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She prodded it with the orange-bound book that she was still holding.
Rather to her surprise, the door swung open at once. There was a wide-open space beyond, a terrain clustered with freestanding bookshelves, which ranged in height from waist-high to multiple-storey. In the distance, perhaps half a mile away, she could see an openwork tangle of stairs and points of light. The entire space was huge – larger than she had thought could be contained inside the beehive network they’d come through. It extended to either side. And as she looked up, she thought she could see bookshelves hanging from the ceiling incredibly high above. A blood-red light from some unseen source of illumination filled the place, gleaming on the dark wooden floor. The clock’s tick rang in the background, imperceptibly faster.
‘There is no way there isn’t going to be some sort of alarm,’ Irene said softly. ‘We’ll have to go fast and quiet.’
‘Where?’
‘To the centre, where else?’
‘He’ll be expecting us to go there.’
‘That’s our hard luck.’ Irene took a deep breath, tucked the book under her arm and crossed the threshold.
The sound was like a thousand dentist drills biting into a thousand innocent teeth. It shook the whole area, and jarred painfully in the ears. Books clattered down from their shelves: the ones falling from a greater height tumbled like startled birds, in a flurry of bright covers and pale pages which ended in a sudden crash against the floor. Irene reluctantly gave up on any hope of stealth, and simply ran.
‘Surprise,’ Alberich said from behind her.
Irene turned in time to see a set of shelves as high as a Georgian mansion falling towards her. It didn’t move with the speed of normal gravity, but like the finger of someone’s hand being folded down to touch their palm. Its shadow blocked out the red light, and there was no time left to dodge, no time to use the Language—
Zayanna shoved into her from behind, throwing her forward. Irene lost her balance and went tumbling, rolling forward frantically in an attempt to keep moving and avoid that terrible impact. Then the bookcase hit the floor, and the concussion of the blow knocked her another ten feet. She came to a painful halt against the base of another bookcase. Books tilted out of it and came landing on her in small aftershocks, thudding down on the arm she’d automatically raised to protect her head. Silence.
She looked up.
Zayanna lay pinned beneath the edge of the bookcase, half her body trapped underneath it, in a spreading pool of blood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Irene scrambled across to where Zayanna lay. Everything was quiet, apart from the clock’s remorseless counting of seconds. No further bookcases fell. The ground didn’t open under her feet. Nothing tried to kill her.
Of course it won’t, she thought from somewhere in the depths of her rage and grief. Not yet. Not till after Alberich has seen me watch her die.
‘Zayanna,’ she whispered, touching the other woman’s wrist. There was still a pulse there. But the pool of blood was spreading, black in the red light. ‘Zayanna, hold on, let me get that off you. I’ll pull you out and then . . .’ And then what? The Language could temporarily seal a wound or set a bone, but it couldn’t heal, and it couldn’t bring back the dead.
‘Darling?’ Zayanna’s eyes fluttered open, but her gaze was unfocused. She coughed a little, trying to breathe, and reached for Irene’s hand.
‘Yes, I’m here.’ Irene tried to keep her voice reassuring. ‘I’m sorry I dragged you into this. Just hold on. Let me—’
‘Don’t waste your energy,’ Zayanna murmured. ‘You’ll need it.’ Her hand tightened on Irene’s, a silent we both know I’m dying. ‘The funny thing is?’
‘Yes?’ Irene prompted, as Zayanna’s voice faded for a moment. Her eyes were dry. Fury was building inside her, hot as lava, and it left no space for anything that would blur her vision or distract her from her aim.
‘I didn’t have to push you.’ Zayanna blinked, like a child going to sleep. ‘I could have been lying to you all along. I could have let him kill you.’ Her voice was barely audible now, thin and thready. ‘I don’t understand . . .’
Her breathing stopped. The clock ticked on.
‘How curious.’ It was Alberich’s voice. Irene looked up to see the shadow splayed across the ruined bookshelves above her. It was thirty feet tall, twisted and hunched so that the head tilted down towards her. ‘I recruited Fae who had every reason to hate the Library, ones who’d suffered because of things Librarians had done. When Zayanna asked for you in particular, it seemed ideal. Why did she change her mind?’
Irene released Zayanna’s hand. ‘Human error?’ she suggested. Her skirts were stained with Zayanna’s blood, though in the scarlet light the blood was black rather than red.
‘Hers?’
‘Yours. She really wasn’t the type to hate anyone.’ Something twisted in Irene’s guts at the thought. ‘She was a much nicer person than I am.’
‘Was being the operative word.’ She could feel the shadow watching her. No, it wasn’t just the shadow, it was this whole place, and Alberich had somehow embedded himself in it. ‘I suppose I should give you a chance, Ray. We still have a few minutes before the clock reaches midnight and the Library . . . stops. Have you come to me in order to join me? Is that why you’re here?’
‘I . . .’ Irene let her voice trail off, gulping back an audible sob. This had to sound realistic. She’d only get one chance. ‘I thought we could stop you. I thought . . . Oh, Zayanna . . .’ She bit her tongue hard enough to bring tears to her eyes, and bent down to cradle the dead woman in her arms. Her hand, shielded by Zayanna’s body and Irene’s own skirts, sidled along the ground until it felt the wetness of the pool of blood. Working by touch and memory, she began to trace her fingers across the floor. It was a trick she’d played before, and she knew it. If Alberich actually paid attention to what she was doing, rather than to her tears, then he might realize, too. But it was the only trick she had left . . .
The clock’s tick seemed judgemental, counting down to a verdict. ‘I am disappointed, Ray,’ Alberich’s voice whispered from all around her. ‘I thought you had vision. I thought I could make something of you. But you don’t learn from your mistakes. You repeat your errors. You are weighed in the balance and found wanting. Any last words?’
