Notes: Not dead. Ha. Thank you to Dusty for the beta.
Chapter warning for minor character suicide.
Chapter Four: "The Wandering Nobody"
The elevator doors open to reveal Kyle, waiting with a phone in his hand. "Lydia!"
Lydia ducks around him and into the hall. "How long have you been standing there?"
Kyle keeps pace with her. "What time is it?"
"9:04."
"Six minutes. Also, you're late."
"Traffic," Lydia says. "What do you want?"
"Congressman Pollard's assistant called again."
"This can't wait five minutes?"
They turn the corner. Harley's waiting in front of Lydia's office door with her arms crossed; she looks unamused.
Lydia pinches the bridge of her nose and keeps walking. "Oh god, what now?"
Harley says, "My workstation got moved."
Lydia pushes her office door open. "Yeah, and?"
"And I have no idea where it went."
Lydia drops her bag on her desk, shrugs out of her coat, and says, "You should've received an e-mail with your new office number."
"Yeah, well, I can't check my e-mail," Harley says, following her in. "On account of the fact that I don't know where my computer is."
"Use your phone!"
"I can't! The e-mail app stopped working two weeks ago!"
"Uh, Lydia?" Kyle interrupts. "Congressman Pollard?"
Lydia drops into her chair and fires up her computer. "What does he want now?"
"He's supposed to meet with that Court envoy this morning, but his driver can't find the place."
"And he called us?" Lydia logs into her e-mail and scrolls through until she finds a message from Kelly, the facilities manager. "Harley, you're in 314."
"Thanks," Harley says, and walks out.
Kyle says, "Congressman Pollard's assistant says the address we gave her does not, strictly speaking, exist."
"The building's enchanted," Lydia says. "Which is why we sent him a primrose boutonniere last night. It's his own damn fault he's not wearing it."
"I'll, uh... I'll tell him to go back and get it."
"You do that."
Kyle scurries off, leaving Lydia in blissful silence.
Another message comes in while she's sorting through the morning e-mail backlog. Lydia reads it, feels her lips press into a thin line, gets up, and marches down the hall to the director's office.
"Morning," Heidingsfeld says when Lydia appears in his doorway. "Whatever it is, can it wait 'til I've finished my coffee?"
"Probably not," Lydia says. "I just heard from Baltimore PD. Deucalion's left another message."
o
Cora tucks the burner phone into her back pocket and climbs the ladder up to the roof. It's just after dawn, a chill hanging in the air, and Cora's pretty sure she's the only one awake. Once she's up, she sits on the edge of an air conditioning vent and pulls out the phone.
She dials Braeden's last number from memory. The call doesn't connect; it goes straight to a robotic voice, who informs Cora that the number's not in service. Her next call is to 411, and after that she dials the number of what is hopefully the right hospital.
"Hi," she says, as soon as it picks up. "I'm looking for Barbara Hart, I think she was admitted to your hospital?"
"Just a moment," the woman on the other end says. "... I'm sorry, we don't have any patients currently admitted under that name."
"She was there about a month ago," Cora says. She chews her thumbnail. "Was she discharged? Or—did she die?"
"I can't disclose information like that without a warrant," the woman says.
"What about—is there anyone there named 'Braeden'? First or last name."
"I'm sorry, miss. I can't help you."
"Please," Cora blurts out. "Please, I just need something. I need to know if she's alive."
"If your friend is missing, you should contact the police," the woman says. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"... No," Cora says. "Thank you."
She hangs up.
o
Traffic becomes impassable three blocks from the crime scene. Lydia parks down a side street and walks the rest of the way.
The building is an old textile factory, abandoned years ago. Most of the cops on-site have been tasked with keeping the crowd at bay. People press at the barricade from all angles: photographers, TV crews, and hordes of gawkers with their phones out, hoping to catch a glimpse of the latest horror show.
Some might call it the decline of civilization, but Lydia's keenly aware of the fact that civilization has always been like this.
She finds one officer guarding the back entrance, and he's talking to Jennifer Blake.
Blake spots Lydia and says, "Ms. Martin! Good to see you. If you're here, I guess that confirms my suspicions."
