The Black Archives were gone.
And now all that remained was for the Artifex to finish them off.
He was being rolled toward the steps; Santi had already been pushed down them, to roll in an awkward ball. Jess would be next. The others had already been sent down, and he saw Khalila’s stark, blank face staring up. Morgan beside her. Thomas was crouched on the floor in the open space of the garden, beside the Translation equipment they wouldn’t have a chance to use. It would take too long, even if Morgan could operate it. What remained would be a quick, ugly death for most of them, and prison inside this tower for Morgan and Wolfe’s mother. Forever.
Then he was tumbling down the steps, and tucked himself into as tight a ball as he could. He landed badly and cried out when his face hit the tiled floor. Fresh red blood dripped from cuts on his face like tears, brilliant even in the dim light. He coughed and coughed, trying to get the taste of bitter ashes out of his lungs, and between the retching spasms he realized he was still weeping for all the books he’d just seen die.
He felt fingertips brush the restraints holding him, just a quick touch, and the numbing pain of them loosed. Someone was kneeling over him. He heard the Obscurist Magnus say, in a strange and distant tone, “You’ve given me no choice, Artifex. You know that. And I am a very bad enemy.”
“Not for long.” The Artifex was a blur on the edges of Jess’s vision. He turned his head and blinked to clear his eyes. Wolfe’s mother was kneeling beside him, and under the smudge of smoke and ashes, the look in her eyes was something so terrible, he didn’t want to stare at it for long.
“You’ve killed so much of the past today,” she told him. “Generations and generations of brilliance. But you know what you’ll never kill?”
The soldiers of the Artifex were just as affected by the smoke as Jess; they were coughing, their eyes streaming and red.
So they missed seeing Thomas flex his wrists and break the restraints holding him. They missed seeing Dario, who’d been flung to his hands and knees on the tile next to Khalila—still unbound, both of them—pick up the weapon that Glain had thrown down at the edge of the open space, near the bench.
Missed seeing Morgan draw her fingers over Wolfe’s restraints and then over Santi’s. Hers were already loose.
“You will never kill our future,” Wolfe’s mother said, and as if it was a signal, as if they’d planned this, Thomas came up with a roar and lunged forward, taking down three guards at once, and Dario aimed and fired one perfect shot at the Artifex Magnus.
The Artifex fell. Dead or only wounded, Jess couldn’t tell. He ripped his wrists free and grabbed for another fallen weapon, and in seconds he was firing, too, targeting one High Garda uniform after another. It was bloody chaos, and he couldn’t see where his friends were, couldn’t see anything except Wolfe’s mother laying hands on both Wolfe and Santi and somehow, without the Translation equipment, unmaking them into a spiraling whirlwind of flesh and bone and blood. She reached Dario and Khalila, and they, too, vanished into a bloody mist. Gone.
Morgan and Glain, gone. It was just Jess and Thomas left, and Thomas had rushed back toward them. The Obscurist touched the piled mess of packs that the guards had left nearby, and that, too, vanished. Jess felt something hit him, but there wasn’t any pain. A near miss.
Keria Morning grabbed hold of Jess and Thomas. The last two.
The one thing Jess was sure he saw was a High Garda soldier taking aim at her, and the ringing sound of a shot, and a vivid red hole in the woman’s chest. A fatal wound.
But not quickly enough to stop what she’d already set in motion.
Jess pitched into a red, shrieking darkness that ate him whole.
EPHEMERA
Text of a letter from Callum Brightwell to Kate Hannigan, sent in code. Burned on receipt.
We both know we’re on opposite sides of this thing, but one thing’s certain: this oncoming war, and the chaos it will bring, will only help us both. Let the Welsh have the city and claim their victory; the king and his court and all the ministers will be well away before they come. They’ll leave the city to us: the rebels, the criminals, the ones they think aren’t worth saving.
It’s a fat target, and we can both enrich ourselves. Your movement needs money, and I’ve already sent your leader in France a tidy sum in trust—you can check with him if you like. Whatever riches you gather, you keep.
Allies are more important than politics these days, wouldn’t you agree?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jess opened his eyes on a dark, windowless room that stank of mold and the river.
River. Not the ocean. He knew this smell. It was even stronger than the vile stench of burned books that still clung to his skin and clothes.