Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
MORGANA
London rain is exactly as miserable as advertised.
I almost wish I’d stayed back instead of coming on this mission. Almost.
We emerge from the portal into an alley behind the British Museum, and immediately I’m soaked. Cold water slides down my neck, seeps through my jacket, and turns my hair into a wet mess within seconds.
Goodness.
Perfect weather for breaking and entering, apparently.
Perfect weather for pretending nothing happened last night, too.
Everything is blurred. Everything is cold. Every sharp edge is softened just enough to lie about.
“I think I hate this city,” I mutter, pulling my hood up. It does nothing against the downpour, but it makes me feel slightly less drowned.
“The rain provides cover,” Azrael says, not even acknowledging the weather. He is already moving forward, striding toward the museum’s service entrance as if this is a casual stroll. “Shadow magic thrives in conditions like this.”
Right. Because being uncomfortable is apparently a tactical advantage. Fantastic.
Kieran and Chella materialize beside us, literally from the shadows, because walking seems to be beneath them. They both wear black tactical gear that somehow repels water.
Magic, probably.
I am definitely learning that spell.
“Perimeter is clear,” Kieran reports.
“Three guard rotations,” Chella adds. “Standard security plus magical wards on the archive entrance.”
“Can you bypass them?” Azrael asks.
“Given time, yes,” Kieran says. “But there is something else down there.” His expression darkens slightly. “Guardian creatures. Old ones. The British magical community takes artifact protection seriously.”
“How old are we talking?” I ask.
“Pre-Roman conquest old,” he says.
I stop walking. “You are saying there are four-thousand-year-old monsters guarding this piece?”
“Approximately,” Chella replies. She does not look concerned at all. “Nothing we cannot handle.”
“Speak for yourself,” I mutter. “I’ve been doing magic for like two weeks?—”
“Three weeks,” Azrael corrects immediately. “And you killed a mercenary alpha two days ago. You will be fine.”
The way he says it should be reassuring. Calm. Certain.
Instead, it just highlights exactly what’s been wrong since we left Brooklyn.
He’s treating me like a capable operative. A useful tool. Professional. Distant.
Apparently, a man can memorize every sound you make in the dark and still speak to you like mission inventory by morning.
The thought lands harder than it should.
I don’t understand how we ended up here after what happened last night.
I will ask him. But not now.
Now there is an artifact to steal.
We slip into the museum through a service corridor I’ve used before. Three years ago, a different job, a different target, but the layout is still the same. Security cameras are easy enough to avoid when you know the blind spots.
The supernatural archives are exactly where Kieran said they would be, beneath the building, accessed through a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY that leads into stairs descending into darkness.
More stairs.
Eesh.
The wards activate the moment we approach.
Silver light flares across the doorway, intricate patterns blooming like frozen lightning. They’re complex enough that looking at them directly makes my eyes ache. I can feel the magic radiating off them, ancient, powerful, and absolutely designed to kill intruders.
“Morgana,” Azrael says. His voice is flat, controlled. Professional. “Can you see the ward structure?”
I close my eyes and reach for my shadows. They respond immediately now, like they have been waiting for me. Through them, I feel the architecture of the magic. Layered. Reinforced. Built and rebuilt over centuries.
“Six primary anchors,” I say. “Three secondary stabilizers. They’re drawing power from something below, probably the guardian creatures Kieran mentioned.”
“Can you disrupt them?”
“Maybe,” I say. “If I had about six hours and a degree in magical engineering?—”
“You have three minutes and natural talent,” Azrael says. “Make it work.”
The dismissal stings more than I want it to.
I shove the feeling down and focus. He’s right. I can do this. I felt the wards at the Met, learned their patterns, and broke them. A lock is still a lock. Even when it was built by people who thought in centuries instead of seconds.
Even if it’s also likely to kill me if I get it wrong.
No pressure.
I summon my shadows. Let them stretch toward the wards carefully, testing them the way he taught me. Probing for weakness.
There.
A thin instability where two primary anchors intersect. The weave is uneven, probably from centuries of maintenance, layering imperfect repairs over older work.
“Found it,” I murmur. “Give me a minute.”
I push gently. My shadows slip into the gap like a lock pick sliding into place. The wards resist, pushing back with pressure that makes my teeth ache. I adjust, shift angle, try again.
The silver light flickers.
“Thirty seconds,” Kieran says.
Helpful.
I push harder. My shadows catch on the weakness and unravel it strand by strand.