"Nobody is confirming anything," Lydia says, stalking down the alley toward the officer, who she regards with a flat, unamused expression. "What did you tell her?"
"Nothing!" the officer says hastily. "We were just talking."
"Don't." Lydia turns her attention back to Blake. "I'm going to ask once, and after that you'll be forcibly removed: please leave."
"Since you asked so nicely." Blake turns on her heel and strides away, tossing one last, "See you around, Tom," over her shoulder.
Lydia turns to the officer. "You're 'Tom,' I take it?"
"We really were just talking," Tom says.
"Don't talk to Blake. She's my nemesis." Lydia shows him her badge. "I need to get inside."
Tom says, "The FBI are on their way. We're not supposed to let anyone disturb the scene before they get here."
"Then I won't disturb anything," Lydia says. "I just need to look around."
Tom looks pained. He's young, probably fresh out of the academy. And he either has a strong constitution, or he hasn't seen the crime scene yet.
Lydia adds, "If anyone gives you a hard time, have them call the Institute and complain at us, instead."
Tom sighs, and nods. "Okay. Fine."
At first glance, the inside of the factory seems normal. Rusted-out, unused equipment fills the space, and graffiti covers the walls.
Then Lydia looks up.
Bodies hang from the ceiling, suspended horizontally by some kind of thin wire. The victims' limbs are tied to those of the bodies around them, forming a pattern: a web, or maybe a snowflake.
A single wire dangles from the center of the pattern, and at the end hangs a pale card, shockingly bright against the gray and brown background of the factory.
The floor's been cleaned; no dirt to disturb, no footprints to accidentally obscure. Lydia approaches the card. It hangs just above eye level for her, probably directly at eye level for someone taller.
She pulls a pen out of her pocket, nudges the card so it spins around, and reads:
The tree of Liberty is watered with the blood of Tyrants.
o
The mall is absolutely packed this time of day, after the schools let out. Despite how busy the GameStop is, the guy who works here manages to find the time to approach Cora and Erica and say, "Do you ladies need any help?"
"Nope, we're good," Erica says, with a kind of aggressive friendliness that has the guy scurrying for shelter behind the desk. "I hate it here," she mutters, as soon as he's out of earshot. "They always think I'm shopping for my boyfriend or something."
Cora says, "Then why come here at all?"
"Because the only other place to buy games in this town is that independent place off main street, and the guy who works there doesn't shower." Erica picks up a green case and flips it over so she can read the back. "Have you heard anything about Sleeping Dogs?"
"No."
Erica hems and haws for a few more minutes before giving up. They leave without buying anything and escape to the relative quiet of the coffee shop.
Once they've settled into a couple of chairs in the corner, Cora asks, "Why are we doing this?"
"Getting coffee?"
"Hanging out," Cora says. "I mean, you seem like a nice enough person, but we don't really have anything in common."
Erica sighs and settles back in her chair. "Derek wants us to be friends."
Cora blinks. "He told you that?"
"No, I figured it out from the awkward way he asked me to take you shopping. It was painful to watch."
"Why does Derek want us to be friends?"
"Because he likes me and he likes you and he wants us to like each other?" Erica shrugs. "I used to have a huge crush on him, you know."
Cora's nose wrinkles slightly. "Why do I need to know that?"
"Because I'm trying to explain something," Erica says. "So. Derek comes along, does his whole 'Supernatural Bad Boy' thing, bites me on the abdomen, so of course I develop a Thing for him, right? But Derek didn't see it that way at all. He always treated me like his little sister. Like there was this empty space in his life and I got slotted into it by default."
Cora raises an eyebrow.
"Not that I think he was trying to replace you or anything," Erica says, rushed. "I just think... maybe he was trying to get back what he had. How he used to live. And now you're here, so..." She makes a vague gesture with the hand that isn't holding her coffee cup. "Who knows what goes on inside that guy's head?"
Cora mulls it over. She figured out a while ago that the Derek she knows now isn't the Derek she knew when she was a kid. The fire changed him just as much as it changed her.
"Anyway, I'd like to be friends with you," Erica says. "Maybe not besties, but you seem cool."
"Just so you know," Cora replies, "I don't think any of my friendships have ever been built on shopping and coffee dates."
o
The motel room was in a state of chaos. A couple of bras had been draped over the TV to dry.
