Page 103

Hemming and hawing. “He’s trustworthy, though admittedly the man has hubris … and designs to go far.”

“He’ll get himself killed before his time and endanger us all,” Whittaker snaps. “I told you he needed more oversight, not less.”

The voices move away and I grit my teeth. Their focus is Lacie, not me. In the past, this would have been a gift. But now? Now it’s a mess—one that makes me want to scream, cry, tear their throats out just to make sure she’s safe.

I need to be quick, even though my body rebels against me.

Withdrawing my key card from my wallet, I tap it against the sensor. It blinks red instead of green and doesn’t unlock. Fuck.

I cast my gaze around into the dark. The dark seems to look back as I wrap my bare fingers around the pad and summon my remaining energy.

Everything flares bright, every sensation strengthening, sharpening. I can smell the vættir trudging around the room, rotting and ancient. I can feel the singing strength of their formidable power. I can taste vellum on my tongue, the beetle-blood ink and crushed minerals in the books’ paint. A roar rumbles in my throat as my nails lengthen to sharp-tipped claws. The plastic splinters, sharp pieces digging bloodlessly in my flesh as I tear it away.

A chirping alarm sounds.

“Fuck,” I snarl, speeding into the Rare Book Room collection. I don’t have long and I can’t fuck this up. No wonder Lyle couldn’t get in. This place is locked up like fucking Fort Knox, and for what?

Already, Whittaker’s voice broadens and echoes down the alley of books and scrolls. Taking a chance, I skitter through the brightest alley, my eyes skipping over title contents and decimals.

“What the hell was that?” Whittaker shouts. Something clangs. Probably kicking the door. The chirping, sharp and quick as a trapped bird, continues.

I have no time. Dragging my useless body along, I hurry down the next alley of bookcases, finding myself at a dead end. Red-leather-wrapped tomes stretch to the ceiling, dusty and impersonal. There’s nowhere to run.

I like to think I don’t feel fear anymore, but this—this is different. Because if they find me, they’ll know that Lacie is alone and defenseless back in Craven.

Swallowing thickly, I jam my hands into my pockets and make myself small, so small, energetically packing my power away until it’s nothing. My heart no longer beats, my blood no longer sings. Instead, I am an inert piece of flesh.

I smell of wool and leather.

I do not attract attention.

So many of those like me have learned this trick: to disappear into the night without a single sound, eager to be passed over by piercing eyes.

Whittaker is close enough I can smell his fetid rot, hear the grind of his bones. During the day, he must keep a well-groomed glamour. But at night …

He steps into the central alley of the collection and I glimpse his ripped-up face, the slackness of the skin on his jaw, the black pits of his eyes. And within them, the barest, faintest silver glow slicing the dark.

I don’t allow myself to so much as twitch.

His eyes pass over me as he walks toward the rare book stacks with all the grace of a thunderstorm, his eyes flicking as he seeks. Bone-tipped fingers brush the leather and paper, sand hissing over stone.

“Someone is in here.”

This was stupid of me. I should have waited longer. I wasn’t just overeager, not just foolish, but out of control and impulsive. I haven’t—that isn’t me. But there’s no time to chide myself, because the other man steps from the darkness.

Dr. Sims passes an eye over the books and I suppress a sound of panic. He was dead. I emptied him. There was nothing left when Lacie and I shoved him into his grave hole.

How—

“Call Shea,” he says, his throat still bearing the marks of my teeth.

Whittaker casts another long look into the shadows where I’m huddled. A phone rings, tinny and shallow.

Taking a chance, I spring into motion, as light on my feet as a cat. The vættir turn, but I’m faster, kicking a pile of stacked books to the floor with a clatter.

They shout over the sound of a phone hitting the floor and shattering.

I slip over the broken key card pad, sprinting up and up the concrete stairs. My fingers seek a fire alarm and I yank. Immediately, a shrieking voice demands all inside to leave the building. Whittaker and Sims writhe, their energies flailing as they struggle to put on their human masks.