Death's Mistress (Dorina Basarab, #2)(128)

“The charm doesn’t work when the door isn’t fully closed, and in my surprise, I hadn’t bothered to pull it shut.”

I tried to think back, and it seemed to me that he was telling the truth—about that much, anyway. The study door had been partly open when I arrived, sending a wedge of light out into the hall. That was how I’d known where to go.

“I heard the servant conducting him down the corridor,” Anthony continued. “And . . . an idea presented itself.”

“You left him there, knowing he would die and that Louis-Cesare would be blamed.”

“And that I would get him off. He was never in any danger, other than to his pride. Which could stand a prick or two, I might say.”

“You planned to force him to remain under your control, practically as a slave!”

Anthony sighed wistfully. “It was perfect. I should have known; the Fates have always hated me.”

I stopped because we’d reached the door to the arena, or at least I assumed it was behind there somewhere. A massive fall of dirt, bricks and rock blocked the way. The whole damn thing might have caved in, or it could be a localized fall caused by a weak spot in the tunnel. And there was only one way to tell.

I swore under my breath, letting the flashlight play over the rough ceiling, or as much of it as I could see through the hanging cloud of dust. I could see where the old bricks had given way, letting through a ton of dirt and a cascade of long white roots. In the flickering light, they looked almost like grasping fingers, reaching out—

Okay, yeah. Enough of that. I’d been down here a little too long, listening to Anthony’s ravings. I needed to get us both out of here, although it wasn’t looking promising. The only way through the fall, assuming there was one, was going to be at the very top. I had a sudden vision of myself having to shimmy through on my back, the rock inches from my nose, another cave-in just waiting to happen . . .

Have I mentioned that I really, really hate little dark places?

But there wasn’t much choice in this case. I tucked the flashlight in my belt to leave both hands free. “I’m going to check it out,” I told Anthony. “Stay here.”

“As opposed to?” he asked wryly.

“I’ll be right back,” I promised. I wasn’t sure who I was reassuring: him or me. From Anthony’s expression, I think he figured that out, but he didn’t say anything. I started to climb.

It was about as fun as I’d expected. It was pitch-dark except for the bouncing beam of the flashlight, which never seemed to be pointed where I needed it to be. And even when it was, it mostly highlighted the choking dust cloud, which wasn’t helping me see or breathe. I misjudged the distance and cracked my head on the rough ceiling, and then my foot fell through a gap in the loose earth, causing a mini-avalanche.

My feet managed to find purchase at the last second on a section of brick that had all come down in a piece. I held on, hiding my face in my jacket and trying not to breathe as a few hundred pounds of dirt flowed over me. It finally stopped, and I looked up, blinking dirt and dust out of my eyes.

I was practically buried, with only my head sticking out of the fall. I coughed, got my bearings and started trying to fight my way free, causing the load of debris around me to shift. Unfortunately it mostly shifted back onto me. I scrambled to try to compensate, thinking I saw a gap up ahead, but a sudden cascade sent me sliding back down the mound on my stomach, getting pummeled by rocks, roots and sharp-edged bricks the whole way.

I slid to a stop at Anthony’s feet, gasping and choking on the new wash of dirt in the air. “Now what?” he demanded. It didn’t look like patience was the consul’s strong suit.

I scowled up at him, bruised and filthy. “Now we’re going to have to find another—”

“No!” He was starting to look panicked again. “There’s no time. We have to go out here.”

“I don’t have a backhoe in my pocket,” I snapped, struggling to my feet and vainly trying to dust off my clothes. But my sweat and his blood had caked the dirt onto them; all I was doing was smearing it around. I decided it could wait and looked up to find Anthony staring at me.

He wasn’t going to plead, wasn’t about to beg. But his face was doing it for him. The heatless flame of the flashlight flickered over drawn features and colorless flesh. Around his many wounds, dark rings glistened like hungry mouths, smearing his clothes and staining his skin. But it didn’t look like any more was flowing. I suspected that might be because there wasn’t much left.

Anthony was running out of time.

I stared into the blackness of the corridor behind us, seeing nothing. But my brain supplied an image of the dark, unknown passageway, which probably opened onto more caverns and then more passageways . . . endless regressions into deeper and more silent darkness. I could find my way out, eventually, of that I had no doubt. But I couldn’t do it and carry Anthony, and I wasn’t sure what I’d find when I got back.

“I’ll give it another try,” I said reluctantly, and he nodded, looking slightly relieved. He got a hand to my backside and pushed, and I scrambled up the slippery slope once again.

I don’t know if the previous avalanche had sloughed off most of the looser debris, or if I was just getting the hang of things. But I made it to the top this time with little difficulty, putting out a cautious hand to the ceiling so as to spare my head. I wedged myself into a somewhat secure-feeling space between the ceiling and wall, and sent a pale tongue of light through the small space I’d previously noticed.