrop of twinkly lights makes her look like a goddess in a sky of stars, if goddesses wore slouchy knit caps with fuzzy pompoms.
