My hands ball into fists. Liar, I want to shout, all sympathy for him gone in an instant. If helovedher, it wouldn’t have been a question at all. My sister was terrified of water; she wouldn’t even go near a shallow pond. And if heknewher, he would’ve known she would’ve never strolled along the boardwalk after curfew in her nightgown in the middle of winter.
“It’s impossible not to see her in you.” His tears won’t stop. “I never even knew she was a nonmagi. She was so bright…”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. I don’t know what I am apologizing for. His foolishness for thinking he was in love with her or his delusion for thinking we look alike.
After a back-and-forth that lasts longer than I have the patience for, I close the door, pressing my back against the cold metal. This will be harder than I thought. My only hope lies in the hands of someone who could kill me in a second, someone who I’m sure will drop me the moment I help him find his brother. Archyr couldn’t care less about Olivia, but he does care about Beau.
Someone knocks again. Once, twice.
Does this man have no friends? No duties to attend?
Flinging the door open, I groan. “I’m tired, Lo—”
I swallow my words.
Archyr stands across from the door, one leg propped against the wall, a playful smirk in place of the earlier scowl. The soft reflection of the moon in the skylight kisses his black hair with a faint silver glow. He doesn’t look real at all.
“I thought he would never leave.” He pushes off the wall, dusting his hands on his black pants. My eyes linger on his short-sleeved shirt. Isn’t he cold? Immediately, I shake my head. It is none of my concern.
I step outside, look left and right. “How did you get in here?”
On our walk, Lorne drilled into my head that other Houses aren’t allowedthrough the main entrance, which only means that there are hidden passageways into the House of Death. That must be how Olivia got out.
“I told you I’d find you, so I did.” He holds my gaze like he’s fulfilled a sacred promise. “Besides, I am the master of stealth.”
I wouldn’t call him the master of stealth when he commands the attention of every person around. If the walls could speak, they would only speak of him.
“Your brother—” I clear my throat, trying to refocus the conversation. His eyes light up, and guilt eats at me. The moment I made the connection between Archyr and Beau earlier, I realized I could use the latter’s whereabouts as leverage. I hate it, especially when Beau saved me from Mara. I also hate it because Gorhail is already changing me; I’m justifying emotional manipulation as a means to solve my sister’s murder, using someone’s despair to help myself. Maybe Delaney and Parrish were right. I belong here because, deep down, I’m just like them.
“Erm— Should we speak somewhere else?” I need to know how Archyr can move around Gorhail unnoticed so I can continue my investigation past curfew.
He rubs his chin, considering my request, then beckons me to follow him in the opposite direction Lorne and I came from earlier. A dead end, but not for long because Archyr runs his hands over the wall, pushes in a small rectangular brick, and a panel slides open to a steep spiral staircase.
“Another Arkani invention,” he explains. “They may seem boring, but we wouldn’t have Gorhail without their advancements.”
I wouldn’t call Arkani boring. I spent months reading every book I could find about their inventions and innovations. And now, being at Gorhail and witnessing their magic in every crack of every stone is fascinating. Why couldn’t I have inherited useful magic like theirs?
“After you.” He gestures to the darkness, and I step inside.
Behind us, the door slides shut, and I gasp as I look up and down to find an expansive stairway that seems to never end. The same candles that light the hallways of the House of Death hug the stone walls, except these are white and hang from an intricate gold laurel candleholder. They don’t offer nearly as much light as we need to navigate this place, but it’s better than nothing. Right as this thought crosses my mind, the candles glow a little brighter. I frown, but Archyr looks at me with amusement. “They only light up when they see fit.”
Suddenly, the temperature drops, and I wrap my arms around my middle, trying to quell the sense of foreboding crawling through me. Archyr starts climbing down the steps, and I follow closely. I take the first step, immediately grabbing on to the freezing railing for dear life. It’s slippery, steep, and I make the mistake of peeking down to see more never-ending stairs that wrap around like a serpent. The ominous feeling surges through me. What if Archyr did kill Olivia and he wants to make my death look like an accident, too?
Archyr stops, throwing me a glance over his shoulder. “Do you need help?”
“No,” I retort, taking the stiffest second step. A murderer wouldn’t offer to help me, would he?
We take a while to climb down, and I’m surprised he says nothing about my tortoise steps. When we reach another platform, he motions me forward. I follow him down an all-white hallway, then take a turn into an all-black one, and finally we arrive in one with wooden flooring. After two more turns, I no longer know where we are. I realize that if he wants to kill me, he could do it right here and now, and no one would even know what happened to me. “I’m not going to kill you,” he says nonchalantly.
“Do you read minds?”
“No.” He laughs. By Death, it’s beautiful. “The look on your face was telling enough. Since we stepped into the Poisoned Stairwell, you’ve gone from curious to determined to panicked to fearful to panicked again.”
The Poisoned Stairwell. I freeze. Priya told me to stay away from this place because of the ghosts, but I haven’t heard a single voice since we stepped in. Was my cuff damaged during Mara’s attack? But then, I would be hearing the nagging ring of death.
Archyr doesn’t wait for me to reply, and he pushes open a black door. I follow him into someone’s personal living quarters. The walls are tall, dark teal paired with ebony wood for the doorframes, baseboards, and the mantelpiece. The furniture looks expensive, like what you’d see in the home of a government official—nothing like the bland furniture in my room at the House of Death. Above the fire is a majestic sculpture of a golden serpent with a bleeding red crown. I can’t peel my eyes away from the intricate details, the golden scales laid with precision, the black gemstones cut to perfection to fit the eyes.
“Beau made it.” A small voice draws my attention.