The mosaic pieces shifted, glass clinking as they reformed. The red pieces formed the same scrolling rune. It blazed against a white background, stark and impossible to ignore.
Did it relate to the gates? Or was it important for another reason?
I entered the library, calling for Cato. Per usual, he did his little tap-and-pop-in scare.
“Cato, did Hell ever experience a massacre in front of the gates?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” he said with no inflection.
Wow, he’d actually answered me. Pushing my luck, I asked, “Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?”
He let me sweat in silence before reaching into his robes and pulling out a quill and a small journal.
Of course, Cato would use a quill.
I touched the tip, noting the lack of ink. “Don’t I…”
Cato’s expression tilted on the verge of exasperation. It was just enough emotion on his face that I decided to shut it and draw.
I reined in a snort when the quill worked perfectly. It must be runed. After drawing each swirl and curve, I held up the page to Cato.
“Have you seen this rune before?”
He stared at it for the longest time. His eye twitched, and his thin, pressed lips creased into a small scowl.
“No.”
“Well, do you know how I could find answers? About this, how to open the gates, save my mom, find Oliver’s sister, change—” I stopped myself.
Cato would not approve of me changing the past. Helping my mom’s soul to Limbo, yes. Disregarding the Throne creed, no.
“You have the resources. I expect a report tomorrow morning on your progress with Somnivado and Intraverso.” He snatched his notebook and quill back. “And next time, keep your vocal ruckus down. It interrupted my leisure time.” He turned and luscelered back to his cave.
“Vocal ruckus? He’s never had a problem with it before,” I muttered.
I should just be happy he answered two of my questions. It had to be a record. Not that they led anywhere. At least this way I could get back to Aspen before Oliver… Well, I wasn’t sure what he’d be doing.
I picked up my pace, just in case, grimacing as my stitches rubbed against my pants. Rune sat patiently at the healers’ wing doors, and I quickly ruffled her head before entering. Passing the healers’ station, I noticed a cracked door—the one that always had a glowing yellow handle, remained closed, and that Sam only entered. I glanced around; most of the healers were tending to patients or too busy to notice my subtle stretch over their clerical desk as I peeked through the opening.
Rows of vials lined a counter, each filled with red, black, or faintly pink-tinged liquid. Blood? It had to be. There was no other explanation. The black had to be from an infected Damned, and the red from a blood-banded. The pinkish fluid threw me for a moment until I thought of the dead and their glistening soul wounds. Was Sam studying it?
“I know, Neph—Oliver.” Aspen’s voice pulled me from my snooping.
“Good. Don’t forget it, prin—Aspen.”
I walked into Aspen’s room, eyes only for Oliver. “Don’t forget what?”
Oliver rose from his chair, yawned, then patted my shoulder. “Just some male-to-male talk, Luce. Don’t worry your pretty little head.”
I could only imagine what kind of male-to-male talk they’d have. But before I could pry, he was already walking out the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To bed. Babysitting hours have expired, and I have my nightly checkup soon. And nothing will keep me from missing that.” He straightened his ugly patient gown and fluffed his moppy locks as if getting ready for a date. Only Oliver.
I turned to Aspen. He sat on the healer’s bed, redressed in his torn jacket and pants from earlier. The cuts and scrapes along his face and neck were all healed. The remnants of dirt and blood had been washed away.
I found it odd that his injuries didn’t prompt an extreme reaction to punish myself, but then I realized I did punish myself because I received more injuries than he did. Whether that was intentional or not, I wasn’t sure. Or maybe the fact that he scorched my insides with his power satisfied the guardian bond’s needs.
