“Well, I’m glad to see you’re okay.”
He gave her another doubtful look. “The Professor’s upstairs. He’s waiting.”
Dakari followed her into the elevator and pushed the button for the top floor.
“There really was a blond,” she told him, needing him to believe her. “Logan almost died. I brought him back. Something changed. Somehow things are different.”
“Am I different?”
She glanced up at him. “No. I don’t think so. ?You’re still here.”
He seemed surprised at that. “Where else would I be?”
“Nowhere,” she said. “What about Mari?”
“She’s probably in her workshop. What about her?”
She didn’t have time to explain about Mari. The elevator was already coming to a stop, and Dakari was pulling back the gate and opening the door for her to step through.
I must have done something right. But the victory felt hollow when she thought of all the mistakes she’d made. When she thought of Harte Darrigan standing on the edge of that railing and willing her to go.
The Professor’s library seemed mostly the same, but the piles were neater and there was something different in the way chairs and tables were organized. At the other end of the room, Professor Lachlan sat, peering through a large magnifying glass at the pages of an open book. He didn’t look up, even though he must have heard the elevator arrive, but finished the passage he was reading and made a note in a notebook.
When he finally looked up, his eyes narrowed. “Do you have it?”
She held up the cloak. “Right here,” she said.
“Good.” He held out his hand. “Give it to me.”
Esta hesitated. He seemed different. More distant, more demanding.
He’s always been demanding, she reminded herself. Still, something felt wrong. For a moment she thought about trying to remove the Book from the inner pocket of the cloak herself, so that she didn’t have to hand over both. It seemed wrong, somehow, to give this piece of Harte to anyone else, since it was all that was left of him.
“Esta?” Professor Lachlan asked, his jaw tense. “Give me the Book.”
Dakari stepped up behind her. “Come on, E. Give the Professor the Book,” he said softly, but there was a thread of steel in his voice he’d never used on her before.
Confused by their mood, she handed the cloak over without any further argument.
It took the Professor a moment to find the secret pocket, but rather than bothering with figuring out how to access it, he took out a small knife. There was nothing she could do but watch as he tore open the material and pulled out the Book.
It was smaller than she’d expected from the weight of the cloak. “That’s it?” she asked, looking at the small, dark volume.
But she knew it was. On the cover was the symbol she recognized from the painting in Dolph’s apartment and the book he’d shown her. She had no doubt that this small, unremarkable tome was the Ars Arcana, the Book that so many people had wanted. That so many people had died for.
Professor Lachlan’s eyes were bright, eager. He ignored her disappointment as he ran his fingers over the symbol on the cover. “After all this time.”
“Esta was telling me she doesn’t think we should destroy the Brink,” Dakari said.
“That’s not what I said. And I was going to tell him myself.” Esta glanced up at Dakari’s flinty expression, and the feeling of unease she’d had since she walked into the building grew.
“What, exactly, were you going to tell me?” Professor Lachlan asked.
“It’s about destroying the Brink. I don’t think we can, not even with the Book,” she said, swaying a little on her feet. She wanted nothing more than to collapse into the ancient sofa and tell him everything, but she had the sense that this was too important to relax.
“And what makes you think that?”
“Harte . . . I mean the Magician told me when he gave me the Book. He said destroying the Brink could destroy magic.”
The Professor didn’t look pleased. “And you believed him?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I think we should be careful with that, and with the Brink. I think we should make sure we understand what we’re doing.”
“It’s not your job to think about these things.”
“I know. It’s just . . . I thought you should know before you do anything.”
The second hand on a clock ticked, the only sound in the silent library. “He got to you.”
“No, it’s not that,” she told him, but she wasn’t sure if she spoke the truth.
“He turned you,” Professor Lachlan said, his voice flat and filled with disgust.
“No. I brought you the Book. I did my job.”
Another long silence strangled the room. “Of course you did,” he said, but the Professor didn’t sound pleased. “I’m sure you’re simply tired,” he told her. “Overwrought. After all, I imagine you’ve been through quite an ordeal. Perhaps you should return to your room and rest.”
“Maybe,” she said. “It’s been a long day.” She gave a weak laugh. “It’s been a long month.”
“We can talk more about this tomorrow,” Professor Lachlan told her, but his attention was already on the Book in his hands.
Esta turned back toward the elevator. She was halfway across the room when something caught her eye—a flash of silver in a shadowbox frame she didn’t remember seeing there before. For a moment she looked at the art, not understanding what she was seeing, but then, all at once, she understood. “Those were Viola’s,” she told Professor Lachlan. Her stomach twisted at the sight of the slim stiletto blades crossed and mounted in the frame. There was no mistaking the deep Vs cut into the exposed tangs of each. “How did you get them?”
“Excuse me?” Professor Lachlan asked.
She went over to the wall, to look closer at the knives. “How could you possibly have these?”
Professor Lachlan glanced at her. “I’ve had them for ages,” he said. “Or don’t you remember?” He gave Dakari a nod. “Perhaps it would be best if you escort her to her room?”
“I’m fine,” Esta started to say, but Dakari was already at her side again.
“I’m sorry,” he told her, his soft, dark eyes pained.
“What?” she asked, confused by his words. Before she understood what was happening, his arm snaked out to cage her against him and she felt the sharp bite of something in her biceps. “Dakari?”
She looked down at the place where the syringe was sticking into her upper arm, but her words already felt thick and the edge of her vision was already going black.
AN OLD FRIEND