She stared into Alan’s eyes. “He wanted to this on by himself. So give him what he wants.”
Alan gaped. Before he could respond, she chanted the transformation spell. There was another outraged burst of shrieks as her body snapped into her bat form, her foot clutching the key. Around the dance floor, the trees blazed with Tobias’s flames. His magic would burn the place to the ground. She soared over the burning trees toward the crypt, the smoke stinging her eyes.
A rush of adrenaline flowed through her veins, lending her courage. She erupted into her human form while still in the air, clouds of dust rising around her as her feet hit the ground. She bent over, snatching the key from her feet.
Her hands shaking, she jammed the key into the crypt lock. The Fury’s cry was nearly deafening here. The gate groaned when she yanked it open. She pushed through the glass door into a dark hall, its walls rounded and dripping like a cave. Perfect for a bat.
She transformed again, her wings carrying her past a long set of glistening stairs that led deep underground. The Purgators wouldn’t be far behind. The stairwell’s end opened into a long tunnel that curved back toward the house, and she followed the narrow passage. She must be under the gardens now. Somewhere above her, Jack lay on the ground with a knife through his chest.
Thick water dripped onto her wings as she flew. The Fury’s wails echoed through the hall, nearly piercing her eardrums. But there was something else echoing—a rhythmic sound. Either it was her frantic heartbeat, or someone was running through the tunnels.
At last, the tunnel opened into an atrium. It was a circular room, connected to more passages—like spokes of a wheel. Fiona paused, trying to hear through the Fury’s cries. Mariana is in here somewhere.
Someone was breathing in these depths—quietly and slowly. But before she could home in on the sound, something burst from the ceiling above her. It coated her wings and head, burning her skin, and her body lurched back into her human form. Red dust.
It burned off the aura, searing her skin, and she shrieked in agony. It felt as though she’d been thrown into a volcano. Her wails mingled with the Fury’s. This must be what Hell is like. Her vision had gone dark—or was it the room that was dark? Footfalls hurried toward her, and rough hands hoisted her up, dragging her through the tunnels.
Pain ravaged her body, and her feet trailed on the ground until they reached a dimly lit corner, where iron sconces held guttering candles. She caught a glimpse of the small, blond guard hauling her into a cell, but as the dust burned deeper into her skin, her mind went blank from the agony.
She closed her eyes, nausea welling in her stomach. There was a groaning noise—creaky metal—before the guard threw her onto a cold, wet floor, the dampness a small mercy against her burning skin. He tossed a wet cloth at her. “You can use this.” There might have been a note of pity when he added, “For the dust.”
She rolled over, heaving out the cranberry tart. Another sob escaped her and she grasped for the cloth, the dust still scorching her skin. With shaking hands, she started to scrub at her face. She rubbed at her arms, chest, and shoulders and strained to reach her back. When most of the dust had been scrubbed from her skin, she collapsed back in her cell with a sob. “Mariana?” Even her voice was shaking.
She wanted to call up an orb to light the cell, but she was too afraid that another spray of dust might await her. There was no way she was going through that again. “Mariana?”
There was no reply, just a steady dripping sound. She leaned against a rough stone wall. Drip, drip, drip. In the quiet cell, it was hard to keep the memories at bay: the black noose hanging from the Tricephelus, Eden’s head sagging to the side, her neck broken.
Tobias is a liar, just like Jack. Fiona pressed her palms into her eyes, rubbing hard. She didn’t even know what Tobias was anymore. Drip, drip. He didn’t seem quite human, so full of an otherworldly rage and grace.
Murder was in his blood now. Just like it was in hers. Alone, she couldn’t silence her own thoughts.
Drip, drip. Mariana knew what Fiona’s father was. An “enforcer,” it was called. Fiona was ten when she’d been walking on the beach, just at the wrong moment. She’d caught the police recovering a gray and bloated body from a shallow grave, the man’s clothes sodden with seawater. She’d never forget its putrid smell, or the way its face looked. Or rather, the lack of a face. His actual features must have splattered all over the sandy beach when her father had blown it off. No one ever identified him.