"The Consistory," he says, “Right? They built this place. They could have done—" He sweeps his gaze up to the ceiling, the arcing double entrance from the foyer to the living room, the staircase, the oil paintings and antique vases andswordseverywhere. "Some kind of protective something, maybe,” he finishes. “To keep things out.”
“No,” Kingston says. "Not to keep anything out. To keep us in.”
THIRTY-TWO
GWENNA
Bees.
They pour out of the room in a frenzied stream, thousands and thousands, wings and legs and feelers brushing my skin, lifting my hair, crawling on my coat, into mycollar?—.
“No!”
I scream louder, flap my arms and fling my coat to the ground, but my flailing only stirs them up further, the buzzing louder, angrier, vibrating. I can’t see; I’m blind with panic and there is nothing around me but a moving, teeming, crawling cloud.
I throw myself at the floor, trying to get away, to getbeneaththem, somehow, a survival instinct, and trap a few beneath me as I do, tiny bodies crunching against tile and the press of my body. I shriek, nearly gag, and scramble up to my knees, brushing at my front, but they only flock to me now, alighting on my shoulders and arms.
My body shivers,shakeswith horror and disgust, and still, the bees are coming—still there are more, swarming out of the door in a swirling column like a living tornado.
I crawl. Scrabbling, frantic, little wings and bee-body shells crunching under my knees and hands as I aim for the stairwell, my vision pulsing at the edges from adrenaline.
Twenty feet. Ten.
They’re not following, not even attacking me, really, justswarming,filling all available space in the hall as if they’d been launched out of a pressurized tube. Like something spring-loaded. A booby trap for whoever opened the door.
Emrys.The thought hits like a blow.Was this for him?
Or did they already?—
I’m there. I’mthere. The end of the hall. Without letting myself think, I leap to my feet, andjumpdown the first set of stairs, all six of them, landing hard on my shins and knees and nearly losing my balance on the first landing. But I catapult forward, running, jumping, flinging myself around every corner of the stairs until finally my feet are tripping over the worn-smooth bottom steps polished by centuries of students traipsing to class and tumble out the door.
I have to find them, I have to warn them, I have to get away.
A few spots on my arms and ankles and neck pulse with pain as I run. Stings, maybe, a handful of places—the initial pain glossed over by adrenaline, now thudding uncomfortably under my skin as my blood starts to move. The light outside is gray and gold, and the campus is so still, so quiet.
Where is everyone?I think.Where is everyone?
But it's not far, it's not far. I've never run the distance from the Classics building to Camlann House, but it's less than a five-minute walk, and now I am sprinting, hurtling, pell-mell, arms flapping and breath sawing in and out of my lungs, so fast and inelegant, I nearly turn my ankle on the Belgian block that rings the footpath. But I see it. I see the porch, the chimney, the broad windows.
I see them. Kingston, at the window, the living room. His palm is flat against the glass. He points. He waves inside. The other three appear behind him. Mouths moving, but no sound.
My heart jumps to my throat.What are they doing?I think.Do they know? Are they saying something to me? Are they…
I don't make it to the porch steps because something—someone—steps in, glides in to intercept me.
White robes. Masked faces.
No,I think, the panic instinctive, pre-verbal, brainstem-level, protozoic.No.I don't bother to speak, just try to push through, shoulder past them, because they're there to block my way, I know now. But I can't. I'm not a warrior. I'm not trained for this, and there's two of them—no, four, eight, way too many.
“Kingston!” I scream. “Kai! Cal! Lanz!”
They're pounding on the window so hard the glass should break, and yet it won't.
Why aren't they leaving? Why aren't they?—
A gloved hand seizes my upper arm, then the other.
“No,” I say. “No!” I kick, fling my legs in the air like a petulant toddler, thrashing back and forth and trying to catch any of their eyes through the glass.Why won't you leave? Why won’t you come? Why won’t you?—
