Page 70 of Cursebreaker

Quick. Merciful.

Three low growls fill the room like thunder.

“Not this one, Precious,” Will croons, and the Deimos gives a low whine. “Reunite Sade with her husband,” he adds to his soldiers, sounding bored. “Burn the princess’s body. We’ve no use for her anymore.”

I’m not sure if I reach for Titus’s hand or if he reaches for mine. All I know is that neither of us lets go.

“It’s time we make our presence known,” Will says. “Gather the delegates. I’d like to personally inform them of their… choices moving forward. Oh, and find Aster Oberon. She’s here somewhere.” Softer, almost like a purr, he adds, “I can feel her fear.”

Titus drags me through the tunnels, Gabriel at our heels. He leads us around corners, down steps—twists and turns that leave me dizzy.

Will knows we’re here. Of course he does. He told me himself that Morana has spies everywhere. Have they already raided the vault?

Will said he could feel my fear. Morana’s blood cured me of the curse that would have turned me into a Shifter, but the venom… it’s still in my veins. Does that mean we’re still connected, somehow? Even if he can’t control me… can he still feel what I feel?

“How do you know where we’re going?” I ask, breathless.

“Hide-and-seek,” Titus says, his voice strained. “When my parents would come to visit—Leo and I—it was her favorite game.” He trips over his words as he skids to a halt in front of a crack in the stone wall. “Here!” He bangs his fist on the wall. “It should be here!”

“What?” Gabriel asks, glancing over his shoulder, hands raised as if ready to cave the tunnel in on itself—and anyone who might give chase.

“Here!” Titus groans. “The passage to the vault—it’s locked—only a windwalker—” He lets out a stream of curses, slamming his fist against the stone.

Click. There’s a soft hiss and a low squeal as the stone slides in, then across, revealing a doorway.

Owen leans against the frame, his dirty-blond hair resplendent in the soft amber glow of the room beyond. “About time,” he says casually, hoisting a shield onto his hip. “Thought I was going to have to lug this back to the Starchaser all by my lonesome.”

“How did you—” I start, but Owen looks all too eager to detail his entire heist, and as I’m sure it involves shifting into a mouse and crawling through vents, I hold a hand up before he can speak. “Never mind.”

Owen pouts as he steps out of the way, allowing us entry, though he sticks his foot forward as if to trip Gabriel, who shoots him a glare that could melt flesh from bone, and he flicks a glance at Titus and me—at our clasped hands—his lips twitching with a barely contained smirk.

Titus sweeps into the vault, and I follow, my mouth gaping as I survey the large, oblong room. Two stories, packed to the brim with artifacts preserved in glass cases: costumes from historical productions; weapons from a time before the Fall; books with spines that seem to sparkle, as if they were imbued with Manan; trinkets labeled things like THE CHALICE OF WELL WISHES and THE AETHERIAN CRYSTAL. Dozens of paintings adorn the walls, but Titus appears drawn to one in particular—a portrait of a mermaid sunbathing on a rock.

He reaches out, metal fingers lingering just above the canvas, where a signature had been scrawled in the bottom right corner.

Mina Avery.

“My mother painted this,” he whispers, his voice raw.

I squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

“They’ll be here any minute,” he says, turning his back to the painting to face Owen, now toying with an ivory spyglass. “Have you found the Helm?”

“It’s not here,” Owen says. “But I found this.” He holds up the shield once more. Shades of purple, green, and blue shimmer in the light of the crystal chandeliers—Elysian Iron.

He sweeps an ornate vase from a large mahogany table—Gabriel cringes at the loud crash that follows—and lays the shield face up. “It’s a map of the Republic of Ruin,” Owen says, tracing the lines engraved in its surface—the borders of the island inlaid with silver. He points at the words etched at the top of the shield, reading aloud, “Only truth can mend the past.” He glances at me. “Sound familiar?”

Tears prick my eyes, and I swallow hard. Father was right. The Helm isn’t here. It’s just another clue.

I reach out, my fingers skimming the surface of the shield.

WHOOSH.

A blast of wind almost knocks us backward, but Titus plants his feet, his grip on me tight enough that I’m not sure who it hurts more—him or me.

“Maker of All,” Gabriel breathes, his bright red hair sticking straight up.

A sparkling, silver message appears on the surface of the shield, shimmering an inch above the map. Written in a long-forgotten language, the illuminated words remind me of the glowing ink of the Elysian Navigator.