She kneeled, fumbled for the face of the dead man. It was Dr. Berghast’s manservant, Bailey. His throat had been torn out, there were deep wounds on his chest and arms. It was like he’d been attacked by a wild animal.
Abigail Davenshaw wet her lips and rose grimly and went back up the long stairs the way she’d come. In the study she made her careful way over to the fire and she fumbled for a poker and she carefully dragged a half-burned journal from the grate. It was this she’d smelled earlier. If Berghast had tried to destroy it, it must hold something of value, she reasoned. Then she went to the desk and tried the drawers and looked for anything more of value. The fires were getting nearer, she could feel the heat through the walls, and at last, with a hard expression on her face, clutching the scorched journal under one arm, Abigail Davenshaw crossed the silent study and fumbled for the door handle and hurried out into the burning building.
* * *
Charlie was scared, so scared.
He flew through the door of Berghast’s study, his shattered collarbone still stitching itself together, the thousand cuts and nicks from the broken glass already healed. The glyphic. He had to locate the glyphic and carve out its heart. He knew he’d have to maybe face down the litch, Walter, the litch who had so terrified him in London and had tried to tear his throat out and whose claws had hurt him in a new way, so that he’d healed only slowly, only painfully. There was his memory of the litch, and there were the dreams he’d suffered in the months since, the dreams of its scrabbling across the ceiling, dropping down on him like some enormous white spider. He’d wake drenched, shivering.
And now he was seeking the very creature out. Everyone was depending on it.
But there wasn’t time to think it through. He only paused long enough to stare around the study, making sure Berghast or his giant manservant were nowhere, his eyes alighting instead on the bonebirds at their perch, clicking their bones softly, on the coals in the grate still pulsing with heat, and then he ran for the door to the tunnels, the door that led below, and out under the loch to the island. If he’d been only just five minutes sooner, he’d have caught Miss Davenshaw plucking the burned journal out of the grate; he’d have seen her, and maybe been able to ask her advice, her help, but she was gone, drifting back out into the labyrinth of Cairndale, into the burning manor with that smoldering journal pressed tightly to her chest, half its secrets burned away, and he’d not see her again.
He descended the stairs three at a time. The tunnel was blacker than anything, the air foul. He’d forgotten a lantern or a candle. His footsteps splashed steadily in the standing water and though at every step he felt like he was about to collide with something he did not and he neither stumbled nor fell.
And then he felt the tunnel sloping gradually upward and the air cleared and a faint gray light was visible ahead. When he got out onto the island he clambered over the tumbled stones and saw a lantern left on a hook beside the open door. He could hear a low screaming from the orsine chamber. Something was in there. Whatever it was, it could spare a lantern, he decided, and he unhooked it and hurried around the back and entered the ruined cathedral.
Under the ribs of the roof and the night sky beyond it he made his way, tired, determined, the lantern in his fist. He found the crypt and there, left leaning against the wall, the old torch in its bracket. He opened the door of the lantern, lit the torch. The skulls grinned from their cavities. Bones in their ancient boxes lay at rest.
The roots thickened. He saw in the firelight signs of struggle, the roots torn or ripped to shreds, blood in a dappled trail leading deeper. That would be the litch. Walter.
He was half running by then, tripping on the roots and clawing his way upright, making too much noise. He didn’t care. When he came out into the low tangled chamber of the glyphic he stumbled sharply and stared in horror.
The glyphic and Walter hung from the ceiling in a terrible embrace. There was blood everywhere. The roots of the glyphic had torn one of Walter’s legs entirely off; a dozen other roots had pierced his body, punctured his arms and his chest and his spine; a thick knot of root was wrapped around his throat and his eyes were rolled back in his head. He was dead.
But so was the glyphic. Before he’d died, Walter had torn the glyphic’s throat out with his teeth, and the ancient being’s head now hung at a strange angle, blood all down his front.
Charlie was shaking, both devastated and relieved. At least he wouldn’t have to be the one to slaughter the glyphic.
It was then he realized he hadn’t brought anything to carve out the heart. He cast around in the torchlight. His eyes alighted on the litch’s claws. The thumbs had been chewed off. He reached up and twisted the gore-drenched wrist and gingerly pressed one claw against the glyphic’s bark-like chest.
It slid, sighing, in. A watery black slime oozed out. Charlie started to saw away at the chest, prying it wide, and when it was cut deep enough he reached in and groped for something soft, and rubbery, and he wrenched it furiously clear.
It came out with a sucking noise, the heart. It was still warm. The size of a fist, covered in a gelatinous black slime. He cradled it, breathing hard, feeling a terrible sadness welling up in him. Whatever else he was, the glyphic had been an ancient and good being, a being that had kept all of them safe. He’d lived chained to the orsine, as much a prisoner of it as any of the spirit dead. It didn’t seem fair. Charlie stumbled back, wiping at the heart with one sleeve. Under the muck, the surface of the heart pulsed slowly, like an ember. It was shining.
That was when he felt it. He raised his face, and it came again: a low, deep rumble, like a train passing in the earth. The walls shuddered. Dirt sifted from the ceiling, all around. And then Charlie understood: the island was collapsing.
He swung the torch around and ran.
* * *
Alice sprinted back along the dark hall, feeling the manor tremble under her, knowing Ribs was close but not seeing the girl, of course, and she had her Colt out in her hands as she ran. Jacob Marber was somewhere behind her now, facing the girl Komako, and Oskar and his flesh giant. Here the corridor was quiet, cooler. She slowed, stopped. Tilted her head to listen.
She knew Coulton would be near. She could almost feel him there, waiting for her in the gloom, his terrifying long teeth clicking away. She thumbed back the hammer, turned in a slow circle. The lights had been snuffed in the hall.
“I know you’re here, Coulton,” she said calmly. Her eyes flicked to the darkened alcoves, the shadowy doorways. She had a sudden glimmer of doubt, wondering if maybe she was wrong, if he’d somehow got past her and was helping Marber up the hall.
“Coulton?” she said.
Then she felt it: a soft slick warm drop on her shoulder. With an impossible slowness, she raised her eyes and looked up.
Coulton was clinging to the ceiling, directly above her, his long teeth bared in a grin, some slickness gathering at his lips and dripping. And then he plunged down onto her, driving her with incredible force into the floor, striking the gun from her hand and tearing at her coat, her arms, her exposed skin, reaching once more for the weir-bent at her throat.
She fought silently, furiously, with a viciousness that surprised even her, biting at Coulton herself, tearing at his face, at his eyes with her thumbs. All at once he howled and spun away and leaped off her, clutching the base of his throat, whirling around and around like a madman. And then she saw the bloodied blade of glass, floating in the darkness.
Ribs.