Page 78 of Us in Ruins

Charon noted their decisions by reaching forward with his staff and toppling Enzo’s goblet. Predictably, nothing was underneath. Shock flickered through his system—disbelief turning quickly into crestfallen disappointment, but shifting again into rage as he was struck with the realization that him being wrong meant Margot might be right.

Reaching once more, Charon tipped her goblet. Gold glimmered underneath—not the obol, but the shard. Triumph like liquid sunlight poured through her veins as she lifted it into her hands.

Before she had a chance to celebrate, Charon swiped his rod, trying to drag Enzo toward the mounds of bones in punishment, but missed, and Enzo plowed into Margot’s middle. The force slammed against her, knocking the air out of her lungs. Enzo’s arms wrapped around her as he wrestled her to the ground.

Her fingers tightened around the shard, even if she couldn’t quite remember how to breathe. Instead of in, out, in, out, her lungs malfunctioned: in, in, out, out. Her fists pounded recklessly, anywhere she could land them. Shoulders, arms, back.

It did little to discourage Enzo. He threw her around like a rag doll. The second she landed on solid ground, Margot hooked her foot around the back of Enzo’s leg. She planted her hands against his chest and shoved.

Enzo tripped and toppled back into the wall. He knocked over the flashlight, and when it crashed to the ground, the bulb flickered off, plunging them back into darkness.

Everything was ink black. Too dark to see anything but shadows. Still, Margot darted in the general direction of the flashlight. One of Enzo’s various limbs snagged against her foot, and she landed face-first in the dirt. Rough stones and uneven earth bit into her forearms.

“Has anyone ever told you you're the worst?” Margot asked.

Sputtering, she rolled right as Enzo’s fist grazed her shoulder blade. The impact struck through every tendon, and she lost her grasp on the shard. It sank into the soil. Even stretching, it was just out of reach.

She dragged herself upright, one allover bruise. In the shadows, Enzo rustled—ready to pummel her again, no doubt.

Okay, light first, then shard.

Margot dipped right and reached for the flashlight. Grasping in the darkness, her fingers grazed its cool metal hilt, and the bulb zapped back to life with a click.

Just in time for Enzo to set his sights on the exit.

Margot dove for one of the goblets. Hoisting it like a club, she whacked Enzo’s middle with it when he tried to run.

Enzo wobbled and then crumpled, palms to his stomach. Margot winced—fighting had never been her forte. She could almost feel the radiating pain as if she’d been the one hit. But a girl had to do what a girl had to do.

With both hands, Margot grabbed her backpack, ripping it upward, but it snagged on Enzo’s elbow. “Give it back,” she said through gritted teeth.

With another tug, she tore the backpack off his arm. Desperate fingers clasped onto her wrist. Too quickly, Enzo jumped to his feet and pulled her back toward Charon, her spine ramming into his boat’s pointed bow.

The stone ferryman hadn’t gone entirely motionless, magic still humming through the alcove, emanating from the shards. His empty stare was focused on Enzo—determined, almost. Waiting to strike again. The look sparked an idea that just might work.

Enzo reared, a bull charging a matador.

This time, Margot held her ground carefully. A deep breath filled her lungs. Emotion swirled through her veins, but she kept it leashed. She let Enzo make the first move. Kicking dust up with his feet as he sprinted, Enzo charged.

Margot waited until the last moment to dodge. A sickening crack rang through the catacombs when his shoulder slammed against the stone ship, and Enzo wailed. The ferryman of the dead shifted. His rod pounded against the earth, trapping Enzo next to his boat.

Sprinting, Margot scrambled toward the far end of the alcove. No matter how hard Enzo thrashed, Charon didn’t budge. The shards and their magic were just out of reach.

But when Margot unzipped the backpack to drop in the new fragment of the Vase, her fingers found fabric and little else. Empty. The backpack was empty.

No gel pens, no extra pair of socks in case someone wanted to go bowling, no emotional-support notebook, and definitely no shards. Where are the rest of them?

She flew through the pockets on the outside—nothing. Then, unzipping the front pocket, she gulped down a relieved breath. Thank god. Three black chunks of pottery sat at the bottom of the pocket.

“But this isn’t...” Margot trailed off.

The fragments in her hands were glossy, painted smooth. The chipped edges were porcelain white. She tugged the shard from the trial out of her pocket to compare. Totally different textures, colors. Flipping a fragment from the backpack in her hand, the words Hotel Vil had been stamped onto one side.

As in, Hotel Villa Minerva?

The pieces couldn’t fit together fast enough in her brain. The shattered coffee mug on the dresser. The shards—missing in action. Black porcelain in Enzo’s backpack. Why would he have a broken coffee mug from her hotel?

Margot didn’t notice the slope of the catacombs until it was too late. Her feet slid out from underneath her. As her skull cracked against the ground, the shards, both real and fake, flew out of her grasp.

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