CJ’s head turns sharply. “How do you know that?”
“Your cousin said he was in the spire with the other ethereals.”
They look between me and the tower. “Spire could mean anything.”
“Actually, it has a limited number of definitions. Plus, the interrogator said the ethereals were held at the top of the tower.”
“And you trust your torturer?”
I shrug. “I’m just saying there’s a pretty good chance Dante’s up there.”
CJ swallows. “We can’t. That wasn’t the plan. Tolliver doesn’t know to set up the ritual on Dante’s grave.”
“We don’t need to resurrect him today,” I argue. “We just need to get his soul out.”
They’re quiet for a moment, then they clear their throat and shake their head. “Melody said she’ll take me to him next time. I’ll get him then, when we can be sure it’s him.”
I nod, but I’m sick to my stomach. Dante’s so close. I’ve spent two days in hell and, before that, a year planning. I’ve been tortured and abandoned and ignored and Dante’sright there.
“Let’s go,” CJ says.
I sigh, taking in the narrow bridge and fire below. “I guess we’d better. It’s not the full hell experience if you’re not in danger of getting burned.”
CJ holds my hands behind my back as though they’re still bound. We need to look the part of guard and prisoner, but I’ll need my hands if we have to fight. Or if I fall over the edge of this stupid bridge and have to catch myself before being consumed in flame.
We inch along the bridge, taking small steps, pausing each timewe hear a rumble and the stones quake beneath us. Wide stance. Strong core. Don’t look down. As soon as it passes, we start again.
Small steps.
Ahead, our destination rises above the dark mist of fumes. At the end of the bridge, suspended in the center of the pit, is a dark cathedral-like tower, blackened with soot, grotesque faces carved into the facade. The entrance is lit with torches, casting shadows across the huge iron door under a raised portcullis, ending in iron spikes. The closer we get, the taller it looms, until I can no longer see the top.
We finally reach the other side of the bridge, and I would breathe a sigh of relief, but that was the easy part. I lead CJ under the portcullis. A dripping sound echoes and there are screams in the distance. Puddles of what looks like blood glisten on the stone floor.
We pass through the archway and into a large circular room at the base of the tower, thankfully empty at the moment. It vaguely reminds me of the room above the Temple of Hercules, but instead of surrounding a dome, there’s a spiral staircase in the center, and instead of wood and nails, this is made of rock and bones.
Oh, and it’s lined with cells.
Unlike the cells I’ve seen so far, these aren’t enclosed by bars of jagged bone but sealed behind black iron doors. And behind one of these doors is Rook’s sister.
“Six, six, seven,” I whisper to CJ.
“I remember,” they mutter.
We start to the left, going clockwise through the hall. Roman numerals appear above the small grate on each door.
The first one saysCMI.
I lean back so CJ can hear. “Okay, I may not know my Roman numerals, but I’m pretty sure that’s not number one.”
“It’s 901,” they whisper back.
I huff. “Well, since there’s not a basement in this thing, we’re probably going up.”
Before CJ can respond, there’s a voice behind us.
“Where are you taking the prisoner?”
CJ’s eyes widen, but they recover quickly and turn to the voice. A woman in a guard uniform has just come out of one of the cells. She locks it behind her and stares at us expectantly.