I don’t wait for her to reply, and I storm out the front door. What is my sister thinking? Viola confirms that blood Mortemagi are involved in the murders, and my sister’s celebrating walking straight into the killer’s lair?
I round the corner to the hallway leading to Fang’s Nest and nearly crash into someone. “Watch where—” I swallow my words.
Delaney sneers at me, her glasses resting on the tip of her nose. Behind her, Paltro’s face boils with anger. “Archyr, where is the Mortemagi?”
“Which Mortemagi?” I cross my arms behind my back, and Raiku slides down my leg.
“Miss Corvi, Mr. Archyr.” Delaney’s pointy mouth moves. She looks like a rat. “Where is she?”
“How would I know?” The last place to look for a Mortemagi would be at the House of Poison. With the exception of my terribly misguided siblings, Aspieri and Mortemagi hate each other so much they’d never be caught together.
“Search his rooms,” Delaney orders, and six Mortemagi round the corner. Who allowedthemin the House of Poison? I glare at Paltro, and he returns an exasperated sigh.
“You don’t have the right to enter our private rooms,” I say.
“Open the door, Archyr.” Delaney’s ears are as red as the crest of the House of Poison on Paltro’s coat, and if she breathes any harder, she will hyperventilate. Then, quietly behind her, Rhodes approaches.
“Door’s open.” I raise my palms in surrender, and the Mortemagi push past me, swarming the room.
Poacher camps are growing at an alarming rate. Firstliners have been sent to bolster the Wanoran-Aurignan border. I fear an uprising.
Updates requested on your search for the Deathbringer—her aspier hasn’t resurfaced in more than two decades. She must be alive.
LETTER FROM RODRIC PALTRO TO HANSEL ARCHYR, MAY 1939
fifteen | viola
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1939
Archyr stabbed me, and I offered to help him.
Selfishly, of course. Because he and his sister seem to be the only ones who care about the murders, and I now have leverage: guilt.
Sure, DOTS says that Firstline is investigating, but it’s been four days, and the fact that they haven’t figured out that Beau’s and Victor’s bodies are at Dearly Departed is concerning. Given the caliber of Firstline recruits, I doubt they’d make such an oversight. This only tells me that the deaths of Olivia, Beau, and Victor are part of something bigger; and that it’s being dismissed by the authorities.
“—so rude; I cannot believe he said that in front of you,” Lyria rambles, and I feel bad for tuning her out momentarily.
“It’s fine; we all process grief differently,” I reassure her. Some apparently by stabbing othersaccidentally. “Congratulations again,” I say, and I mean it. I find out Lyria is a month younger than me. Twenty-two and she’s already a Grand Magus. It typically takes four years per rank, withmastery of Arcane taking longer because it involves different classes of magic. That she managed to do all that at such a young age ties my tongue.
“Tell me more about your research,” I ask. She’s so easy to talk to that I forget I need to leave.
Her face lights up. “I’m using our aspiers’ venom with a Mortemagi cuff that Delaney lent to me, to see if we can reverse the Mortemagi life-drain so they can heal instead of draining their lifeblood during some spells. It was my mother’s—”
Something scratches against the floor. Lyria and I glance toward the door, and Raiku slithers forward until he stops in front of Lyria. She reaches for him, and he wraps himself around her arm.
“We have to go.” She glances at the clock, then she’s on her feet. “Curfew doesn’t lift for another fifteen minutes. They’ll look for you at the House of Death. Can you run?”
Lyria’s pulled eyebrows and urgent tone tear me off the sofa. She grabs my hands, and within seconds, we’ve crossed Founder’s Room and gone through the secret door into the Poisoned Stairwell. Behind us, a door slams open. I jump, but Lyria gently squeezes my hand, tugging me forward.
The Poisoned Stairwell is as dark and unwelcoming as it was when I stepped in it alone last night. Lyria takes the first step up, and the lights on the wall come to life. I follow her as fast as I can, and after every flight, she pauses to make sure I can keep going. Her steps are sure, and her grip never falters.
Finally, we stop at a landing in front of a wall, and she lets go of my hand. She runs her fingers over the smooth stone, pauses on the right, and pushes in a small square. The wall slides open to a hallway carpeted with a familiar black-and-white diamond pattern.
“I cannot step into the House of Death with an aspier,” she says. “Will you be okay on your own?”
“Why are you so kind to me?” The words escape my lips. I am not used to kindness. Not when I had to live under the roof of a woman to whom my existence was her damnation.
“The world is cruel enough as is.” She glances around. “You’ll need a friend around here.”