I pulled off the porcupine mask. My Hair relinquished its hold on the quills and fell away, long and silken.
And then I saw that a thin stream of smoke feathered from the crematorium’s chimney.
Chapter Ten
The Holy Flame
‘A most sacred stitch, reserved only for altar cloths and the robes of the High Priests. Though simple, its very simplicity marks it as one of the patterns most favored by the One-Eyed God.’
—An Exhaustive Compendium of Stitches
Both Holy and Base, 4th Edition
Smoke?
I stopped dead. None of the stray revelers on the street paid it any mind. Why wouldn’t a crematorium be smoking? But they didn’t know it was dormant, a mere front for the Book Man’s establishment.
I increased my pace, almost running to the door the Book Man had bade me use. It felt warm to the touch. As soon as I opened it, something large and dark flew at my face, and I yelped. It was Baldbeak, clearly in a panic, his feathers askew. He fell against me heavily, actually burying his head in the crook of my neck.
Fire, was all he said, and I could feel the deep, primal horror in the shiver of his voice. Fire, when he was trapped and could not outfly it, was the ultimate predator.
No. No, the bookshop was warded against fire. The Book Man had told me so.
But wards were not unbreakable.
If the door was hot, the flames might be just behind it. I went instead to the crematorium entrance through which I had first entered the bookshop. I held Baldbeak tight, but looked beyond him to the hatch leading into the oven. I thanked my lucky stars that it was open, or Baldbeak and the Book Man would have been trapped inside. I could not see the orange light of flames, nor any smoke—although I supposed the chimney was designed to siphon it up and out, so that might not mean much.
The Book Man.
“Baldbeak,” I said urgently. “The Book Man. Did he get out?”
Baldbeak sent me a succession of images, wavering at the edges and even harder to discern than usual through his panic. He seemed to have been roosting on a shelf when the fire started, and he shot out of the passage into the exterior room as soon as he smelled the smoke. He had not seen the fire.
“Wait out here, Baldbeak,” I whispered.
You must not go in!He snapped at my finger. If I hadn’t moved quickly enough, it would have drawn blood.
“I have to see if the Book Man is in there.” I scratched his head. “I’ll be all right, I promise. I won’t keep going if it’s too dangerous.”
I left the porcupine mask outside the crematorium door, and Baldbeak perched on it. The sight of the gigantic black bird perched on the leering skull was enough to give anyone nightmares, but perhaps that was a good thing—I would have to leave the door open behind me this time, and no one would be likely to follow me in.
I plunged into the blackness of the passage. The metal did not feel warm on my hands, and although, as before, it was difficult to breathe through the soot and bone dust, I smelled onlya little smoke. When I emerged at the other end, the bookstore looked just as usual. I called for the Book Man, but heard no response. My voice sounded odd and flat in the silence. Somehow I could tell that there was no one else in the building with me—the air felt dead.
I followed the scent of smoke through the store. The smell and the haze in the air grew stronger as I approached the round metal door that led to the basement. Once I was close enough, I could see a thin line of smoke, like a curling blue ribbon, winding from the very edge of the door. I pressed my hands to the metal and felt that it was warm. I fumbled with the doorknob, hoping it was not locked from the inside, and … it swung open.
The basement was on fire. The magical wards were clearly fighting it, because the flames hadn’t yet taken over, despite the plentiful supply of kindling—instead they flared up in different parts of the room before dying down, only to blaze into life again a moment later.
The spellbooks in this room were chained to the wall and appeared to be trying to break free of their shackles. They sparked and spat like sausages in a pan, the magic inside them reacting to both the fire that was attempting to consume them and the wards that were desperately trying to douse it. The air thrummed with the tension between them all.
And in the center of the room—a puddle of blood.
I felt dizzy. No body. Nothing but this little pool of deep red, the dancing reflections of the many-colored flames flashing in it like bright fish in a dark pond.
“Book Man!” I called. Of course there was no answer. There was no human life in this room.
I looked down and noticed for the first time the five small, pale shapes that were scattered on the bottom stair, gleaming like pearls. I knelt, and the breath of air from my swaying skirt stirred them, and they made a clattering sound on the tile.
A complete set of fingernails, bloody at the roots.
