The Keepers (51 page)

Suddenly the Fel'Daera was close, so close. Dr. Jericho's savage whisper came to him in the dark. Horace tried not to listen, tried not to feel.

“All your fortunes,” the Mordin hissed, “are mine.”

Horace pressed his hands over his ears. The box moved away, and he crushed his thoughts into a single point. He tried to think of nothing, be nothing. He tried to fear nothing because there was no fear. He lay there for another minute, another hour, another lifetime. And as the box continued to move, he forgot his body, going as far from everything as it was possible to be, becoming and believing in nothing but a single endless refrain:
death, death, death, death
.

H
ERE
. H
ERE THEN
.

Here she was, yes, flesh and breath and blood. A heartbeat. Alive. She curled her hand, a hand that a moment ago had been empty and lifeless—but no longer. Alive and whole, yes. She curled her hand around what lay in her palm, this traveler, this orbiting bit of herself come home. She knew herself, knew her name, knew she was complete again. She knew what had come back to her after oh so long.

Chloe
.

Chloe and the dragonfly
.

Chloe took a deep, painful, beautiful breath. The Alvalaithen had returned. She sat in the dim cell and held it tightly in her hand, feeling nothing but its presence, letting it lift her slowly to life, back to herself. Chloe Oliver. Keeper of the Alvalaithen. Her skin, and the cold grit of stone beneath her legs. Her lungs, and the scent of damp and soot.

She was in the nest. In the boiler room, in the third cell down. Beside her lay a crumpled, ruined ball of black, like a
spiny seedpod. She didn't need that anymore. The dragonfly was here now, and she pressed it between her palms. The tips of her fingers stung, tender and raw. Why were they . . . ? Of course. Nails scratching into the packed and gritty floor. She looked down. Words in the dirt before her. Her words.
ASH DOOR
.

Horace.

It all poured back to her, filling her with purpose. Dr. Jericho. The nest. Her father. That's what she was here for, here in the third cell down.

She heard noises outside. Stealthy footsteps. Through the little barred window up high, she saw shadow and light moving. She dropped the dragonfly onto the floor between her legs without thinking, hiding it with her hands. She hung her head. She sensed but did not see a towering shape, leaning against the other side of the door—Dr. Jericho, peering in and down at her. Chloe froze, barely breathing, letting her hands hang dead over the Alvalaithen.

Horace had warned her that Dr. Jericho might show up like this, investigating. All the work Horace had done with the Fel'Daera at this time last night had drawn the Mordin here now.
“Play dead,”
Horace had said. And so Chloe went on feigning absence and emptiness—painful because at last she was anything but empty. And then Dr. Jericho inhaled sharply and pushed away. She heard him lope across the room, no longer trying to be quiet. His footsteps receded down the hall outside.

Once they'd faded to silence, she waited for another minute or two and then got onto her knees. She sipped at the dragonfly, going just barely thin, letting its powerful song rise to a whisper, a faint whistling wind and nothing more. So hard not to pull on the Alvalaithen with everything she had, to become electric with its power. But she just needed enough to get through this wooden door—and thank god wood was easy.

She pushed her face through the door. It tugged at her, snagging her—the price she paid for not going fully thin—but it didn't hurt. The boiler room was empty. No sound. No smell of brimstone. She crept out of the cell, the earth beneath her a great sea upon which she skated like a bug. Oh, how she'd missed this, even that fear. Once free, she forced herself to unplug from the dragonfly.

The boiler doors were closed tight. She hurried over and hunkered down in front of the ash door. She yanked the thick black handle back. The latch gave way with a resonant
thunk
, and from inside, a hollow cry rang out. Chloe heaved the thick door open. A dirty hand groped out of the black, grasping at the opening. Then another. Now Horace's face, almost unrecognizable—glazed and streaked with ashes. He reached out toward her, though she wasn't even sure he was seeing her. He blinked and blinked, holding one hand in front of his eyes.

