survived the fall uninjured—in itself unlikely considering the splintered wood and rusted spikes now in the water—he couldn’t have gone far.
Except that it appeared he had.
Shaking a patina of stinking algae from her fur, she climbed up onto a protruding masonry block and surveyed the sewer. Nothing. Not Nuikin, nor his body, nor even his scent.
Eyes narrowed, she looked up.
The joints between the stones in the cellar walls fitted smoothly together. He could not have clung to safety.
Lips drawn back off her teeth, she began to climb.
No floor remained where he’d been cornered.
Tail lashing the air, she climbed the holes that had once held the stairs and sat at last on the threshold of the floor above. Whiskers twitching, she delicately sniffed the rotting wood and found his scent both over and under hers. Her nose curled as she caught a faint trace of the power that had lingered by the crushed corpse of the spider.
He had gone down into the cellar.
She had followed.
He had, somehow, left.
Claws shredding the wood beneath her, her body lengthened, bone and muscle and ligament stretching to the form between rat and human that, being neither, gave her the most use of both. Staring down into the pit Aurek Nuikin had so impossibly risen out of, she spat and derisively snarled, “Mere ssscholar indeed.”
Aurek Pushed His Hair Back Off His Face and Was astonished to notice his hand trembling. If it hadn’t been for the leather loop he’d held in his hand as the floor collapsed and the accompanying spell.… He sat and stared at his trembling fingers for a moment, then slowly laid the piece of leather on the empty desk in front of him. Fate had intervened back in the cellar of that abandoned house, had cast Louise Renier away without him having to raise a hand. Perhaps that was a good omen. Perhaps it meant he was destined to find the answer he sought in Pont-a-Museau.
Perhaps the answer was in the book he’d risked so much to discover.
His pack rested on the corner of desk, where it had remained since he’d returned to the house nearly an hour before. He could feel the book from where he sat, had been able to feel it while he washed and changed into sweeter-smelling clothes. It wasn’t the power of the book he could feel, but the book itself—its potential.
Until he opened it, that potential continued to exist, and with it, hope. While he delayed, he held hope trapped. The moment he knew, hope was gone, and each time he found it again it returned to him less willingly.
But the book might hold the answer, and hope was the price he had to pay.
Wearily, Aurek closed his eyes. When he opened them after pulling a long breath in and pushing it out again, he called himself several kinds of fool. You don’t look because you’re afraid it might be nothing, and your fear keeps you from possibly discovering the nightmare is finally over.
Hands barely steady, he yanked open the mouth of the pack.
A moment later, the small leather-bound book lay on the gray silk bag in the exact center of his desk. He had removed all surviving wards, checked for more subtle protections, and lifted a small, clear crystal from a rosewood box tucked into a desk drawer. Murmuring under his breath—the words merely needed to be said, it wasn’t necessary to say them loudly—he passed the crystal over the book from left to right. Finally, nothing remained to be done save actually folding back the cover.
The first few pages had been marbled, front and back, with dissolved ink. Here and there he could make out what might have been the swoop of a letter and once an entire word could be read intact and out of context. The closer he came to the middle of the book, however, the less extensive the water damage and the more legible the handwriting.
While there was nothing about the writing that resembled his own less than legible style, he saw similarities in the way the unknown writer had used all the available space—pages were
Except that it appeared he had.
Shaking a patina of stinking algae from her fur, she climbed up onto a protruding masonry block and surveyed the sewer. Nothing. Not Nuikin, nor his body, nor even his scent.
Eyes narrowed, she looked up.
The joints between the stones in the cellar walls fitted smoothly together. He could not have clung to safety.
Lips drawn back off her teeth, she began to climb.
No floor remained where he’d been cornered.
Tail lashing the air, she climbed the holes that had once held the stairs and sat at last on the threshold of the floor above. Whiskers twitching, she delicately sniffed the rotting wood and found his scent both over and under hers. Her nose curled as she caught a faint trace of the power that had lingered by the crushed corpse of the spider.
He had gone down into the cellar.
She had followed.
He had, somehow, left.
Claws shredding the wood beneath her, her body lengthened, bone and muscle and ligament stretching to the form between rat and human that, being neither, gave her the most use of both. Staring down into the pit Aurek Nuikin had so impossibly risen out of, she spat and derisively snarled, “Mere ssscholar indeed.”
Aurek Pushed His Hair Back Off His Face and Was astonished to notice his hand trembling. If it hadn’t been for the leather loop he’d held in his hand as the floor collapsed and the accompanying spell.… He sat and stared at his trembling fingers for a moment, then slowly laid the piece of leather on the empty desk in front of him. Fate had intervened back in the cellar of that abandoned house, had cast Louise Renier away without him having to raise a hand. Perhaps that was a good omen. Perhaps it meant he was destined to find the answer he sought in Pont-a-Museau.
Perhaps the answer was in the book he’d risked so much to discover.
His pack rested on the corner of desk, where it had remained since he’d returned to the house nearly an hour before. He could feel the book from where he sat, had been able to feel it while he washed and changed into sweeter-smelling clothes. It wasn’t the power of the book he could feel, but the book itself—its potential.
Until he opened it, that potential continued to exist, and with it, hope. While he delayed, he held hope trapped. The moment he knew, hope was gone, and each time he found it again it returned to him less willingly.
But the book might hold the answer, and hope was the price he had to pay.
Wearily, Aurek closed his eyes. When he opened them after pulling a long breath in and pushing it out again, he called himself several kinds of fool. You don’t look because you’re afraid it might be nothing, and your fear keeps you from possibly discovering the nightmare is finally over.
Hands barely steady, he yanked open the mouth of the pack.
A moment later, the small leather-bound book lay on the gray silk bag in the exact center of his desk. He had removed all surviving wards, checked for more subtle protections, and lifted a small, clear crystal from a rosewood box tucked into a desk drawer. Murmuring under his breath—the words merely needed to be said, it wasn’t necessary to say them loudly—he passed the crystal over the book from left to right. Finally, nothing remained to be done save actually folding back the cover.
The first few pages had been marbled, front and back, with dissolved ink. Here and there he could make out what might have been the swoop of a letter and once an entire word could be read intact and out of context. The closer he came to the middle of the book, however, the less extensive the water damage and the more legible the handwriting.
While there was nothing about the writing that resembled his own less than legible style, he saw similarities in the way the unknown writer had used all the available space—pages were
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