“Only with century-old heirloom relics—puppeteering depletes magicandlifeblood.” Sylas stands, holding out his hand. “We’re getting somewhere. We know it’s a puppeteer, and we know they are after heirloom relics. We just need to find the reason so we know what they’ll do next.”
“Stealing the heirloom relics still doesn’t make sense, given they lose their magic when the wearer dies without a successor.” I stare at his hand. Is this a truce or a trick to get me to trust him until he gets what he needs?
“I have nothing much…” he trails, hand still outstretched to me. “Except, I’ve been playing with the last names, and a working theory is they’re all C’s.”
Coincidence or not, it’s worth exploring. I take his hand. It’s cold andclammy, but his grip is firm as he pulls me up. “Where can we find a record of all deaths over the last five years?” I ask.
“Five years?” He arches a brow.
“That’s how long Mara has been in Albion.”
“I have access to the records in Riverview. They’re closed on Mondays, so I’ll check tomorrow.”
He offers me his arm. For a moment, I look at it, hung between us, then my gaze trails up to his. That odd feeling low in my abdomen is back, and I hate it so much. The only reason Archyr’s affording me even an ounce of niceness is because I am the only means to his ends. He stabbed you for a reason, Viola, I remind myself. And he hates Mortemagi.
I shake my head and trudge my way to the road.
Two steps are all it takes, and my feet slip. A heavy hand braces against the small of my back. Archyr adjusts his arm behind my waist and loops the other one behind my knees. Before I realize what’s happening, he’s picking me up, carrying me through the muddy grass.
“Someone was in my room today,” I tell him, because the awkward silence between us will bury me alive if I don’t break it.
His arm tenses against my back, but he doesn’t stop walking.
“Victor left a message on the mirror.”
His whole body relaxes. “What did it say?”
“The same catacombs line, and ‘I know who killed your sister.’?”
“Do ghosts lie?” he asks.
“They aren’t supposed to,” I mumble.
Archyr looks down, searching my eyes for something I refuse to read into. “You need to know something about Victor.” He sets me down the moment his boots clap on solid ground. “I believe he was covering for Olivia, potentially creating illusions of ghosts for her. After he died, your sister was on edge. I saw her in the dean’s office the day before her death, asking Rhodes to excuse her from practicals.”
“We’ll find out when we go to the catacombs,” I say. “Olivia said Victor has answers, and he said he knows who killed her. Besides, we can ask him about Beau’s ghost. Victor’s our most apparent lead right now.”
“The catacombs are dangerous for whisperers, deadly for untrained ones,” he mutters as he leads me to a lone black car parked a few feet away from a big willow tree. “We can’t risk your sanity. Beau didn’t save your life for me to waste it.”
“What choice do I have?” I wince. “I don’t want another death on my conscience, let alone my own, before I find out who killed my sister and why. I deserve answers, and you do too.”
We lock eyes for a breath or maybe two. Time seems to slow every time Archyr looks at me, and I hate my heart for beating so fast. His jaw hardens, and he tears his gaze away. Without a word, he opens the door to the back seat, then walks around to the driver’s side.
Lyria greets me with a quiet smile as she slides over, making room for me. Her cheeks are wet; at first, I think it’s from the rain, but then I notice she’s been crying. “They didn’t deserve this,” she sobs. “Olivia, Beau, Victor. They were all so young, so full of promise.”
I reach for her hand, squeezing it. The lump in my throat makes it hard to speak, so I settle for a nod. In our shared grief, I feel less alone.
“Funerals are so final, and I’m not ready to bury Beau,” she admits, looking down at a folded piece of parchment in her lap. “I can’t even sit in the passenger seat because that’s his. How will I get through life without him?”
I hold her hand tighter. “I don’t know, but you’re not alone.”
She glances at me, steadying her breath. “We won’t stop until we find who did this to them.”
“What’s this?” I ask, as a poor attempt to change the conversation.
She unfolds the parchment paper, and it opens to a map. “The Poisoned Stairwell leads straight to the catacombs. It’s by design; Azgar wanted to discourage whisperers from going to the catacombs, so unless highly trained or paired with an Aspieri, they’d be stuck in the stairwell.” She flattens the map on the empty seat between us. “The catacombs are a maze, but with your guidance, we’ll be fine.”
My guidance. I inhale sharply, and she immediately adds, “I know they can be deadly for untrained whisperers, but I know almost everything about death magic, and I’ll never leave your side.”