Braeden dropped her cloth-and-pipes contraption onto the bed and began unscrewing the pipes, placing them in a flat plastic case. "Bagpipes," she said, when she noticed Cora staring. "Werewolves can't stand them. I always keep a set handy, just in case."
Cora said, "Are you a hunter?"
"Nope," Braeden said. Cora wasn't too good at telling whether somebody was lying, but it sounded like the truth. "I'm just a traveler." She pointed to the phone on the nightstand. "I know you said you don't have a pack, but do you need to call anyone?"
Cora nodded and reached for the phone, figuring she should call Zoe. Something else on the nightstand caught her eye.
It was a book, or at least the cover of one, about a foot square. It looked slightly deflated, since it contained about half as many pages as it was supposed to. The cover was made of wood, bleached and worn smooth with age, although there were hints of letters that had been carved into its surface.
Cora reached for the book and opened it. The pages were made of parchment; they'd been ripped out and carefully, painstakingly stitched back in, each and every one of them hand-written in Latin.
"What is this?" Cora said.
Braeden snapped the instrument case shut. "That? It's a spellbook. A long time ago, somebody ripped out the pages and scattered them all over the world. I've been trying to find them all."
"Why?"
Braeden raised an eyebrow. "Are you kidding? Pages of an ancient grimoire scattered across the face of the Earth? How could anyone resist that?"
Cora reached into the pocket of her hoodie and pulled out Hannah's copy of Peter Pan. The folded-up piece of parchment didn't quite fit inside; the edges stuck out. Cora extracted the page and unfolded it.
The writing on the parchment matched the writing inside the book.
"Oh," Braeden said. "Oh, wow. Where'd you find that?"
Cora frowned. "This doesn't make any sense. What are the chances—?"
"Pretty good, actually," Braeden said. "Like calls to like. The Codex wants to be restored." She reached for the parchment in Cora's hands, then paused. "Can I—?"
Cora's fingers tightened around the parchment. "You said you're a traveler."
"That's right," Braeden said.
"Where are you going?"
"Right now? South."
"Far away from here?"
"That's the plan."
Cora nodded. "You can have this," she said, offering Braeden the piece of parchment, "as long as I can come with you."
o
There's nobody in the living room when Cora walks into the loft, but she can hear Derek and Stiles' voices coming from upstairs. She follows the noise to the spare-room-turned-library, where it looks like a pipe factory exploded. Screws, bolts, scraps of cardboard, and bits of metal litter the floor, and there's a thin, plastic-wrapped mattress propped up against one of the bookshelves.
Derek and Stiles sit on the floor in the midst of it all. Stiles holds up a piece of metal and says, "What is this? This wasn't in the instructions."
"Put it in the 'maybe' pile," Derek says.
Cora says, "What are you doing?"
Derek says, "Contemplating violence against the person responsible for IKEA."
"It's a futon," Stiles says. He glares at the mess on the floor. "Or, it will be. Eventually. We're working on it."
Derek looks up at her. "I figured you might be more comfortable sleeping in here than on the couch."
"Oh," Cora says. "... Thanks."
Stiles says, "Wait, I think this piece might be upside-down. Where'd you leave the hex key?"
Derek hands over a tiny, useless-looking metal stick and, to Cora, says, "How'd it go with Erica?"
His voice is full of barely-concealed hope, so Cora shrugs and says, "It went okay."
Stiles, still wrestling with a snarl of black metal pipe, says, "We should've just bought a normal bed."
"There's no way we could've gotten it up the stairs," Derek says.
"That's your fault. You're the one who leased an apartment with a spiral staircase."
Derek says, "By the way, the whole pack is coming over tomorrow night for Erica's birthday. Stiles and I won't be here."
Cora says, "Why not?"
"Horny Werewolf Day," Stiles says brightly.
"What?"
"Valentine's Day," Derek says, slightly embarrassed, although Cora can't tell whether he's embarrassed for himself for for Stiles. "Is that okay? If you're not comfortable with the pack being here, I can tell them to go to Jackson's instead."
"No, it's fine," Cora says. "You guys don't seem like the Valentine's Day type, is all."
