Chapter Thirty-Five Simran #4
“I won’t leave it,” said Ophelia. “It’s in pain. It’s frightened. It needs time.”
“You’re hurt,” Cora said with a smaller voice from below. “Please.”
Vina moved down the stairs slowly, taking Simran with her. Ophelia was still steadfastly refusing to move. Below them they heard thudding footsteps—then a crack of noise.
The witch Tam was on the ground, bleeding, Ella and Oliver over him.
“Archivists and guards,” gritted out Tam. “Th-they’re below. Boxing us in. We’re trapped.”
Just as Meera had warned they’d be.
Ella was healing Tam’s arm. He was panting.
“He shoved one back, and was shot for his trouble. The bullet grazed his shoulder,” Ella murmured. “Let me focus. I can’t fix you, witch, but I can make sure it doesn’t fester and ease the pain.”
“Much appreciated,” Tam managed. He met Vina’s eyes. “Sarah and the other witches—they’ll cursemark the ground. The archivists won’t be able to get to us without hurting themselves. It’ll slow them down.”
“We’ll add our own protections,” said Oliver grimly, on behalf of the cunning folk. “You won’t defend us alone.”
“Vina,” said Hari. His voice cut through the din. His gaze was fixed on Vina, forehead creased. “What are you planning?”
There was a resolute look on Vina’s face. She’d made a decision, Simran realized, in the handful of moments when Simran had not been looking at her.
“I’ll go face the archivists,” said Vina. “They won’t kill an incarnate. I can shield you with my body—with my worth to them. That should give Simran time to deal with the Beast, and finish our work in the archives.” She sounded so sure.
“No,” said Simran, without pausing to think. “You’re not.”
“I’m afraid I must.” Vina’s smile was lopsided. “I’m the only one that can be spared.”
“Bullshit,” Simran said angrily. “No. If you’re going, I’m coming with you.”
“Sim—”
“I’m not letting you fall into the Queen’s hands,” Simran cut in. “Not without me,” she said. She realized at some point she’d gripped Vina by the wrist. She hadn’t intended to. “Not without me,” she said again helplessly.
“You can’t risk everything for me,” said Vina, looking at her with wide eyes. “Lifetimes of work—you can’t stop now.” She swallowed. “Not for my sake, Simran.”
That would be absurd, wouldn’t it? And selfish. But Simran thought of her knight, always in the Queen’s clutches, ever murdering and dying for honor and Crown, and didn’t let go of Vina.
“The Queen wants me,” she said. “You heard Meera. She won’t settle for you alone. And I know the archivists. I can make them leave. The rest of you will be able to run then.”
“We may never have this chance again,” Vina warned.
“I know,” Simran said softly. “But I won’t let you go alone. I vow it.”
Vina stared back at her. Her mouth was parted, her eyes full of awed tenderness.
“I could kill them all one by one,” said Galath, steady and sure.
His words broke the spell between them—Simran sucked in a breath and faced him, releasing Vina’s hand.
She saw the ancient, merciless strength of him in his eyes, and the axe at his side, gleaming like liquid moonlight. “Is there a reason I should not?”
“The archivists can hurt you,” said Simran. “You know that.”
“I don’t fear being harmed.”
“No,” said Simran. “But I don’t want it. None of us do.”
She meant Hari. She meant Vina.
She meant herself too. Maybe she hadn’t chosen to care for him—but the ancient love lived in her regardless.
“You’re going to have to trust Vina and me,” she said.
“I have trusted you many times,” said Galath. “Over many lifetimes.”
“And I failed you, didn’t I? Every time. I know. But you’re going to have to take one more leap of faith.”
Still, Galath stood steady.
“Please,” Vina said. “Father. Please stay here.”
Galath exhaled.
“Prove yourself wiser than you’ve been, Vina.”
“It’s a low bar,” Vina said. “I’ll do my best.”
“If you’re gone too long,” he said, hefting up his axe, “I will come.”
It sounded like both a promise and a threat.
They moved down the winding stairs. Edmund was standing in front of the archivists and warders—he was their last defense. The staircase below him was rammed with archivists, protected by a wall of guards. And there, among them, was the head archivist himself.
“There’s no running from us,” said Apollonius, eyes cold. “Stand down, Sir Edmund.”
“Fuck that,” Edmund said. His sword was drawn in a flash of silver, and he cut down the first knight in front of him in a single blow. The next he knocked out cold.
Apollonius, older and uneven on his feet, stumbled back. But his eyes were canny, and he said with terrible calm, “You won’t be able to fight every archivist here, Sir Edmund. Knight and Witch. The Queen demands your presence. Follow me quietly, and perhaps I will see fit to spare your allies.”
With a snort of derision, Simran dropped a vial of wood ash on the step in front of her, pressed her boot into it, and crushed it, dragging glass and ash in a line of witching across the stone.
“I know you’re lying,” she said. “But let’s bargain, Apollonius. Let our friends go freely and maybe—just maybe—I won’t turn your archive to flames.”