Page 81 of Oracle of Ruin

“In case you haven’t noticed, this whole place has collapsed in on itself. Most of the hallways we can’t pass through, and those we can are crawling with undead guards,” Blaine snaps, his fingers fidgeting at his side.

He has been sober for a month now, since the night Vera was kidnapped. Hints of the man Vera must have known are showing through the rage and stress, and I must begrudgingly admit that I like the person I’m meeting. I tend to like him more when he argues with Amír on our behalf. Saves me from yet another headache.

The two bicker as I peer around the corner. No undead guards or Kijova linger in the halls, so for now, we are safe. We won’t be for much longer if they keep shouting at each other like this. My face swivels to the left. What wasthat?

Buried beneath their harsh whispers, the soft susurration of a feminine voice lingers. It wraps itself around my senses, lulling me to comfort. Without bothering to look for dangers, I follow it. My gunslinger and Blaine immediately stop and follow as I slip around the corner down a new hall. The temperature begins to drop and my breath fogs before my face.

“Rowan. Where are you going?” Amír’s voice crystallizes in the air. She shivers, yet despite the obvious cold, I feel nothing.

Blaine’s countenance is grim and he whispers something to her that I don’t catch. Her own expression hardens and she dips her chin, no more questions asked or complaints voiced.

This way.

Her fingers dance along the handle of her gun, a rhythmic tapping blending melodically with the sweet voice that beckons. Blaine’s dragging limp scrapes along the stone, the final notes of a perfect blend. My heart slows and my shoulders drop. This peace, this calm, it is lovely.

“—like this. We should snap him out of it,” Amír hisses beneath her breath, jarring some of my senses back.

Where am I going?

“We can’t. We won’t find it otherwise.”

“You’ve seen this?”

“Vera.”

“Oh.”

Follow.

The calling is louder now, growing in urgency and causing my feet to move faster. We fly across the floor, missing every rotation of undead guards by just a hair before we stop before a door. Its finely etched wood is worn yet pristine, the bronze door handle still shining, not yet dull with use. My hand reaches for it of its own accord when Amír steps before me.

The barrel of her gun points straight at my forehead, a warning. “Dark magic.”

These two words douse ice down my spine and I leap away from the door as if she actually shot me. Irene’s study stands before us, as the dark force around it called me to it. It wants me to open that door.

Suddenly, our mission feels less appealing.

The bit about Blaine knowing and having seen this before with Vera—it all makes sense. The magic called to her not because of the blood flowing in her veins, but because Irene wished her harm. Because Irene wanted an excuse to leave her for dead that winter night. The same way she wanted me dead from the moment I entered this world. If my mother were here, I am sure the call would be much louder and demanding than the sweet voice I heard.

“You let it bring us here,” I hiss, hurt flashing across my features.

Blaine nods in patronizing understanding and I find myself rescinding my earlier statement about liking him. “We had no choice. You were the only one it called to.”

“Right,” I grind out. “And I’m sure I have no choice but to slip some whiskey in your cup tonight.”

Blaine grinds his teeth and closes his fist around the hilt of his sword. The pain of this betrayal hones on Amír, the one who should’ve understood. I find nothing but cool and unflinching resolution on her face. No signs of guilt. No shame.

“Fucking… move.” I shove her aside and throw the door open. It halts of its own accord before it slams against the stone, a silent whine of magic the only proof of the dark force surrounding us.

The study is open and untouched, as if it was frozen in time the day Irene died. Given the stories I’ve heard, that wouldn’t surprise me in the least.

Mounted on the walls are hundreds of papers, most covered in dark runes or spells, some are maps that have been slashed through. I fear for those left untouched. Racks of vials with decaying organisms lean against the far wall. Amír picks one up, the reddish-brown liquid inside sloshing unsavorily at the disturbance. She puts it down and rubs her fingertips along her pants.

Blaine rifles through Irene’s desk with stiff motions, his eyes avoiding a skeletal hand on display. A rusted ring lays on its finger. I avert my gaze and take to combing through the loose-leaf papers atop a bookshelf in the corner.

“Anything?” Amír calls out.

I shake my head.

---