The wards hold for a breath longer, then break, the collapse sounding like glass shattering in a cathedral.
“Impressive,” Azrael says, already moving forward. “Kieran, take point. Chella, rear guard. Morgana, stay close.”
Not ‘little thief’. Not even my name with heat still caught under it. Just orders.
I follow him down the stairs. I try not to notice how carefully he keeps his distance. How he hasn’t touched me since we left Brooklyn unless it was absolutely necessary for shadow-walking.
The space beneath the museum opens up far wider than I expected.
Darkness stretches ahead, thick and waiting.
Magical orbs, floating just beneath the ceiling, illuminate the stone corridors carved directly from bedrock. Shelves and glass cases line the walls, filled with artifacts from across history, organized by era and magical potency.
Shadows gather in every corner. Watching. Waiting.
The guardian creatures announce themselves with a roar that shakes dust loose from the ceiling.
They are massive, vaguely leonine, but wrong in ways that feel intentional. Too many joints in their legs. Eyes glowing red in the dim light. Skin like carved stone rather than flesh.
Three of them block the corridor ahead.
“Those are sphinxes,” Chella says. “Ancient British variant. They usually ask riddles?—”
The nearest one lunges.
“Or not,” she finishes, already drawing her blades.
Combat erupts.
Kieran and Chella take on two of the sphinxes with practiced efficiency. They move in sync, decades of fighting together written into every step and pivot, each strike answering the other without hesitation.
The third sphinx turns toward Azrael and me.
I don’t wait for orders. I summon my shadows and move.
The sphinx is fast. Faster than anything that size should be. Its claws tear through the air where my head was a second ago. I shadow-step, a short displacement barely five feet, and reappear behind it.
My blade finds the gap between the stone plates protecting its spine.
The creature screams, whirling fast enough to catch me with its tail.
Pain explodes through me as I fly backward and hit the wall hard enough to see stars. My ribs flare in protest. At least one is probably cracked.
The sphinx advances, saliva dripping from jaws capable of snapping me in half.
Azrael appears between us.
His shadows erupt, but not with the controlled precision from before. This is raw power, an overwhelming force that crashes into the sphinx like a tidal wave.
The creature does not stand a chance. It’s torn apart in seconds.
When the shadows recede, Azrael is breathing hard. His eyes flash black before settling back into their usual dark blue. It lasts less than a second. Long enough to terrify me, anyway.
The corruption is getting worse.
Kieran and Chella finish their opponents with both sphinxes collapsing onto the stone floor without movement.
“Everyone intact?” Kieran asks.
“Define intact,” I mutter, forcing myself upright as pain lances through my ribs.
Azrael steps toward me, then stops. His hand lifts as if to check my injuries, then falls again.
“Can you continue?” he asks, voice flat.
“I’m fine.”
I am absolutely not fine. Breathing feels like arguing with a knife.
“You are hurt.”
“I said I’m fine.”
The words come out sharper than I intend. Something flickers in his expression, gone almost instantly.
He turns away and continues down the corridor.
I follow, ignoring the way every breath feels like it drags broken glass through my chest. Ignoring the tight knot forming under my ribs that has nothing to do with injury.
The mirror piece waits in a case at the end of the corridor.
It’s different from the others.
It pulses with energy I can feel from twenty feet away, dark and hungry, wrong in a way that makes my shadows recoil as if they recognize it and do not want to. The other pieces felt dangerous. This one feels aware.
“That’s it?” I ask.
“That is it,” Azrael says.
He studies the case. “The wards are different. Newer. Someone has been maintaining them recently.”
“The courts,” Chella says. “They know about the pieces. They have been protecting them.”
“Or tracking them,” Kieran adds. “Waiting for whoever comes.”
The air shifts before anyone can respond.
Pressure drops.
A portal opens behind us, not shadow, not anything familiar. Lightning and wind spiral through it, crackling against the stone walls.
Two figures step through.
The woman comes first. Pale skin. Lightning scar patterns run down her arms, glowing faintly as if the marks remember storms. Power rolls off her in controlled waves, measured but immense.
Her eyes are sharp, assessing everything at once.
The man beside her is taller and broader. Storm-grey eyes that land on Azrael like a challenge already issued. His presence is different from Azrael’s cold restraint. This is contained violence, a storm forced into human shape.
“Azrael Nightveil,” the man says easily. “I was wondering when you would reach this one.”
Azrael does not react. Not even a shift in posture.