Chapter 17 Atticus
Atticus
It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it.
—Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
The black cat follows me to work again, winding its way down the sidewalk, flitting between my boots and purring.
It’s been weeks since the Halloween party, and I feel like I’ve been worked to within an inch of my life by Professor White.
We’ve spent every waking hour tending to Arches, repairing what we can, and trying to find the root of the problem.
It’s been slow going. Even Professor White seems to be at a loss for what to do.
For hours at a time, she paces in her office, talking to herself and writing in her notebooks.
Consumed by my work, I haven’t seen much of Dorian since the party.
Since that kiss.
His kiss.
Everything I’ve wanted and everything I’ll never have.
He wanted and still wants Raven, while I want him, and Raven wants me, and the circle goes around and around without anyone getting what they want.
Our dependable trio has splintered. What is it that people say?
They don’t want to risk any romance for the sake of preserving the friendship?
Well, we have risked and lost, it appears.
Dorian’s at Old Bones all the time, and Raven has been seeing Aspen more and more, often leaving me alone in the apartment.
She comes back looking satisfied, even if it’s unclear whether she really likes him or is just tired of liking me.
I’m happy for her, though—at least she has somebody.
Unlike me. Like this cat, I’m craving attention.
“Are you trying to tell me something?” I ask. “Or are you having fun trying to make me late?” Of course, the cat can’t speak, but it hooks its tail around my leg, almost like it understands me. “I have a meeting first thing,” I tell it.
The cat winds around my legs, as if pushing me in the opposite direction.
“I have to go,” I say. “I promise I’ll do whatever you want after I meet with Professor White. She needs me.”
The cat lets out a mournful kind of yowl, and it stops in the middle of the sidewalk, watching me go with its bright yellow eyes. “Sorry!” I call again, waving.
I’m busy looking at the cat, and I nearly stumble into Professor White.
“Good morning, Atticus,” she says, scanning me up and down. I think that’s the first time she’s called me by my given name. “Follow along,” she says, starting off at a quick pace down the street toward Arches.
“What’s the rush?” I ask, but the answer is staring right at me.
Giant cracks weave their way up the exterior walls of the building, splitting and fracturing like lightning. “Oh, fuck,” I whisper. “How did it deteriorate so quickly?”
Professor White has no answer. She simply shakes her head, hurrying toward the doors.
The block is fenced off, with security guards at every sidewalk redirecting curious onlookers away from the site.
“I fear we don’t have much time,” says Professor White.
She looks a little gray in the face, like she’s just seen a ghost, and she clutches her satchel slung over her shoulder, white-knuckled, as if she’s bracing for the worst.
“What do we need to do?” I ask.
“I’ve developed a theory. I believe the errors in the renovation, things like the saw marks you found, interfered with the invocations that bound living spirits to this structure at its creation.
I’ve been reading all about some of the magic that was used at the time.
” She taps the leather-bound tome that’s poking out of her satchel.
“Here’s the book I told you about the other day.
Please be careful with it,” she says as she hands the grimoire to me.
I almost say something, but I keep my mouth shut.
Am I allowed to have this? I’m so thankful.
“Maybe study it and see what you can discern that might be of help. You will need a dictionary to translate.”
I already have the world’s best dictionary. I can’t wait to show Raven. We climb the stairs to Arches, and she pushes open the doors. Inside, there are half a dozen architects from her staff, some standing around a small table, studying drawings, the rest standing in a circle.
“What are they doing?” I ask.
“Taking readings, trying to determine the extent of the damage.”
The architects have their eyes closed, so I assume they aren’t searching for physical damage to the building. “They’re measuring magic, or something like—”
The ground beneath my feet shakes as if a tractor trailer is rolling by, but there’s no truck to be seen.
“Yes, something like that,” says Professor White as motes of dust fill the air.
“I’m afraid the spirits of the natural world bound to this structure are departing it, and I’m trying to get a sense of how many may have been lost.” She stares up at the tower, the structure she’s committed everything to restoring.
All her work for nothing. “I doubt it will last the night. It’s only a matter of ti—”
The ground trembles again, and there’s a deafening crash. Louder than anything I’ve ever heard. I stumble, trying not to fall, then plant my feet and wait for the shaking to end. It doesn’t stop. Professor White throws out her arms, staring up at the tower in horror.
“Everyone out!” she yells as the trembling intensifies and the floor buckles underneath our feet.
The tower shakes as all the architects hurry to gather their things.
Dust hangs in the air, filling the room with gray clouds that billow downward through the scaffoldings, obscuring my vision. I lose track of Professor White. Through the haze, I catch sight of the others trying to find their own way out.
I spin, searching for the exit. It was behind me, I think, but now I’m not so certain.
As the dust thickens, my surroundings become a blur.
I turn and stumble into something hard and broad.
It’s a heavy wooden pole, one of the supports that make up the scaffolding.
I grip the wood for support but realize it’s moving, shaking; then it splits and I recoil, stumbling backward to avoid the whole thing falling down on me.
The tremors intensify, sending shivers lancing upward through my heels. The tower is going to fall. No, it’s already falling, and I’m still inside it.
A muffled scream tears through the air. I’m not alone.
I follow the sound. The haze of dirt and debris is so thick, I can barely see my hand in front of my face.
I cover my mouth to stop myself from choking, but it’s too late.
The dust is already in my throat and in my nose.
My eyes burn, and I squint just to see. Someone else is here. I can’t leave without them.
But it’s so hazy all around.
I can’t see.
I’m trapped.