"This may or may not surprise you," Stiles says, "but your brother is an enormous sap."
"Thanks," Derek says flatly. "That was really romantic."
"I think you're sitting on the bag of screws. Hand them over, would you?"
o
The lab is almost impossible to find, hidden in the depths of a government office building where the labyrinthine corridors are regularly painted beige with a hose. Lydia finally locates the right door and knocks.
After a second, the door opens a crack and a young woman in a lab coat says, "Yeah?"
"Hi, I'm Lydia Martin. We spoke on the phone."
"Yeah, hi," the woman says, opening the door fully. "You're that analyst lady."
"That's... not technically my job title, but yes." Lydia closes the door behind her. The lab is clean, because forensics labs have to be, but it's also cluttered. And cramped. Painfully so.
"Caitlin!" shouts another woman, nearly invisible behind her workstation. "The centrifuge is making that noise again!"
"Smack it!" Caitlin shouts back. To Lydia, she says, "That's Emily. Em! Come out here and pretend to be a person for five minutes!"
Emily looks about twelve years old; she's wearing a t-shirt under her lab coat that reads, 'One does not simply Telnet into Mordor.' She carefully picks her way over to Caitlin's bench and says, "You're here about the Flesh Snowflake, right?"
Lydia makes a face. "Is that really what we're calling it?"
"It's pretty evocative, you have to admit," Caitlin says.
"Fine," Lydia says, resigned. "Do you have anything yet?"
"Not really," Caitlin says. "Although the FBI didn't send us that much evidence to work with in the first place. The scene was spotless. Like the others."
"What about the victims?"
"M.E.'s still working on them," Emily says. "Cause of death for the first few was cardiac arrest. Probably from the same stuff the government uses for lethal injections."
Caitlin says, "I've got a buddy at the FBI who says the victims were mostly gas station attendants, bartenders... night shift workers. Anybody who wouldn't be missed until it was too late."
Lydia spots an evidence bag sitting on the edge of a workbench. "Is that the note?"
"Yep," Emily says, grabbing the bag and handing it over. "Paraphrase of a Thomas Jefferson quote. Doesn't really match the display, though."
"You sound annoyed," Lydia says.
Emily shrugs. "If it were me, I would've used this quote for the third scene. You know, the one with all the bodies strapped to a tree?"
"We tested the blood from the note," Caitlin says, perching on a stool in front of her laptop. "It's from one of the victims. Mixed with blood thinners and an anticoagulant so it could be used as ink."
"And that's it?" Lydia says.
"Well, we found a fingerprint on the card," Caitlin says. "I'm running it now, but considering how careful Deucalion's been in the past, I don't think—" An alert appears on the screen. "—oh, holy shit."
"You have a result," Lydia guesses.
"A match to a driver's license thumbprint," Caitlin says. "'Lionel Stapleton.' California license, but it's expired."
Lydia peers at the screen. "Criminal record?"
"Doesn't look like it."
Emily holds up her phone. "Google says there's a 'Lionel Stapleton' in Baltimore. Owns a bookstore."
"It's worth checking out," Lydia says. "Thanks."
o
Erica and Boyd arrive first. Boyd's carrying a big flatscreen television under one arm.
"Derek doesn't have a TV," Boyd says, by way of explanation.
Cora decides not to comment and steps aside so they can enter.
Erica says, "Derek and Stiles already left?"
"Yeah," Cora says. "Derek said to tell you he has his phone with him, and you should try not to do anything that'll get him evicted."
Erica rolls her eyes and drops her backpack next to the couch. There's a heavy thud when it hits the floor. "We're staying in all night and werewolves can't get drunk. What kind of trouble could we possibly get into?"
"Don't say that once Isaac and Jackson get here," Boyd says. "They'll take it as a challenge."
"Okay, good point."
Cora says, "Where are they?"
Boyd sets the TV down on the coffee table and says, "Lacrosse practice. They'll be here in a few minutes."
Erica opens her backpack, pulls out an Xbox, and then wrestles with the tangle of cables that fills the remainder of the bag.
"So your plan for your birthday is to stay in and play video games all night?" Cora asks.
