“Why would you need to pick anyone’s pocket?”
“The same reason I’m going to help you now.” With an impish gleam in his eye, he leans close and whispers, “I’m bored, Selah. This will give me something fun to do.”
33
INTO THE CRYPT
Over the next week, Sienna and Emma remain missing. Twig gets his cast off. My lacerations begin to heal. Rafe tries to charm Lainey. And I do my very best to avoid Jude. But on Tuesday, when we pass each other in the hall, his knuckle grazes mine and I nearly have a panic attack afterward in the bathroom.
I’ve kept a wide berth ever since.
We haven’t touched. We haven’t so much as spoken. But my anxiety remains on high alert. Because no matter how much I ignore him, no matter how much distance I maintain, I can’t seem to stop myself from wanting him. It’s become such a problem, I’ve taken to counting sheep in myhead whenever my thoughts stray in his direction, which is almost always.
It hasn’t been good for my grades.
Being in the same orbit as Jude while not letting myself interact with Jude is a unique brand of torture. And yet, I’m glad he’s coming to class. The thought of him withdrawing, secluding himself in that giant manor with only Isabel and Rafe for company squeezes my heart into pulp. I encourage Twig to sit with him at lunch, then spend the period trying very hard not to look in his direction—terrified that if I do, if our eyes so much as meet and he sees my yearning, his mark will grow.
By the time Friday rolls around, I’m exhausted by the effort, and Rafe has given up on his attempted seduction. Lainey is obviously locked in on her mission, which doesn’t involve him. He decides we don’t need the key anyway.
We’re going to break in.
That evening, we descend into the dark, dank antechamber beneath the ruins of St. Fortuna’s. I stand away from the heavy door holding my flashlight steady as Rafe attempts to pick a lock that refuses to be picked.
“The mechanism is mounted behind the door plate,” he finally says, dusting off his hands and eying the door, which is set inside a stone archinscribed with Latin.That which is closed must remain closed.Unbothered by the ominous warning, Rafe examines the iron plates mortared into the masonry. “It’s damp down here, which means there’s moisture. And when moisture meets iron and centuries of time, there’s bound to be rust and expansion.”
“Okay,” I say, drawing out the word.
“The stone around the hinges will be compromised.”
“Which means what?”
He gives his eyebrows a little wag. “It’s time for some demolition.”
The next morning, we return with a crowbar, a sledgehammer, two torches, and a lighter. He lights the torches and slots them into the wall sconces on either side of the arch.
The plan?
Defeat the door’s mounting, not the door itself.
Rafe thinks with enough effort, we can break the hinges and tip the door forward.
I look at the arch, which seems to be pretty foundational to this antechamber in which we stand. “You’re not worried about a collapse?”
“Not enough to let it stop me.”
With that, he picks up the sledgehammer and begins pounding the stone around the hinges, sending up dust and debris. The banging bouncing around the small chamber isso loud I plug my ears. After a minute or so, he grabs the crowbar, wedges it between the door’s edge and the stone frame, and starts prying.
When nothing happens, he returns to his hammering. He keeps going until dust rains down upon our heads. When he’s done, he reclaims the crowbar and tells me to push.
I brace myself against the door and shove while he pries.
Still, nothing.
He resumes his pounding.
By now, he’s taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.
He tries a third time with the crowbar.
