Oathbound (The Legendborn Cycle #3)

Chapter 31

31

THE NEXT TIME I see Elijah, I’ll have to thank him for the near-militant way he forced me to memorize this section of Mikael’s estate. Luckily for us, since it’s a historic building, its floor plan was easily accessible on the internet.

Here’s the deal, Elijah had said, this house is so big, they measure the interior in acres, not square feet. There are four floors above ground level, with over fifty guest rooms, twenty-five bathrooms, an amphitheater to seat one hundred, and the two-story grand ballroom where the Collectors’ Gala will be held. Out back, there’s gardens and a hedge maze and beyond those, the mountains and a lake. If things go sideways, the most straightforward exit is the front door, but if you make a run for it that way, Mikael’s warlock enforcers will definitely be waiting for you. So, my advice? Don’t let things go sideways.

I don’t plan on going sideways, out back, or any other direction tonight. I only need to go one way—down.

The elevator sound is still ringing in my ears when the basement doors open. From where I stand pressed flat against the control-panel wall, I can just glimpse in my handheld mirror what lies beyond the open doors: a long concrete hallway covered by a heavy red-and-gold runner. Warm pools of light cast upward on the walls by lit iron sconces. High ceilings lost to shadow and—there!—security cameras.

Just as I’ve done with the cameras in the elevator, I drop my hand low and out of sight to send a spool of purple smoke into the hall. Using my mirror to guide me, I draw my dispersed root up by my fingertips, then give it a little push. My power moves lazily but steadily up the walls to wrap itself around the lenses of the cameras, just as I’d seen Erebus do at the British Museum so many months ago.

Satisfaction spreads through me at the thought of using the King’s own techniques to steal his crown—not to help him but to thwart him.

Still, it’s Erebus’s guidance that echoes inside my mind now: Fortunately for all demons, aether sense is not an ability that warlocks can acquire via pact magic; it is too innate to share or transfer. As for Mikael? After living almost entirely among human beings for hundreds of years, Mikael’s original demonic nature has been altered. His ability to detect humanity’s worst instincts has sharpened impressively, but at great cost. Aether no longer sustains his physical form, so he must fortify himself almost entirely off human energy. And as aether no longer feeds him, his own aether sense has grown dull. Use your power sparingly, Briana, but know that as long as you do so out of sight, neither Mikael’s warlock guards nor Mikael himself will be able to trace your magical signature back to you.

I snap the mirror shut and shove it down into my bra beneath my dress. Now that the cameras are adequately obscured, I know I have limited time. Ten minutes, max, if Mikael and Bianca have someone monitoring them. Hopefully, with dinner service beginning shortly, a room of unpowered human guests upstairs, and all the aether invitations getting strictly vetted at the door, there won’t be a reason to check the cameras more than once every half hour.

I’ll just have to hope I’m at the start of one of those half-hour windows, rather than at the end.

Sticking to the thick runner to dampen the sound of my heels on the floor, I enter the hallway and jog quickly past the rooms on either side until the hall comes to a darkened T. I stop before the branch—and peer silently around one corner.

Down the short hall to the right there is a single guard on his phone standing in front of the storage room holding the rest of the auction items—and the crown. I slip back around the corner and out of sight. The guard is definitely another warlock; Mikael would put someone in place who could protect the supernatural auction items using supernatural means, not a human with only human strength and human combat skills.

Consider this part of your mission a test, Erebus said. Focus on your objective. Devise a plan. Make quick work of an unknown magical opponent. Be untouchable, unstoppable—

Impervious.

Knocking the guard out won’t be hard. Dragging him into one of the empty rooms I’ve passed—and locking it behind me—can be done quickly. Removing his earpiece and phone and any other means he may have of contacting the rest of the security team can be done within seconds. But all of that takes focus and precision.

I take a deep, steadying breath as I slide down the wall to drop softly on the carpet. The warlock won’t expect someone to come at him from below his eyeline. A bolt of root to his knees oughta do it.

Of course, I don’t know what type of demon ability he’s acquired—could be physical, like size or strength, or control over aether. No, too many options. I don’t have enough time to get lost in scenarios I can’t fully anticipate.

