Page 42 of The Shadow Sanctum

Relief crashes into me as the fire licks hungrily at the bark. I add thin twigs, then thicker ones, building it up until the warmth is enough to take the edge off the cold.

Angel stirs beside me. His head rolls to the side as he lets out a faint groan. His eyelids clench, but he doesn’t wake. I press the backs of my fingers to his cheek—ice cold. His body is shivering, but it’s not enough.

Rolling my neck and cursing under my breath, I unbutton my pants and strip, cold air biting at my damp skin.

I drag Angel closer to the fire, step over him, and lay my body against his back. I wrap my arms and leg around his limp form and rub my hand over his chest like a clingy lover.

The things you do in the name of friendship.

The warmth is slow to build. I feel every shudder that runs through Angel’s body, every involuntary twitch as the heat seeps into his skin.

Minutes pass.

Then, a sluggish breath from Angel, followed by another.

I wait.

Finally, he shifts, his fingers flexing slightly against my side.

His breathing hitches, and then, with the slow awareness of a man coming back to life, he rasps, “Why… the fuck… are you naked?”

CHAPTER 15

LUNA

Sawyer’s hidden note lies on the library desk in front of me.

Covered in carefully applied ink, it’s worn at the edges from frequent handling. If there was ever an inkling of hope that this could be an innocent or nonsensical record of whatever numbers fly through Sawyer’s head, the highly meticulous handwriting squashes it. I’ve seen his scribbled handwriting.

For this, he took his time.

At least on the numbers. The doodled map of the compound is crude but straightforward enough. Unfamiliar paths have been marked—shortcuts, hidden routes, places that avoid watchful eyes. Useful information for the head of security, but the other side of the paper is what has held my attention.

A series of numbers clustered together in neatly written sequences fills up a third of the page. Only a few spaces separate the clusters, but each sequence runs too long to be a single word of code. Which means they must be entire sentences, but…

What does it say?

My head in my hands, I scan the digits as though I haven’t memorized each sequence already. It could be a simple shift cipher. Or a numerical substitution. But nothing reveals itself, no common letter frequencies, no basic transpositions.

They must form words. They must.

If I can just figure out which numbers correspond to which letters…

Another twenty minutes tick by while I jot notes beside the paper, my eyes moving back and forth until my head throbs and frustration builds.

A glance at the clock tells me I only have ten minutes before the horn blares for the ceremony. The execution.

I should thank Sawyer. Even absent, he’s a thorough distraction.

Sighing, I rub my fingers over the paper, the ink slightly raised under my touch. Rain pelting the window is joined by a succession of lightning flashes and crackles of thunder. The sudden light casts shadows that dance across the numbers, making them seem even more foreign. I exhale sharply and push back from the desk.

I need water.

The hallways are quiet despite the storm, and I wonder if Father has sent the help away. He does that when he craves his privacy, but the house feels too still to imagine even him in it.

The kitchen is empty, dimly lit by the low embers in the hearth. I reach for a glass, fill it from the pitcher, and take a slow sip.

The flour canister catches my eye, its lid slightly askew, and I find my palms going clammy. I tighten my grip on the glass.