Eos grips the marble with confident hands and forearms, biceps flexing as she lowers herself farther and farther into the hole. Her torso disappears next. Then her chest. She smiles triumphantly for a moment before her mouth screws up tight. A pained whimper passes her lips. She doesn’t move past her shoulders. Shecan’t.
“Shit,” she whines, twisting to try to release the pressure from her bad shoulder.
“Guards in eleven,” Stavros says, keeping track of the time in a way that feels almost magical. He shifts the gunpowder in his arms and stands. “We go now, or we don’t go at all.”
Vesper looks warily between us as Eos exhales another whine. I can’t tell if she’s making progress or if she’s hurt. She should have fallen into the antechamber seconds ago. If she gets stuck… if those guards find us here…
Glancing at their silver hair, I swallow hard.
“Eos,” Vesper says suddenly, “let me pull you out.”
“No.” Eos wiggles, biting down on more curses as her body twists unnaturally. “Fucking broad shoulders.”
I stare at Eos. In so many ways, she really is a child. Small, bright-eyed, hopeful. If the guards catch her, she’ll die. “We’ll try another day,” I say, leaning over to help Vesper drag Eos out.
Eos glares up at us. “No.I can do it.” She seeks her sister’s gaze. “We’re getting that coin, and we’re leaving this shithole. Okay? I cando this.”
She shuts her eyes, and her tongue slithers out again. With an indelicateergh, she yanks one hand inside the vent and forces it behind her back. It buys her the inch of room she needs, and her eyes pop open on another triumphant grin. “See you below,” she whispers, and then she drops. Falls.
A light thud follows, and Vesper exhales palpable relief. So do I. Both breathing heavily, Vesper and I step away from the statue in anticipation of the staircase unveiling itself. She glares at me from the corner of her navy eye, and I understand well enough that this time, her frustration isn’t my fault. At least, notallof it.
“If anything happens to my sister,” Vesper murmurs, “I will kill you, Zephyra. Do you understand?”
“We will make boom,” Stavros agrees.
Vesper nods, never once taking her gaze off my face. “Yes. We will make boom.”
CHAPTER TWO
ZEPHYRA
In Mortia, deceased commoners are burned on pyres along walls that run from continent to continent in order to protect humankind from traversing merrow-infested seas. Nobles, on the other hand, are buried beneath the Temple of Mortem in a special antechamber blessed by both the High Priest and a warlock elder during elaborate funerals. When the floor rumbles and the entry to the stairwell releases, thanks to Eos, the bitter stench of liquor and the sweet scent of divinity salts—drugs—confirm every rumor we’ve heard about those indulgent celebrations. It almost doesn’t feel sanitary to open the doorway.
“Smells like fornication,” Stavros says, shielding his nose with the gunpowder.
I don’t disagree. Neither does Vesper, though she still crawls toward the latch. It spans six large marble tiles, and she slips two fingers under the fissure to pull it the rest of the way open. Doing so releases another gust of nauseating air, this one tinged with rot, and it takes everything in me to not gag.
“Eos?” Vesper whispers. “You okay?”
There is no answer.
“Eos?” she repeats desperately.
Silence.
My stomach churns with anxiety. “It’s deep. She probably can’t hear us down there.” But even as I say it, I know it might not be true. Truth is, none of us has ever attended a noble’s burial before, never entered these crypts. We’ve heard stories though—horror stories of revelry bordering on hedonism down below. And although we watched a procession of drunken nobles parade out of this very stairwell earlier this evening, we don’t know if every single one of them left. We don’tknowwhat’s waiting down there.
Stavros grabs Vesper’s arm before she can descend into the darkness. “Do not worry, Vesper. If your sister is hurt, we will bathe in the blood of her assailant.”
Vesper presses a palm to his cheek. “Thank you, Stavros.” She sucks in a sharp breath, then steps below. Stavros treads immediately behind her. For some reason, the sight of them disappearing together—always in unison, perfectly in step—fills me with inexplicable unease. It lifts the hair at my nape, and it makes me hesitate. Just for a second.
You are not and haveneverbeen a real part of this crew.
Their relationship has always felt strangely intense, and not in a particularly romantic way. The two share a tent with Eos, pitched between two ramshackle buildings using shredded clothing and cypress branches as a makeshift awning, and Stavros doesn’t sleep. Instead, he watches over them. Three nights ago, when I tried to slip inside and share news about the masquerade’s siren massacre, Stavros had me pinned to the floor with a rag shoved down my throat before I could even scream. He nearly lit me on fire.
I shake off my hesitation and start forward, ignoring that tight, itchy feeling across my skin.
I can’t imagine what they’ve lived through together, or what Stavros will do if something happens to Eos. I can’t imagine whatI’lldo. I haven’t been part of their crew for long—and I’m clearly not always a welcome member—but Eos is the best of us. Her sunshine smile. Her tinkling laugh. She gave her last three coppers to an elderly woman, just so the woman could feed her dog. None of us will ever do better—bebetter—than Eos.