Deep breaths.

One… two…

I settle low into my squat, balancing on—and cursing—my heels.

Three.

I launch myself across the opening on the floor, skidding in my dress, palm outstretched, root streaming—

The guard’s head rises, mouth opening to shout—then gasping in pain when he’s struck across both knees.

He crumples. Before he hits the ground, I widen my fingers. The root expands—enclosing him in an iridescent sphere, just like the ones I’ve created to protect myself.

He falls against the side of the sphere with a dull thud. His hands scrabble against the sides, slipping as he attempts to climb the concave structure—and he screams. Oh, he screams.

But no one can hear him.

His fists grow larger. He pounds against my barrier, but it does not break. Cannot break.

I push myself to my feet and walk toward him, a satisfied smile curving my lips. As I get closer, I widen my hands again—and the thuds grow quieter and quieter as I thicken the barrier. He can’t see me, but I can just make out the glow of his eyes. His irises are green with fury, and I imagine what I would look like to him if he could see me.

A young brown-skinned girl in a long formal gown, striding toward him with her palms out wide. A girl with deep purple magic flowing from her hands to feed the structure encasing him. A girl raising that sphere into the air, levitating him from the ground. A girl trained by the deepest Shadow himself, her teeth bared in an electric grin.

“This construct—to contain and protect—was the first thing I learned to truly forge for myself,” I murmur. He stills, eyes searching, straining to hear me. “It can’t be cracked, certainly not by a human playing with Shadowborn powers. Certainly not by you. ”

The warlock snarls and shouts, then begins to cough as he runs out of air. His face turns red, then a deep purple.

Oh, shit.

Hand outstretched behind me, I half-jog, half-drag the construct and warlock within it back down the hall toward an empty room before he can suffocate. Inside the sphere, the green glow dims, then blinks out—his eyes rolling back in his head. I curse again—collapse the barrier.

Catch him before he falls. Grunt at the weight. I’m strong, but he’s heavy . And sweaty. And a couple hundred pounds of pact-magic muscle.

I stagger with the warlock into the room and shove him onto a dusty, cloth-covered couch. When I drop him, a hot breath rattles out of his lungs. I press my ear to his mouth and chest. He’s breathing. His heart’s beating. He’s alive but out.

“Whew,” I whisper, relief mixing in to sour my triumph. This’ll have to be good enough. I gather up his earpiece and phone from his jacket pocket and, running across the hall, shove them into another dusty storage room and close that door behind me too, then hurry back to the door he’d been guarding.

The door opens with a swift punch to the keypad. I enter as quietly as I can, shaking my fist out as I do.

The dusty room is filled with shelves upon shelves of sealed cardboard boxes. Would the crown just be sitting in a box here, waiting to be wheeled out onstage? Shouldn’t it be prepped for display tonight? It’s supposed to be the most valuable, rarest, oldest piece in the collection, but everything here looks like it could belong in someone’s attic. This doesn’t feel right.

Where would I put something I couldn’t touch? Something that, while valuable in its way, can’t be used for magical gain by anyone else, demon or human?

There are several large, sealed wooden crates set on two long, waist-high metal worktables in the middle of the room. I could open the crates, or I could keep searching. The clock is ticking.

Then, I see it.

Another door at the back of this room, painted the exact same color of the wall surrounding it. Thin, barely visible seams outline its shape, keeping it slightly hidden in the shadows.

I dash past the shelves to grasp the handle of the far door, yanking it down and pushing at the same time until it opens—and find myself at the threshold of another room, this one nearly identical to the last, except much larger and much cleaner. Here, shiny gems and golden artifacts are separated individually within tall glass rolling cases set against the far wall, already labeled for display. The other two walls are lined with shelves holding black velvet boxes of varying sizes. There is one velvet-lined worktable in the center of the floor between the shelves with a pair of curator’s gloves set atop it. I don’t see the crown yet, but the glass rolling cases are sitting two layers deep and the shelves are tall.

I’ll have to hunt and hunt quickly.

I take a single step toward the first case to my left—and the already dimly lit room goes completely dark.