"Yep," Erica says, loudly popping the 'P.' "I can't play games at home. My mom thinks I'm still epileptic."
There's a courtesy knock on the door before it slides open. Jackson and Isaac walk in; Jackson immediately heads to the fridge, retrieving one of Stiles' weird grapefruit craft beers.
"That's Stiles' beer," Cora points out.
"I know," Jackson replies, popping the cap off with a claw.
Isaac helps Erica disentangle the cords. Between the three of them (Jackson stays in the kitchen with his pilfered beer), they get the whole system hooked up, although some extension cords are needed to reach the outlet in the wall.
It isn't long before Erica, Isaac, and Jackson end up clustered around the TV. Erica and Isaac perpetually yell at the game, at each other, and, occasionally, at Jackson. Cora perches on a stool in the kitchen, watching them.
They're kids. The bite may have matured them a little, made them more aware of the world around them, but they're still just teenagers, in high school.
Cora wonders what was going through Derek's head when he picked them.
She wonders if she'd be just like them right now, if the fire hadn't happened.
"Hey," Boyd says, startling Cora out of her thoughts. He drops his phone on the counter. "Food's on the way. You like Chinese?"
"Sure," Cora says.
"Cool." Boyd leans on the counter next to her, observing with faint amusement as Erica reaches across Isaac to shove Jackson's controller out of his hands.
Cora says, "Did Derek ask you to do this?"
"Do what?"
"Babysit me. Hang out with me so I wouldn't feel left out."
"Nope," Boyd says. "Erica told me how your playdate went."
There's an involuntary smile on Cora's face when she says, "'Playdate'?"
"What? That's what it was, really."
Cora shakes her head and scratches at the countertop with a fingernail. "Erica thinks Derek wants us to be friends."
"He wants you to be a part of the pack," Boyd says. "I think he's worried you'll get sick of him and leave."
"Really?" Cora says, turning to face Boyd. "He thinks I'd do that?"
Boyd shrugs. "Derek's kind of messed up. He's getting better, but I think he'll always be a little messed up."
The shouting match in front of the TV kicks up a few decibels in volume.
Boyd says, "Are you gonna leave?"
"... I don't know," Cora says. "I want to stay. But I'm not sure I can."
She expects Boyd to ask what she means by that, but all he does is nod and turn his attention back to the others. They settle into comfortable, easy silence.
o
Braeden and Cora's hotel in Bogotá wasn't very nice. The neighbors on the left wouldn't stop blasting some kind of Botswanan heavy metal, and the neighbors on the right had decided to partake in some particularly vigorous—and noisy—rhythmic cuddling. Which meant that the sound of Braeden vomiting into the toilet was, in the grand scheme of things, little more than white noise.
Cora knocked on the bathroom door. When it opened a crack, she passed a bottle of water through the gap.
"Thanks," Braeden croaked. The door closed again.
There was a long string of gulping noises, and then more retching. Once it stopped, Braeden groaned, "I think this is the worst hangover ever experienced by anyone."
"When you told me we needed to steal all those drugs," Cora said, sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, "I didn't think you were going to take them all at once."
"Shamanism. Don't try it at home. Oh, god." Another round of retching.
"Did you at least get what you needed?"
"Yeah," Braeden said. "The pages are in the family mausoleum. Hope you're okay with grave robbery."
Cora shrugged. There was a soft thump from behind the door.
"Ooh, this floor is nice and cool," Braeden said.
"Are you hungry? I could make you some eggs."
"Ugh, please don't. Just leave me here to die."
Cora tipped her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. It'd been a long night for her, too. She paused, did some mental math, and realized what day it was.
"My birthday's tomorrow," Cora said.
"Really?" Braeden said, voice muffled by the fact that her face was probably still smushed against the floor. "Huh. So you're turning... thirteen, right?"
"Yeah."
"You're officially a teenager," Braeden said. "You wanna do something?"
Cora said, "I saw a really nice bakery on our way into town."
"Cool," Braeden said. "We'll get you a cake." Something scuffled against the floor, and then there was another thump as Braeden collapsed again. "Provided I don't die."
o
A bell rings when Lydia steps through the door, and after a few seconds someone in the depths of the bookshop yells, "Just a minute!"