“Don't.” His voice was gravelly and weak. “Don't.”

“Horace, it's me. Chloe.”

“Can't move.”

She grabbed him by the arm and heaved. He was so big. How had he even fit in there? He slid out and fell to the floor, groaning, in a small avalanche of soot. He got painfully to his feet, but his legs gave way. He collapsed again. He sucked mouthful after mouthful of air, eyes crazed and darting.

“Horace.” Chloe knelt beside him. “Horace, are you okay?” She leaned in close, trying to make him see her. At last his breathing eased. He coughed. His eyes slowly focused, the wild glaze dimming gradually from them.

“Chloe.”

“Yes, Chloe.”

Horace coughed and spat. “You made it.”

“I almost didn't, but I did. We both did.”

“He came in here just a few minutes ago. The Mordin.”

“Yes, just like you said he might. But he's gone now.”

“What time is it?”

Chloe stared. “You're asking
me
?”

“Sorry, I . . . had to let go of it in there. Time, I mean.” Horace fished in his pocket and pulled out a watch, saying, “It must be about three twenty-five.” He glanced at the watch and held it out to Chloe. It was 3:24.

Kind of amazing, really. “And that's why you're you,” Chloe said, shaking her head.

Horace looked up at the ceiling as if searching. “He has the box. I can feel him.”

“I know. But not for long.”

“He'll be coming back soon. And when he does, the
crucible dog and the rest will be with him. I saw it.” He flexed his legs, grimacing. “And I saw your dad, too, Chloe, he—he's still with the crucible.”

Dad. Here with the crucible. The rage that had been kept from her these last long hours rose out of nowhere, beginning to fill her, sure and comforting. “So it's happening. This is when we do it.”

Horace laughed drily, making Chloe's anger flare. He said, “Whatever it is you think we can do, we can't. Gabriel—”

“I know.” She told Horace what she'd seen. Horace scrunched his eyes and pressed his cheek into his shoulder as she described the golem holding Gabriel prisoner. “But it's okay. We'll be okay.”

“Are you crazy?” Horace said. “We can't resist the crucible without Gabriel. You were there last time, under the elevator.”

Chloe recalled the pull of that awful green light. Part of her wanted to face it again, to fight it back, to prove she could withstand it. But she also knew that not a bone in her body had resisted last time. She realized her foot was tapping. She forced it to stop. “How clear was Gabriel when you saw him in the box?”

“Clear,” Horace said firmly. “I could even see a kind of curtain because of the humour, but I could see through it.”

God, the box was a freaky thing. “So he'll get here. He'll escape and he'll get here.”

Horace gazed up at her, his eyes warm and shining clean in his dingy face. “You saw him, trapped—do you think that's possible?”

Chloe considered Gabriel's horrible prison and the terrible strength of the golem. “No,” she said. “But our lives are full of the impossible, remember?” Horace smiled, but what she didn't say—couldn't say, not yet—was that it didn't matter if the box was right. There were things she could try, things that might save them all, even without Gabriel here. If only she could find the courage. She looked down at her feet, feeling the vast earth beneath her.

Horace's eyes went suddenly dim, far away. “He's moving fast. Dr. Jericho. I feel the Fel'Daera.” He pointed up into the ceiling, his hand sliding. “God, Chloe, he knows I can feel exactly where he is because of the box, and
he doesn't even care
. Maybe he knows what we've done. Maybe he's the one who knows everything.”

Chloe remembered thinking the exact same thing, but she knew that wasn't right. It couldn't be. “No, he doesn't know everything. He said something about my mistakes, and then I remember thinking
he
made a mistake, too.” Chloe pressed her fingers against her forehead, trying to think. “Wait . . . the first cell. He told me he saw you send the dragonfly, but he pointed to the first cell. Not the third. Was he just messing with me?”