Somewhere above me, I hear a few scattered shouts of surprise, as if the lights upstairs have gone out too. Why would the power go out?

Overhead, an emergency light clicks on, drenching the room in pale crimson and casting its contents in an eerie, sinister glow. Blood, watered down.

My heart thunders in my ears. What do I do?

Rapid footsteps in the hall interrupt my decision-making.

Audible footsteps mean a human—or another warlock.

I feel my way backward to the wall beside the open door, to the corner of the room that was empty and out of view, where the shadows are deepest.

Someone enters the outer storage room. They pause. Then move again.

Light approaches as the footsteps slow. Bright white-blue illumination stripes the floor from a handheld flashlight held in a leather-gloved fist that enters the room before the intruder does.

I hold my breath as they pace through the door, and the narrow band of light bounces off the metal and glass littered throughout the room, giving me a glimpse of the newcomer.

They are tall. Much taller than me. Broad shoulders in a black tux jacket. They have a half mask on, black covering their eyes and nose and wrapping their head in a wide band. I can’t make out their hair color in the light. The intruder pops the end of the flashlight between their teeth and starts working down the shelves ducking and twisting to look at all the items.

Looking for something specific, just like I was about to do.

If they’re here to steal something too, they’re likely taking advantage of the distraction—or they’re responsible for the lights going out in the first place.

Either way, they’re a thief, just like me. Well, I think with a smirk. Not just like me. Whoever they are, they’re not the Shadow King’s protégé.

A fight in the bloodred dark might be my best bet.

The thief in the suit makes a bit of noise while they move a few of the heavier cases aside. I use the sound to cover me as I slip out of my heels to find the cold floor beneath my bare feet, breathing in and out, slowly finding my center.

When the thief bends over to look at a lower shelf, they create an opening—and I take it.

I dash forward, jump over the velvet display table, and fling myself on top of the thief’s broad back. A low, masculine grunt is his only response.

He reacts faster than I expect, both hands grasping my forearm as he twists, turning parallel to the shelving unit. He’s going to flip me over—I can feel it in how he positions himself, where he braces—so I wrap both legs around his waist before he can get leverage.

He groans. Twists again, this time trying to ram me into the worktable behind us.

The sharp edge digs into my back—hard—and I let it, falling, arching my own spine as I squeeze his ribs.

He gasps for air. The flashlight falls. Hits the velvet-covered metal worktable with a heavy thunk . White light streaks toward one wall.

He drives an elbow down into my shin. Bone on bone, whiteout pain—

My legs fall from his torso. I drop, back-first, onto the table—recover. Draw my bruised shin to my chest, and snap a hard kick into what I think is the back of his shoulder—

Propelling the man face-first into the shelves, rattling what sounds like priceless vases and utensils and ancient stone bowls.

His hands snap out, holding the shelves still.

We both freeze.

Wait for the fragile items to crash to the floor.

When the shelves seem to hold, I ease down from the table with my hands up. The thief’s head jerks over his shoulder to watch me while his arms are raised and open, there to catch anything falling from the still-trembling shelf. Clearly, neither one of us wants to get caught, and a shattered thousand-year-old vase would do the trick.

But as soon as the shelf finally stills and the imminent threat fades, I know he’ll attack again.

Or I will.

Him, or me? That tiny uncertainty sends an unexpected thrill up my spine.

A heartbeat passes.

Then—he’s a blur in the darkness. Lunging, punching as he moves. I duck under his arm, make myself small against the table legs like I do when I spar with the twins. Smaller the target, harder to hit. When your opponent is fast, you’ve got to be faster—and this guy is fast as shit.

He withdraws and strikes again—quick like a viper, the air hissing around his fist.

But I’m already rolling, dodging, forcing him to the center of the room—punching up under his arm to strike his chin, exploding the rest of my body into the hit.

He grunts. His lower back hits the table. The flashlight rolls to the floor, clicks off, and we’re plunged into unholy red darkness.

We’re both breathing hard—and neither one of us can see.

But the darkness and our frozen stances make it easy to hear the voices and feet above us. People are shouting. There’s still chaos upstairs, but we don’t have much time. I don’t have much time before I need to get my shoes, get out of here, back upstairs to Zoe.

