Rook didn’t question my demand to go to the graveyard when I showed up at his house unannounced, but now he keeps shooting me sidelong glances, and I can’t tell if they’re worried or calculating.
Here’s where I’m at vis-à-vis Rook’s involvement with the Cult of Hades:
The Cult kills Credence because Rook won’t give up one of hismagical antiquities. The morning we all first meet, they attack him, and he gives up that he hired heaven hoppers to steal the grimoire. The Cult then pressures him into stealing the codex out from under us once it’s translated.
I will admit this is probably not super smart of me, being alone with a guy I think may be about to betray me. Definitely against at least fifty of Dante’s rules, but I’m just so tired of following all those damn rules.
Besides, I can’t dig this grave by myself, and Rook is the only one left.
We find Credence’s unassuming headstone near the back of the cemetery. It’s crowded by trees and other grave markers, and I have to get right up next to it to see the words etched across it:
Credence Crawford
Quod est superius est sicut quod inferius,
et quod inferius est sicut quod est superius
Rook drops the crowbar and takes the shovel with both hands. He gives a nod, and we start digging.
It’s slow work. The sod has already established stronger roots than I anticipated. I try to pry it up in neat chunks, but the whole time, I can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be for him to take me out with the shovel and stick me in the grave we’re digging up. I wonder if the others think I would deserve it.
I clear my throat and say lightly, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
He pauses, muscles tense.
“I mean, definitely keep digging. I can’t do this myself, but I’ll take care of the…you know…”
Two, three months in, the body is in what’s called “active decay,” which is exactly what it sounds like. It’s going to be pretty gross,and as much as Ihatecorpses—Crowlene being the obvious exception—at least I’m not related to this one.
I silently thank Dad for keeping Dante’s baby teeth. I know he did it to protect us from bone magic, but not having to see my brother’s rotting corpse is an added perk.
Rook gives me a silent nod, jaw set. I still can’t see his expression, but I note the tension in his shoulders.
Even though the night air is frigid, I’m sweating by the time we finish with the sod. Digging through the soil will be easier. It’ll be more time-consuming, sure, and definitely no walk in the park, but at least we won’t have to make it pretty.
We take a quick water break before we start.
My head is leaned back, cool water pouring down my throat, when out of the corner of my eye, I see Rook lift his shovel. It’s something about the way he handles it, gripping it with the blade up, forearms tensed, that jolts me into action.
I chuck the water bottle in his face in the same movement that I’m crouching into a somersault.
The crowbar is in my hand in an instant. Lighter and easier to wield than a shovel. I hook it around the back of his knees.
He tries to get his shovel up, but I land a kick to his wrist, and he drops it.
I have him on his back before it hits the ground and angle the crowbar so the claw sits at his throat.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. His face is hard, a slight sneer on his lips. I press my knee a little more firmly into his solar plexus and he grunts.
“You know,” he groans, “I could take you out with a flick of my wrist. You’ve seen my magic.”
“Then do it,” I grit out.
I don’t know if I’m calling his bluff or if I just invited death upon myself, but either way, it’s a killer line.
“What’s the plan?” he taunts, voice rough and sharp at the same time, tugging at my edges. “Kill me with a crowbar? You’ll have to be fast and precise. And strong.”
He lifts his chin, stretching the muscles and tendons, one of his veins protruding. It could be the one I’m supposed to aim for, I don’t know. I never got that far in the YouTube videos.