The shop is nearly identical to every other rare bookseller that Lydia's had the pleasure to visit: cat-infested, vaguely claustrophobic, and just dusty enough that that shop has 'character' without being a major health risk. Lydia's always wondered how they do that. Maybe they skim off the top layer of dust when it gets too thick.
A man with graying hair and a well-trimmed, nearly white beard emerges and makes his way to the front desk. He has one pair of glasses perched on his nose, and a second pair hanging on a lanyard around his neck.
"Hi," the man says. "What can I do for you?"
Lydia says, "Are you Lionel Stapleton?"
"That's me. What do you need?"
Lydia flashes her badge. "My name's Lydia Martin."
"You're a detective?"
"Intelligence analyst." Lydia glances out the window. "Can we talk somewhere more private?"
"Sure." Stapleton smiles, but it's a deliberate, stiff gesture. He leads Lydia toward the back of the shop, into the office.
There's a glass-fronted bookcase in here, the doors padlocked shut. Lydia peers through the glass, reading some of the titles. "Have you ever lived in California, Mr. Stapleton?"
"I went to college there and ended up staying," Stapleton says. "But I moved back to Baltimore few years ago. Can I get you anything? A drink?"
"I'll pass," Lydia says. "What kind of customers do you get in here?"
Stapleton's desk is up against the wall; he spins his desk chair around to face Lydia and settles into it. "Collectors, academics... the occasional student, although they can't afford most of my stock. Why do you ask?"
"Well, considering you've got one of the original copies of Andry's Bestiary back here, along with quite a few other rare occult books, I figured some interesting characters must come by."
Stapleton grips the arms of his chair and goes very still.
Lydia adds, "How long have you been working for Deucalion?"
Stapleton's throat bobs. "I don't—"
"Your thumbprint was found at yesterday's crime scene. I know because the FBI knows, and they're probably on their way here now." Lydia takes a step forward. "You're better off talking to me than to them. I'll actually believe you."
Stapleton lurches out of his chair and towards the workbench on the other side of the room. "He—one of Deucalion's people came to see me, a few months ago. Looking for a book. She told me about the cause. It seemed—it seemed right."
"So you helped them kill dozens of people," Lydia says, hand drifting to the holster concealed under her coat.
Stapleton leans on the workbench, head hanging low between his shoulders. "The world's gone wrong. We have to fix it. You understand that, don't you?"
"This book," Lydia says. "Did you find it?"
"No," Stapleton replies. "It might not even exist. And if it did, it was destroyed years ago."
Cautiously, Lydia approaches him. "I need you to come with me. If you tell us what you know about Deucalion, we can protect you."
Stapleton lifts his head and stares at Lydia over his shoulder. "Why would I need protection? I'm not afraid of him. I'm not afraid of anything, anymore."
His hand darts out, fingers wrapping around the box cutter on the workbench. Lydia draws her gun, but he doesn't come for her.
In one smooth motion, Stapleton draws the blade across his own throat.
o
"He what?" Allison says.
Lydia continues to pace circles around her coffee table. "Believe me, I'm just as surprised as you are."
"You couldn't stop him or anything?"
"There wasn't any time," Lydia snaps. "I wasn't even expecting Stapleton to go for the knife. The guy looked like a skinnier, nerdier Santa."
The downstairs neighbor bangs on their ceiling with a broom. Lydia stops pacing. The last thing she needs is for her neighbors to complain to the landlord again.
Allison's phone sits on the coffee table. From it comes Matt's voice: "I checked Stapleton's e-mails and phone records. He wasn't using either of them to communicate with Deucalion."
Lydia spits out a vehement "Fuck," and drops into a chair.
Hesitantly, Allison says, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Lydia replies. "He didn't even touch me."
"That's not what I meant, Lydia. A guy committed suicide right in front of you. Is that—do you need to—"
"No," Lydia says. "You're my lone gunman, not my therapist. We are not going to talk about our feelings."
Allison sighs. "Fine. I guess I'll just go fuck myself."
"Sorry. I'm in a bad mood." Lydia drags a hand through her hair, pushing it away from her face. "I hate this case. Nothing but dead ends."
"So what's the plan?"
