Chapter 5

"Please, Liora. Please open the door."

Vivienne's voice slid through the wood, thin and trembling, a little girl's voice. It was barely dawn.

I lay still on the narrow bed in the rented room above the bakery. Yesterday's hearing had ended with the elders in shock, Odalys screaming in the corridor, and Cassian staring at me as if I were a stranger who had stolen his face. The council had adjourned "for review." I had walked out with Quill at my side and not looked back.

Now my half-sister was knocking at my door.

The bakery smelled of yeast and butter. My stomach growled. My body ached from the mountain climb, and a pale scab crossed my palm where the gate had bitten me.

I opened the door.

Vivienne stood in the hallway in a white wool coat, her golden hair loose, her eyes swollen and red. She clutched a handkerchief in one hand and pressed the other against her stomach.

She looked like every man's idea of a wronged angel.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I didn't know if you would."

I did not step aside. "What do you want?"

"May I come in? I'm so tired. The baby..." Her breath hitched. "Please."

I moved back one pace. She slipped inside and sank onto the edge of the bed, dabbing her eyes.

Cedar and sweat. Sharp, familiar.

Beta Marlowe's cologne. It clung to her collar even stronger than before.

I filed it away and said nothing.

"I came to apologize," Vivienne said. Fresh tears spilled. "I never meant to hurt you. Cassian and I- it just happened. We were so lonely, and you were always so busy healing everyone, and I..."

"Vivienne."

"Yes?"

"You have four minutes before I put you out. Say what you came to say."

The tears stopped.

Not slowly. All at once, like a faucet twisted shut.

She lowered the handkerchief. Her blue eyes lifted to mine, and I watched the angel slide off her face and something cold and clever slide on.

"You always were the sharp one," she said softly.

"I learned."

"Fine." She stood and smoothed her coat. "Then let me be clear. You think you've won. You think a deed and an old lawyer will save you."

"I think a deed is a deed."

"Cassian's father spent last night on the telephone with the Council of Alphas." Her smile was small and mean. "Do you know what Moonhollow sits on, Liora?"

My pulse ticked once, hard.

"Land," I said.

"Ridge land. High ground. Above every flood line in the valley for fifty miles." She stepped closer. Her voice dropped to a hiss. "Emeric Rourke has wanted that hill for thirty years. He was going to take it through your bond. Now he can't. So Cassian will take it another way."

"What way?"

"By force." She tilted her head. "Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever the Alpha stops being polite. Marlowe's men tracked you up the lower road yesterday. They know which side of the mountain you climb. It's only a matter of time before they find the gate."

Ice slid down my spine.

Do not let them see the ridge.

I kept my face still. "I don't know what ridge you mean."

"Don't insult me." Vivienne picked up her handkerchief. "I came as a courtesy. Sign the land over to Cassian, quietly, and I'll make sure you leave the valley safe. With a little money. Enough to start over somewhere far away."

"And if I refuse?"

She looked at me almost sadly.

"Then you'll wish you had died in that Moon Hall."

She swept out. The door clicked shut. Her perfume lingered, sweet and rotten.

I stood in the silence with my heart pounding, my fists clenched so hard my nails cut half moons into my palms.

Fear. Rage. Both. I let them burn.

Then I moved.

I did not take the road.

I climbed out the back window, crossed three rooftops, and dropped into the alley behind the tannery. I doubled through the fish market, cut through a churchyard, and doubled again. At the lower road I met a delivery van, paid the driver everything in my pocket, and rode in the back among crates of eggs until the hills swallowed the town.

The driver dropped me a mile from the switchback. I walked the rest.

Twice I heard engines. Twice I dove into brush. Once a pair of Blackthorn wolves passed within thirty feet, sniffing the air, their heads turning slowly. I held my breath and pressed my face against wet leaves and did not move until they were gone.

I thought about my key.

If they caught me, they would search me. They would find it. I could not carry it in my pocket.

I stopped in a hollow and held up my palm. The tiny crate was still there, glowing faintly. I focused on the silver key at my throat and imagined it slipping into the same warm, humming space.

The cord went slack in my hand.

The key was gone.

I checked my pockets, my boots, the ground. Nothing. But when I reached for it in my mind, it answered, cool and solid, waiting in some quiet place inside me that had not existed yesterday.

Storage, I thought. It stores things.

Relief hit so hard my knees buckled. Whatever this power was, it was mine, and it would keep secrets.

I reached for the key again, and it dropped back into my palm.

Perfect.

At the gate, I cut my hand a second time and let the iron drink. The barrier swung open, and I slid through, and the road vanished behind me.

Down in the vault, my footsteps echoed. The moon well still glowed with a soft silver light that seemed brighter than yesterday.

I walked around the dais.

Something caught my eye.

On the far wall, half hidden behind the lectern, the stone was smoother than the rest. When I stepped closer, I saw a faint outline in the carving. An arch. A door with no handle, no hinge, no keyhole.

Except for a small round depression in the center, exactly the size of a crescent.

I called the key back to my palm and pressed it to the stone.

A deep vibration rolled through the floor. Dust sifted from the ceiling. The stone slid aside with a grinding sigh.

Cold air breathed out of the dark.

I raised my candle and stepped through.

The room beyond was small. A stone desk. A single chair. A shelf holding a single black book. The air smelled of ink and old lavender.

My grandmother's scent.

Grief punched me in the chest so hard I nearly dropped the candle.

I crossed to the desk. A sheet of paper lay in the center, weighted by a smooth river stone. The ink looked aged. The handwriting was slanted and firm.

At the top was a date.

I read it once. I read it again.

November 8.

My mouth went dry.

That was fifty-seven days from now. The exact day of the flood.

The paper was yellow with age. The ink had faded to brown. My grandmother had died when I was seven. She could not have written this.

She had written it anyway.

Below the date, in the same bold hand, was a single line.

They will call you mad. Build anyway.