Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(110)

She changed one symbol, and the bird banked, gained speed, and folded its wings.

It ripped through the golden cloth that covered the Curia’s box and buried its knife-sharp beak into Gregory’s ear, all the way to his brain. She knew he’d lacked the imagination to build that barrier in a circle. He only saw a shield.

And now he staggered, screaming, flailing, and she grabbed for another bird. Another. As the Curia members scrambled out of the way, Gregory tried to protect himself, but it was too late, far too late, and when the last bird arrowed into his eye, he slumped back down to his chair in a fluttering heap of red robes.

It felt like someone had opened the door of a cell in her mind, and she pulled in a deep, clean breath as the numbness and fog rolled away. The world exploded into light and fire and power.

And the birds began to fall, smashing down without direction.

Dead. Thousands, hitting the sand, but not another one hitting the people standing in the arena.

She felt the paths inside her, the ones Eskander had so carefully recovered, scorch in painful streaks. Too much. She’d just wielded more power than anyone should at once, and when she tried to reach to stop the rank of Egyptian gods that stalked from the tunnels into the arena, each four times the height of a human . . . she failed. Her powers slid off them like oil from water, and she felt a wave of pain and nausea send her reeling to her knees.

“Morgan?” Khalila was beside her.

“I can’t,” she gasped. “I can’t!”

Khalila took Jess’s sidearm from his holster and began to fire at the goddess Bast, who approached them with relentless speed, crushing the lifeless automata birds under its feet. It wouldn’t help, Morgan wanted to tell her. It would take power greater than hers to stop even one of these things.

“Scatter!” she heard Santi yell, and the High Garda troops exploded into motion, weaving between and around the gods. Some were caught. The giant figure of Isis swept up a soldier in its hand and crushed him, then reached for another.

The Scholars and librarians had come to their feet now, and the Archivist was shouting something and pointing at Morgan, specifically at Morgan. Jess shoved her behind him as Bast kept coming. “Khalila! Take her!” he shouted, and Khalila tried, but Morgan’s legs had gone numb now, and she couldn’t run.

The three of them fell under the shadow of the god. Its cat face showed no emotion as it raised a flail; it was razor sharp and would cut them apart with one blow. Khalila continued to fire, though she must have known it was useless.

Jess wouldn’t leave.

He wouldn’t leave.

And that was the moment she knew, after all her doubts and worries, that what she felt for him was love, because the strength of it took her breath away. She reached for him, and he took her hand and stepped back beside her. Khalila held her other hand. None of them spoke, because there wasn’t any need. They’ll remember how we die, Morgan thought. Maybe our fate isn’t to change the Library. Maybe it’s to die to show them how to continue.

She was almost, almost at peace with that . . . and then she heard shouts coming from the stands, from the Scholars and librarians, and she looked past the automaton and saw that a new column of people had walked into the arena, this time from the door that had admitted the gods.

Eskander, in a blindingly white Obscurist robe, led his people into the arena, just as he’d led them out of the Iron Tower, and next to him, looking entirely different from the smiling, happy woman Morgan knew, was Annis.

Eskander raised his hands, and the Obscurists raised theirs, and Morgan felt the breathtaking rush of power blast through the arena. The gods swayed, slowed, and turned toward the Obscurists.

And then, one by one, they knelt.

It wasn’t one man’s power, Morgan realized. It was all of them, blending and combining into an unstoppable flood. No wonder the Obscurists had been penned up in the Iron Tower, where the walls muted and confined them.

Together, and free, they were far more dangerous than anyone could have known. A dying breed, but a powerful one to the last.

One god didn’t kneel. Just one.

Horus.

It stalked toward the Obscurists, and some of them broke and ran. Then more, as the automaton approached and raised its huge sword, capable of mowing all of them down.

But some stayed, and Eskander directed their power, amplified it, and Horus began to slow.

But it didn’t stop.

“Fire!” Santi shouted, and all around the arena, Anit’s people and Santi’s company poured bullets into the machine. The golden skin began to dent, but it wasn’t enough.

None of it would be enough.

“Jess!”

Thomas’s voice rang across the amphitheater, and for the first time, Morgan realized with a shock that the young man was down, one leg at an ugly, broken angle. But he heaved himself up to a sitting position, and with all the strength in his upper body, he threw the Ray of Apollo toward them.

Toward Jess, who dropped his rifle, lunged, caught the falling weapon, and came up on one knee to aim and fire.

He cut Horus in half, a long, slanting cut from left shoulder to right hip, and the top half of the god slipped sideways, tumbled, and rolled on the sand.

Dead.

The Archivist and the Curia stood silently now. Shocked, and only just realizing how badly this trap had gone for them. Around the arena, automata raced from opening tunnels: Spartans armed with spears. Lions. Sphinxes, large and small. All deadly, all intent on killing.