Page 114 of Liminal
Taking a deep breath, I shove down the automatic urge to panic and walk beside her, leaving space in case she moves to the side—because I’ll be damned if I crack her again.
Only her face and legs are untouched, and they show no sign of healing. Lambert was right. She’s still beautiful, and I can’ttake my eyes off her as we reach the Rotunda and she hesitates before the trapdoor.
She’s so fucking strong, to have endured centuries of this by herself. But she doesn’t have to do it alone anymore. If I’d known about it before claiming sanctuary, I would’ve made the offer sooner. There might be no way of stopping this—she would’ve found it if there was—but if keeping her company makes it bearable, then I’ll be here every night for the rest of my life.
The darker presences usher her along, and I try to ignore the blur of a familiar conversation. I can’t quite manage it, and I bristle because their condescending tones are much easier to make out now. Kyrith takes the first steps quicker than I do, but I’m still half-expecting her or the building to change their minds and slam the trapdoor closed.
It doesn’t happen.
For some reason, I always assumed that the stairs would be straight, but instead they curve down into the darkness, illuminated by the faint glow of the spectre before me. My hand floats to my pocket, and the scraps there, but somehow lighting one seems wrong. The steps are uneven, and common sense says that I should, but…
I’m so distracted by my internal debate that I almost step straight into Kyrith. She’s fiddling with her skirts, looking uncomfortable. The others are quizzing her on the history of the Arcanaeum, testing her like nothing’s amiss while she stutters out answers awkwardly.
“I know you probably can’t hear this,” I murmur, breathing in the faint scent of ice and lilies that accompanies her wherever she goes. “But they have no power over you. If you were all alive now, you’d kick all of their asses.”
The first glimpse of the Vault steals my breath.
I knew it was large, but this is insane. It’s got to be bigger than a shopping mall. The stairs circle this strange blade-likestalactite in the centre, and I’ll bet my grimoire that it’s some kind of magical artefact. I’ve seen a few in my travels, but only one or two have come close to the energy this thing is throwing off.
The heart of the Arcanaeum.
Now I see why Kyrith was so reluctant to let us down here. Not only are there over a dozen floors crammed with powerful grimoires, but the spire on my left is something that the parriarchs would kill for.
The ghosts have fallen silent, giving me time to examine my surroundings. Purple flames light this place, making it easier to keep my footing as I trail behind them. It’s a good thing too, because the pathetic little railing won’t do shit to save me if I fall.
Then we reach the bottom, and I see it.
Kyrith’s tomb.
Fuuucccckkkk.
“Baby girl, I am so sorry,” I whisper under my breath.
Because there she is, a masterpiece of diamond-like crystal atop an altar of death, her face caught in a scream, a dagger buried deep and gleaming into her heart.
“Ah, Rector Carlton, Magister Ackland. We were beginning to worry you’d lost your way,” a squeaky-voiced female says.
Like a veil has been lifted, the shadowy forms sharpen; not enough to make out the finer details, but enough for me to note their body shapes and the gleam of their eyes—a burst of colour in the darkness. Five of them are gathered together at the other side of the room.
Kyrith curtseys but is ignored.
“Never fear, Magister Winthrop,” one of the ghosts who escorted her says. “We’re right on time. Is everything ready?”
“Everything except the offering,” Magister Winthrop—Lambert’s ancestor—snaps.
My hands clench into fists. While Kyrith is too busy staring at the altar like it’s a puzzle, the ghost of Rector Carlton has opened his grimoire and starts casting. One of the others has detached from the group and begun to sneak behind the shelves towards her. He has yellow eyes that mark him as North’s ancestor, and my gut sinks as I put two and two together.
If this isn’t the Edmund she screams for every night, I’ll eat my grimoire.
Magister Ackland’s echo orders, “Edmund. On with it.”
Kyrith’s mouth moves in a quiet plea that rips my gut up into my throat. She fights. Fuck, I’m proud of how hard she fights. But he’s a man in his prime, and she’s fragile and slender. Without her grimoire, she doesn’t stand a chance.
My nails cut half-moons into my palms as she’s wrestled onto the altar like a pig for slaughter. Her body writhes, overlapping the glass figure—like she’s glitching—and I’m close enough to see that they’re both cracked in the same places.
“Edmund!” she screams. “Edmund, please! You promised this would be my new start! My chance to finally do something with my life!”
But the slimy fucker is stepping away. Abandoning her without a second thought. Ignoring the heartbroken betrayal in her voice. I watch her face, trying to silently reassure her that I’m here as I pick a spot directly beside her. The hardest part is trying to tune out the blithe chatter of her murderers.
