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All hells!

Room after room he checked, each one similar but not his. Why did he leave it behind? Why didn’t he take it with him when Atticus offered? Why hadn’t he learned all he could while he could, so that when the time came—because it always came—he’d be prepared?

You are prepared. Orpheus shoved the voice away and opened another door.

“Hear that? Is someone there?”

“I’m not sticking my neck out, send him!”

Orpheus abandoned the door and slid into an alcove at the precise moment Duluth lumbered into view.

Eyes half-mast, he approached the open door and stared into the low light, flames lighting his silhouette in the fluorescent burn of a city of fire. Orpheus sank deeper into the alcove, only the shadows to hide him, but he’d grown good at this, a long time ago.

“Anyone in there, big guy?”

Serval came sauntering down the corridor, a second unknown guard on his heels. She clutched her sword, sunken cheeks setting off the whites of her eyes. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“Atticus’ orders, man. No one eats until he’s found. Lou—you listening?”

Duluth turned around and, despite the shadows, their eyes glanced off each other.

Orpheus went still.

“Anyone inside, Lou?”

Duluth made no reaction.

Serval sighed. “I know I heard somethin’.”

At the end of the corridor a sound rose. Swish-swish. Swish-swish. Orpheus froze alongside Serval and the guard, breath held while the sound grew closer, footsteps softened by a slow step.

Swish, swish. Swish, swish. Swish-swish.

“Get ready,” Serval whispered, drawing a knife from his belt. Beside him, the guard took a single step back.

The janitor from before ambled around the corner, and the rigid line of Serval’s shoulders visibly relaxed.

“Fuckin’ just my luck,” he laughed, sheathing his knife. “Check all the rooms, let’s keep going. If he’s here, we’ll find ‘im.”

They moved down the corridor, opening each door as Orpheus had done, minutes ticking by until they rounded the same corner the janitor had come from, and Orpheus felt safe enough to abandon the alcove.

He passed the janitor on his way and considered stopping to thank him, but his stare remained on the floor, broom moving as if Orpheus wasn’t even there.

He found the study not too long after.

Just as he’d left it, the bowl of soup remained set to the side of the table, papers and notes strewn across the lacquered surface, Atticus’ grimoire sitting idle at its center.

Thank hells.

He didn’t have time to take it and run, nowhere else to go but back to his prison cell. Instead, he closed the door as quietly as he could, took Gwen’s chair and, for lack of a locking spell, wedged it under the handle. Then he lowered into his seat and reached for the book. His hands shook when they touched it, the leather stiff, the pages bloodstained.

Bloodstained. Blood. Blood magic.

You don’t have a choice.

He wouldn’t die for this city, not anymore. The idea hadn’t hurt so much when it was Gwen he was protecting, but he should have known better. Life had taught him this lesson too already. That he’d ignored it was his own hells-damned fault. The one person in this world who had ever proved him wrong was Fenrir, and now, all thanks to him…

No. I don’t know that.