Lydia shrugs. "Harass my informants and wait for more bodies to drop."
"You're up against an occult domestic terrorist whose followers would rather slit their own throats than betray him," Allison points out. "You're gonna need a better plan than that."
o
The library was part of an eighteenth-century monastery in Lima. It was beautiful, filled with some of the oldest and rarest books in the world, and Cora probably would've appreciated it more if she hadn't been staggering through it in the dead of night, bleeding from two bullet holes in her leg.
"Try not to get blood on anything valuable," Braeden suggested, her arm wrapped around Cora's waist as she helped her limp down the hall.
"This is your fault," Cora said.
"You're the werewolf," Braeden pointed out. "It's you they're after."
They stumbled through the door to the gallery, and Cora said, "Oh, shit."
The gallery was actually a fairly small room, currently home to an exhibit on ancient Rome. The display cases were full of Roman coins and pottery, while the walls were lined with framed pages from a long-lost Latin spellbook. The pages had been part of the library's collection for over three hundred years.
The gallery was also presently occupied by a skinny, academic-looking man in a knit sweater.
The man said, "Who the hell are you?"
"Who the hell are you?" Braeden shot back. "This place is supposed to be closed!"
"I have permission to—is that blood?"
Cora looked down at her leg. The wounds were finally starting to close and heal. And the man had noticed. His eyes widened in shock.
Down the hall, a door slammed open. Someone started barking orders.
The man's mouth opened. Cora lunged forward and clamped her hand over it, pushing him back against a display case.
"We're not gonna hurt you," she whispered, "but right now you need to be quiet."
The man nodded.
Cora closed her eyes and listened, tracking the hunters' progress through the monastery. Footsteps approached the door.
Someone tried the doorknob. The door started to open. Braeden slammed it shut again and threw the deadbolt.
The guy on the other side of the door shouted. Cora heard the click of a safety switching off and yelled, "Down!"
A spray of bullets tore through the door. Braeden ducked away, and Cora dragged the man in her grip behind the display case.
Braeden scrambled across the floor to join Cora. "No other doors. I think we're stuck."
The man groaned. "Am I bleeding?"
There was a long, bloody furrow across the back of his head, and beneath that the white of bone.
"You took a bullet to your head," Braeden said. "It must've bounced off your skull."
More voices gathered on the other side of the door. It shook in its frame as the hunters tried to force it open.
Cora cupped her hand around the back of the man's head and helped him lie down on the floor. She glanced up at the display case. "Do you think these are wired up to an alarm?"
"Probably," Braeden said.
There was another impact against the door, and the deadbolt gave way.
Cora reached up and smashed the glass of the display case with her fist.
An alarm shrieked. Someone started barking orders again. Cora heard the hunters retreat.
Braeden sprang to her feet and began grabbing the framed pages off the walls, shoving them into her backpack. "Good job. Let's go."
The alarm abruptly cut off, and in the resounding silence that followed Cora heard the man say, his voice shaking, "Don't leave."
Cora looked down at him, then back up at Braeden.
"We can't," Braeden said. "The cops are gonna be here soon."
"Go," Cora replied. "I'll stay with him."
"Cora—"
"It's our fault," Cora snarled. "Take the pages and go. I'll meet you back at the hotel."
Braeden shouldered the backpack, hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Okay."
Her footsteps faded away down the hall, and the man said, "Thank you."
Blood poured into Cora's palm. She could feel it dripping through her fingers and over the sides of her hand. She bit her lip and tried to ignore the sound of droplets hitting the floor. "... What's your name?"
"Dominic." After a moment, he added, "I can't see."
"I'm sorry."
Dominic's hands started to shake. Cora reached out with her free hand and took one of his.
He said, "How old are you?"
"Fourteen."
"Why did those people shoot at you?"
"They think I might hurt someone," Cora said. "They think I'm a monster."
"You're not."
Cora swallowed. "Thank you."
Dominic's eyes fluttered closed. Sirens filtered in at the edge of Cora's hearing.
"They're almost here," Cora said. "I need to go."
Dominic didn't respond. His breathing slowed, became shallow.
Cora stumbled to her feet and ran.
Next: "Storm Moon"