The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(88)

“And?”

He shrugs. “And that’s it. They’re gone. Peter will be here soon, and they’ll be safe. Just as you planned.”

It is what I planned. But what I didn’t plan was how their being gone would make me feel. Empty. Hollow.

Alone.

I look up to find Schuyler watching me carefully. He doesn’t say anything. He only nods.

We’re getting close to the tomb now; I can feel it. The air is getting colder, my breath coming in little plumes, and the woods are eerily silent. No crickets chirping, no owls hooting, no mouse or rat rustling the odd branch or two. There’s only silence.

Then I see it. From the outside, it’s harmless. A simple wooden door set into a patch of dying winter grass, partially covered in a carpet of leaves. It’s so unremarkable that if you weren’t looking for it, you would miss it.

“Schuyler,” I say. He had walked right past it.

He turns around, following my gaze. When his eyes land on the door, he swears under his breath and exhales loudly. I guess that’s just for emphasis. Revenants don’t need to breathe.

I start to pull the Azoth from the scabbard. It’s halfway out, the silver blade and the emerald hilt glinting in the moonlight, when Schuyler holds out a hand to stop me.

“Don’t,” he says. “Use it to break the tablet, but not for anything else. Not unless you absolutely have to. You already killed that guard. You don’t want to give the curse another chance to take hold.”

“Okay.” I ease the blade back down. “I don’t know what shape I’ll be in… after. I’ll do what I can from the inside, but in case I’m not able, I need you to attack it from the outside, too.”

Schuyler nods.

“Don’t come for me until you hear me call for you,” I continue. “If you hear me scream, ignore it. It’s just… part of it. And if they come for you—for us—don’t wait for me. Run.”

I walk to the door and reach down, grab the heavy iron ring, and pull. I yank once, twice. On the third try the trapdoor creaks open. Down the wooden steps to the other door, the door that only after fear, after magic, after illusion, and after death, is the Thirteenth Tablet.

Pressing my hands against the splintered wood, I push the door open. A crack at first, then wider, the hinges shrieking into the silence. Rancid air comes pouring out, the smell of my nightmares. Beyond that: dank, dark nothingness. I slide through the opening, pausing once to turn around and look at Schuyler. That dark shadow passes before his bright blue eyes again.

“Be careful,” he whispers.





THE DOOR SLAMS SHUT BY itself, and I’m plunged into darkness. It’s not long before the world tilts and I’m thrown onto my back. I get to my feet and stand as still as possible, hands clenched into fists at my sides. I wait for the dirt to start falling. One heartbeat. Five. Ten. My palms are sweating and I’m breathing too hard, too fast. But still, nothing happens.

I see something flickering. Pale, yellow, like a faraway candle. It grows brighter, and as it does, I see I’m no longer in the tomb. I’m in a tunnel. I move in the direction of the light, but slowly. I’ve taken maybe ten steps when I hear a noise so loud it makes me jump. A thundering sound, like an angry fist on a wooden door. I ease a dagger from my belt and keep moving. The noise continues. Pounding, over and over. A splintering sound of breaking wood, the heavy tread of boots crossing a threshold. A shout. Then a scream.

My body reacts before my head does, and I start running toward the sound. I stumble along in the darkness, bumping into the walls, tumbling to my knees, and climbing to my feet. I follow the screams until the light grows brighter and the ground beneath me harder. I look down, and I can just make out flashes of black and white underneath the dirt. There’s a door up ahead. I push through it and find myself standing in the middle of Humbert’s entrance hall.

The black-and-white-checkered floors are dirty and chipped, the paintings torn off the wall. Cobwebs in the chandeliers, crystal vases shattered. The many diamond-paned windows broken. I take a tentative step, then another, glass crunching under my feet.

I feel my heart pick up speed. I know this is an illusion. Isn’t it? I can’t be in Humbert’s home. It’s miles away, and I’m here. At Blackwell’s. I try to recall Fifer’s voice, reminding me it’s an illusion. But she feels long ago and far away. This feels here; this feels now.

This feels real.

“Is anyone here?” I call. “Humbert?”

I check the sitting room, the dining room. They’ve been torn apart: tables upended, chairs toppled to the floor, curtains pulled from the windows. I back away, back into the hallway, and I trip over something: John’s weathered, brown canvas bag.

“John?” I dash up the stairs, into the bedrooms. Clothes lie in shreds everywhere: Fifer’s beautiful dresses, John’s dark green coat, even George’s hideous orange harlequin jacket.

“George? Fifer?” I can hear the panic in my voice as I call their names. I run back downstairs, to the library. The door is gone, ripped off its hinges. Inside, it’s dark. But I don’t need to see to know that it’s in ruins, too. A cold breeze blows through the broken glass ceiling, ruffling the pages of the books that lie in heaping pyres on the floor. In the moonlight, I can just make out the felled tree: its gray branches scattered through the room like bones in a graveyard, the leaves I made blowing through the air in swirling gusts.