My opponent uses the time I waste debating my next move to dart forward, banking on hitting me where I stand. He misses. Glances off my shoulder, stops, pivots back, and punches me hard in the jaw, below my ear.

Pain blooms bright and angry—I grunt and stumble forward, taste copper, see stars against the back of my eyes.

This guy.

Yeah.

Screw this guy.

I grit my teeth. Chaos will have to cover me. I drop low. Swing hard. Aim for his crotch—hit a thigh instead. He drops his elbow into mine, nearly snapping it. I surge up, aiming with my forehead—hit his chin hard enough to hear his teeth clack.

His arms wrap around me, too tight—as we grapple in the darkness, I send a knee up into his torso, but he takes the hit. Doesn’t move. Is he a damn tree? Instead, he squeezes hard—breathing harder—I feel a rib bend.

Fuck this.

I call my root from within and let it flood my limbs and spine and chest where he holds me, until I am a column of purple-white flame.

My opponent is gasping, turning from the brilliant light of my root, his jaw clenched below his mask. Enough of a distraction for me to thrust both arms up, breaking his grip. He releases me, stumbling back on one foot.

My purple root is so bright, it casts shadows behind us and around us, but it shows me where he is, just fine.

Time to end this.

I send a fiery fist flying to his face, a deadly, root-powered right hook perfected from sparring with Elijah—

And he catches it— God, he’s fast —grunting with the effort. Before I can jerk my fist away, he takes a deep, slow breath—

And the flames of my right hand disappear.

I jerk back, shock rattling my already ragged breath. What the… what…?

I snarl and relight my power. The next seconds happen as if in slow motion.

I forge a short blade. Dart forward with it, aim for his midsection—and he sidesteps it. Skims a hand over the blade as it passes his torso—and it dissolves into shining purple fragments until the hilt is formless purple wisps. Empty-handed, I fall forward to the ground with my own momentum. Time speeds up.

My mind feels as fractured as my blade. As shattered as my construct. I pant on the ground, eyes wide. Above me, my opponent circles, fists up and loose. His silhouette limned by the red emergency light.

What the hell. What the actual…?

Fury rolls me over. Revenge drives me to my feet.

If he thinks he can break my power, dissolve it, take it apart… then let’s see if he can keep up.

Another dagger in my right hand. Thrust. He disintegrates it with his left.

But the dagger in my left hand is already moving—he dissolves it with his right.

A short flail, spinning—he raises both palms, rotates them in the opposite direction, and coaxes the weapon down from the air until it lies at his feet in sparkling ash.

A sword, lunging—he speeds around the strike, too fast.

An open palm hits me in the center of the chest and sends me skittering back, my blade flying out of my hand.

I hit the ground spine-first and watch as my dark purple weapon lies at his feet. I don’t see any magic, but I catch a new scent in the air: bright cedar, ozone, petrichor.

The thief kicks my sword up into his waiting hand, then runs a hovering, open palm down the blade from guard to tip. Where his hand passes, my construct crumbles—until it falls to the floor, a glowing pile of nothing.

I spring up with a roar, throwing my body into the air—shocking us both—and he lands on his back with me straddling his waist.

I draw back to land a punch, and he bucks up, twisting. Then, I’m on my back, and he’s kneeling over me, breath coming out in short, harsh pants. I hiss and rage against him—and the lights buzz, turning back on, blinding us both with harsh fluorescents.

“Let me go!” I grind out, still struggling to see—

“Stop!” the thief says, and his low voice echoes inside me like a bell.

I freeze, staring up into his face. Blue eyes behind a black mask, hair long and shaggy, curling beneath his ears. We blink at each other for a long moment, his mouth working open and closed as we both catch our breath.

He’s younger than I thought.

The thief blinks down at me, eyes roaming over my face hidden behind my mask, his mouth open in shock.

“Bree?”

My name. He knows my name.

My heartbeat is so loud now that I can’t hear anything at all. So loud, I wonder if it’s his heart too.

When I speak, my voice comes out breathy and ragged.

“Who are you?”