The circle itself was empty, though there was a strange smell inside it, a mixture of sulfur and burned sugar. Making a face, Emma stepped out of the circle and approached the leftmost porthole door.
Up close it no longer looked dark. There was light behind it. It was illuminated from within, like a museum display. She stepped closer still and stared through the glass.
Beyond the glass door was a small, square space, like a closet.
Inside it was a large brass candelabra, though there were no candles fastened to the holders. It would have made a wicked weapon, Emma thought, with its long spikes, meant to be jammed into soft wax. There was also a small pile of what looked to Emma like ceremonial clothes—a dark red velvet robe, a pair of long earrings that flashed with rubies. Delicate gold sandals.
Was the necromancer a woman?
Emma stepped quickly to the second door. With her nose to the glass, she could see what looked like water. It surged and moved, and dark shapes slipped through it—one bumped against the glass, and she jumped back with a shout before realizing that it was only a small, striped fish with orange eyes. It gazed at her for a moment before disappearing back into the dark water.
She lifted her witchlight close to the glass, and now the water was truly visible—it was radiant, a deep blue-green, the color of Blackthorn eyes. She could see fish and drifting seaweed and strange lights and colors beyond the glass. Apparently they were dealing with a necromancer who liked aquariums and fish. Maybe even turtles. Shaking her head, Emma stepped back.
Her eyes lit on the metal object fixed between the doors. At first she had thought it looked like a carved knife sticking out of the wall, but now she realized it was a lever. She reached out and closed her hand around it. It was cold under her fingers.
She yanked it down.
For a moment nothing happened. Then both of the porthole doors swung wide.
An unearthly howl tore through the room. Emma turned and stared in horror. The second porthole was wide open and glowing bright blue, and Emma could see that it wasn’t an aquarium at all—it was a door into the ocean. A great, deep universe of water opened on the other side of the door, of whipping seaweed and surging currents and the dark, shadowy shapes of things much bigger than fish.
The stench of salt water was everywhere. Flood, Emma thought, and then she found herself lifted off her feet and dragged toward the ocean as if she were being sucked down a drain. She only had time to scream once before she was hauled through the doorway and the water closed over her head.
Cameron Ashdown.
Julian was painting. Cristina had given him Emma’s note after he’d left the attic: a terse note, to the point, just saying she was going to Cameron’s and not to wait up.
He’d crumpled it up in his hand and muttered something to Cristina. A second later he was sprinting toward the stairs and his studio. Ripping open his supply cabinet, tumbling out the paints. Unzipping his gear jacket, throwing it down, yanking the caps off the tubes of oil paint and squeezing the colors onto the palette until the sharp smell of the paint filled the room and cut through the fog in his head.
He attacked the canvas, holding the brush like a weapon, and the paint seemed to spill out of him like blood.
He was painting in black and red and gold, letting the events of the past days drain out of him as if they were poisonous venom. The brush slashed across the blank canvas and there was Mark on the beach, the moonlight shining across the vicious scars on his back. There was Ty with his knife to Kit Rook’s throat. Tavvy screaming with his nightmares. Mark cringing away from Julian’s stele.
He was aware he was sweating, his hair sticking to his forehead. He tasted salt and paint in his mouth. He knew he shouldn’t be here; he should be doing what he always did: minding Tavvy, finding new books to feed Ty’s curiosity, putting healing runes on Livvy when she cut herself fencing, sitting with Dru while she watched bad horror films.
He should be with Emma. But Emma wasn’t here; she was off having her own life, and that was as it should be, as parabatai were meant to be. It wasn’t a marriage, the parabatai bond. It was something there were no words for in mundane English. He was meant to want Emma’s happiness more than he wanted his own, and he did. He did.
So why did he feel like he was being stabbed to death from the inside?
He fumbled for the gold paint, because the longing was rising up in him, beating in his veins, and only painting her would take it away. And he couldn’t paint her without gold. He caught up the tube and—
Choked. The brush rattled from his hand onto the ground, and he crumpled to his knees. He was gasping, his chest spasming. He couldn’t drag air into his lungs. His eyes burned and the back of his throat burned too.