“The first—oh!” Horace's face glowed with understanding. He sat up. “The dumindar. He saw me sending it, but he must've thought it was the Alvalaithen.”

The dumindar. Chloe looked stupidly down at her chest. “Wait, what?”

“I took the dumindar from you last night. And then I sent
it to myself, right down there inside the first cell. After I left you. Dr. Jericho saw me and asked me what I was sending. I told him the truth.”

Chloe clenched her jaw, crushing back a laugh. “But he didn't believe you. He thinks it's the Alvalaithen.”

“Yes, and it means he doesn't know the Alvalaithen already arrived. He'll come down here expecting it to show up, but he'll be too late.”

“He did make a mistake. I knew it.”

“Yes.” But immediately Horace sagged again, the light going out of his eyes. “It doesn't matter, though. My mistakes were bigger. I saw Gabriel, but he's imprisoned. And I didn't see you, but here you are.”

Chloe leaned forward. “What did you say?”

“I didn't see you in this moment that's about to happen. I saw everyone but you.”

“Horace . . . ,” she began, but let the words fade. What was wrong with her? All her willingness, her bravery, her anger at everything Dr. Jericho had done to her and her family, her friends—all that, and she was still afraid. Afraid to make the one promise that might help put an end to this long day and night, to make sense of what Horace had seen. She was still so afraid of showing any fear. But Horace was her friend. Her great friend. At least she could offer Horace something. “I think I know why you didn't see me,” she said.

“Why?”

“I'll be under.”

“Under what?”

“You'll have to see it. Just trust me. Trust the Fel'Daera.”

Abruptly, Horace cocked his head up at the ceiling. “He just dropped onto the level above us. It's almost three thirty—everything's happening. The dumindar will come through in a few minutes, and then he'll know he's been tricked. Whatever you come up with, it'll have to be before then.”

Chloe nodded, her will kindling inside her, churning and familiar. Horace's presence, even his doubt, was firm and comforting, not at all heavy. She reached out her hand to him, stretched her pointer finger toward him. Horace gave her a thin smile and stretched up toward her, pointing. “May yours be light, Chloe.”

She furrowed her brow in mock confusion. “Everyone keeps saying that. Fear is the stone, et cetera. Why a stone? Why not a pillow?”

Horace grinned weakly. “Fear is the pillow. May yours be fluffy.”

“Fear is the eggplant. May yours be purple.” Hissing, choked-back laughter bubbled from them both, rich and welcome.

And then Horace's eyes slid past her toward the door. His laughing face went slack with shock. “Holy crap,” he said.

H
ORACE WAS STILL LAUGHING, HIS STIFF BACK COMPLAINING
at the effort, when he saw the doorway to the boiler room disappear. He understood at once what it meant, and astonishment swept down his face even as hope swelled giddily inside him. “Holy crap,” he said again, and a moment later the humour buried him whole.

“Horace,” came Gabriel's voice, breathless and everywhere. “Chloe. Dr. Jericho is coming. He's behind me. And the rest—the crucible dog too.”

“We know,” Horace said. He heard Chloe's voice, dim and rubbery. “Take the humour down.”

A tearing. Light returning. Gabriel stood before them—clothes torn, his neck bruised purple and black. His chest heaved, and his body was bent with exhaustion.

“You're
here
,” Horace said. Was it possible? Could it be
that everything the Fel'Daera had revealed was about to come true?

“I saw you trapped,” Chloe said briskly, squaring up to Gabriel. “How did you escape?”

“I didn't. I was released.”

“By whom?” Chloe insisted.

“A . . . friend. A former friend.”

Horace expected Chloe to bristle at that, but instead she seemed to soften. Understanding filled her face. “Ingrid.”

Gabriel nodded once.

“Who is Ingrid?” Horace asked. The name sounded familiar. “What's going on?”

“The flute girl,” Chloe said, still watching Gabriel closely. “Former Warden. Traitor. But apparently she and Gabriel still have a . . . thing.”