Page 83 of Tempt

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The book trail they’d left behind gleams, its luminescence splashing into the lane, marking a phosphorescent path to its occupants. It’s an ethereal and silent alarm gracefully sneaking up on them. Presumably, the visual has been designed to captivate, mesmerizing viewers to the point where they forget to flee.

Can alerts really enchant? Can they dismantle one’s consciousness?

Is there beauty in capture? What other traps exist in this funnel? How have they avoided this, neglected to know about this?

Who devised the first trap in history? Had it been the stars?

Are traps fated or made by one’s own hand? Why—

“For Christ’s sake,” Malice utters under his breath. “Stop that.”

The hushed words snap Wonder out of the trance. A legion of feet flies through the Chamber, the pace unanimous. In the human realm—where every natural foundation is less equipped to handle it—this would cause landmarks to convulse.

In the Peaks, the environment is far more robust, able to withstand the charge. The impending ambush reverberates, woven of starlight and comprised of figures on the prowl.

Wonder and Malice spring into action. He snatches the volume from her hand and punches it back into the shelf. She clamps on to his wrist and yanks him down the nearest lane, which snakes deeper into the area. As they dash past colonies of vellum and sequences of plating, his fingers weave with hers, his grip practically crushing her bones. She squeezes him back, not about to let him maintain the tighter hold, much less take the lead.

His profile creases into a glower. She would laugh at the absurdity of this moment because, to say the least, their rivalry over heroism is out of proportion to the moment. Not to mention, it’s plain idiotic. Squabbling over who gets to save whom has no place while they’re being chased.

Certainly, the pursuers will identify Wonder. Foolishly, she’d left her archery behind.

Malice’s hickory weapons smash against his back. And if he’s forced to exercise the longbow, their pursuers will know with whom she’s been in cahoots.

Wonder measures the kinetics of those on their tail, each attacker possessing unique qualities. Butterfly agility, and ramming soles, and offended exhalations, and lethal amusement, and unflappable focus.

Her pulse goes wild, battering her flesh. She knows who’s after them.

So does Malice, because his talons puncture Wonder’s flesh and urge her faster, or maybe he’s reacting to her acceleration. She can no longer differentiate.

Malice swears under his breath. “Fuck me.”

“Must you?” Wonder scolds, because they’ll hear the unmistakable abrasion of his tenor. Besides, profanities accomplish nothing except squandering oxygen.

However, he’s Malice. That’s why he responds to her lecture with an infuriated cackle, the sound busting open its shackles and lurching from his throat. In rebuttal, Wonder thumps his narrow hip with her substantial one.

Which way to go?

As they surge ahead, they lean toward different passages, tugging on one another and trading I’m right-you’re-wrong glances.This wayandNo, this wayandTrust meandI know what I’m talking aboutandListen, for once.

At an impasse, they align themselves.

What’s the meaning of this? Since when does the restricted section bear traps?

This area had been conceived by the original Fate Court, to stash secrets they didn’t want the populace to discover. The stars may have permitted it, seeing as the Court had acted chiefly out of protection, yet the stars also planted their own mysteries here. The disparity is the latter mysteries were meant to be found, so it makes no sense for the constellations to designate a trap.

But it does make sense for the Court to do so, especially after Wonder and Malice’s previous exploits. The rulers must have designed this snare as an additional precaution, and only those with access must know how to avoid the trap.

Thusly, the books had triggered a mystical siren.

Assessing the sector’s geography, Malice and Wonder consult one another. Pumping their limbs, they pivot toward a cul-de-sac, then plummet into a hip-slide across the ground, hunkering as they propel toward the bottom shelf of a built-in bookcase that swallows them whole. They pass through and shoot along a horizontal channel. All too quickly, they skate to a halt, the artery depositing them within an inlaid room.

Leaping upright, they barrel past cases of illuminated manuscripts, pigments of clover and iris shining through the shadows. It’s a secret gallery with pages of prohibitive and notorious texts, whose lower corners are stamped with emblems of authenticity.

Want to know the most successful way to slander a ruler unfairly? Interested in tormenting mortals? Eager to find out how to cheat at target practice?

One may gauge the answers here.

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