The Chain (The Secret of Spellshadow Manor #3)

Nobody bothered him as he slunk from shadow to shadow, putting up a shield whenever somebody came too close, the crackle of it prickling the hairs on the back of their neck if they got too near, like an unseen breath in the darkness. Spooked, the intruders quickly moved away, leaving him to advance onward.

Stepping out into the familiar courtyard, piled with rubble and dust and forgotten debris, Alex spun on his heel and turned to face the shaded fa?ade of the villa’s exterior. Ahead of him lay the corridor that the Head and Headmistress had vanished into, that night he had listened to them talking in a windowless study, thinking themselves alone. Seeing it, an impulse tugged at his mind, making Alex want to head toward it. He could see the bookshelves in his mind’s eye, and they made him curious—perhaps there was something in them that might prove a useful addition to his collection.

He gave in to the impulse, following the half-remembered route through the dim hallways, the torches sputtered out and gathering cobwebs in their brackets. Turning this way and that, he hoped he was going the right direction; otherwise, he knew he’d never find his way back out. It was like an old Greek story he’d loved as a kid—Theseus and the Minotaur. He was Theseus, holding one end of an imaginary ball of golden twine as he wandered through the labyrinth in search of a mysterious creature that could well kill him. A real ball of twine would have been nice.

Alex turned down a short corridor that seemed gloriously familiar. It was the same one he had followed Alypia and her brother to, that night—he was almost certain of it, though most of the hallways in this place looked alike. Checking both shadowy ends of the hallway for anyone who might sneak up on him, he stopped in front of the door he had once crouched beside. Drawn by curiosity, he ducked down and peered through the keyhole, seeing the same windowless study beyond. It brought back troublesome memories, but it was definitely the same spot where he had seen Alypia and her brother talk. Wanting to get a closer look, feeling convinced that those bookshelves on the back wall contained something of use, he placed his palm on the lock and let the silvery black of his anti-magic flow through, building a spell around it, trying to break it with force. Nothing happened.

Frustrated, Alex poured layer after layer of strong energy into the mechanism instead, closing his eyes to try to visualize the system within, using it like clockwork to lift and move the bolts with his anti-magic. It was a tough job, taking all his concentration, but the bars slid backward. With a satisfying click, the door unlocked. Alex had never felt such relief, not knowing how much longer he could stay out in the hallway, exposed like that.

Ducking quickly into the room, he did the same trick to lock the door behind him. A broken lock, he knew, was always a telltale sign of trespassers.

Glancing around, letting his heartrate return to normal, he saw the study looked exactly the same. The sleek wooden desk and the high-backed chair. The promising bookshelves running along each wall. One thing that was definitely different, however, was the sight of another door, tucked into the wall at the far right side of the room. It was too far away to have been visible from the keyhole, which would explain why he hadn’t been able to see it until now.

Fear and anticipation gripped his heart in a vice, quickening his heartbeat once more, until he thought it might jump from his ribcage as he approached the narrow wooden door. This had not been what he was expecting. It didn’t seem possible that it had been within his grasp, all this time. It looked much like the one in the chamber at Spellshadow, only not so unpleasant. Here, it was far away from the terror and viscous byproducts of the actual extraction.

Holding the black iron ring that hung to one side, he twisted it and felt his stomach sink as it gave, the door pushing open with relative ease. Beyond it, in the dim glow of torchlight, he saw shelves upon shelves, stacked with smoky black bottles no bigger than pepper shakers, glowing with the familiar red pulse of somebody’s life essence. Acrid bile rose up his throat.

Suddenly, he heard the mutter of voices and the sound of a key turning in the lock, not far from where he stood. His heart was in his mouth, fear freezing him to the spot for a moment before action kicked in. Quickly, he pushed the door shut behind him as he ducked and rolled beneath the wooden shelving units, dust getting in his mouth and nostrils, scratching at his throat. He hoped the glowing life magic of many hundreds of mages would hide the strange, angered crackle of his own anti-magic.

Every flurry of dust made him want to sneeze, and he imagined all kinds of creatures crawling over him, in the grimy darkness beneath the shelves. It took everything he had not to reach up and rub the dust from his nose, instead staying perfectly still as he listened for the new arrivals. The muttered voices had definitely entered the study, but they did not come toward the antechamber where Alex lay. Straining to hear, he could make out the clear, crisp sound of the Headmistress’s voice, but he couldn’t determine the intonation of the other voice with her. He didn’t think it was the Head, but he couldn’t be sure. The voice was too distorted, too fuzzy.

After what seemed like an age of listening to the two speakers drone on in a hardly coherent buzz, his chest burning as he struggled to take small breaths, the sound of the lock turning again granted him a desperate reprieve. Still not daring to inhale deeply and clear the muck from his airways, he rolled out from under the shelving and crawled toward the door. Opening it a crack, he peered tentatively out into the study, but there was nobody in the room beyond. Whatever they had come to discuss, they had done it and left. Only then, stepping away from the antechamber, did he gasp for air, filling his lungs as he coughed the debris out of his croaky throat.

Moving toward the door, he unlocked it and let himself out into the corridor, running as quickly as he dared back to his bedroom. The sands of time were against him, but he wasn’t about to give up when he had come so close to the prize. He refused to be foiled by something as insignificant as lacking a bag.

Reaching his room, he dove toward the wardrobe and pulled out boxes and drawers he had barely opened, seeking out a bag of some sort—something suitable he could use to carry as many of the bottles as possible. He didn’t need to take all of them, but a hefty sum would be good. Raking through the piles of clean clothes, and shoes he’d never worn, his hands clasped around a black satchel. It was perfect for what he needed.