Page 71 of Cursebreaker

“It’s a part of the clue,” I say, trying—and failing—to hide the disappointment in my voice. “What now? We can’t read this.”

Titus bends, squinting to read the script, and a spark of hope flares in his eyes. “I’ve seen this before. It’s Animaela—an ancient tongue shared by a sect of Sorceresses centuries ago. There are few alive who still practice the form of magic required to interpret a message like this, but they do exist.” He turns to me, his voice measured—determined. “We will find one.”

“Great,” Gabriel says dryly, watching the main entrance to the vault. “Now can we go?”

Owen’s lips curve, a teasing smile. “You’re sure you don’t want to stay for one more dance, Sir Bellamy?”

Gabriel snarls, grabbing the shield, but Owen just holds out his hands for Gabriel and me to take.

I brace for the icy chill of the wind and the sickening jolt of the vortex.

Nothing happens.

Owen shuts his eyes tight, his face turning red.

Still nothing.

The color drains from his face, and his eyes fling wide. “Wards.”

My heart skips a beat.

A low growl rumbles in Titus’s chest. “Wards?”

Owen doesn’t look afraid, only annoyed—as if this were a minor inconvenience. “They’re preventing me from creating a vortex.”

Panic claws at my chest, tearing whatever remains of my composure to shreds. Will might already be on the other side of the door. Knowing him, he could already be inside, a bat watching from the shadows, feeding on my terror, my dread. My fear.

The door creaks open, and my vision goes white as Titus, Gabriel, and Owen all raise their hands, preparing to strike. I take a steadying breath, fighting the impulse to sink to the floor and curl into a ball. I can’t go back to the Burning Lands. I refuse to let Will turn me into some kind of pet. I will not let Will use my fear against me.

No. I grab hold of it, molding it, turning it into a weapon.

I will not surrender.

I will never surrender.

And I won’t go down without a fight.

I plant my feet. Lift my trembling hands. Focus on the presence of blood. One body. One heart, beating wildly. I latch on to the hum, preparing to pull, when—

“Come with me!” A small voice, as soft as a cooing dove. A slight girl in a maid’s black-and-white uniform peeks inside the vault, her eyes wide. “Hurry! Before they find you!”

Titus takes a step forward, hands still raised, fingers vibrating with untapped power. “Who are you?” That voice—the voice of the wicked, feared prince of the Eerie. The voice of the Reaper.

But the girl doesn’t cower. She steps farther into the room to meet him. Rolls up her sleeve. “My name is Jol, daughter of Hassana,” she says quickly. “Leo was a friend.”

A black winged dagger materializes on the surface of her skin—the mark of the Order of Hildegarde. The tattoo that distinguishes her as an ally.

Owen releases a tight breath, lowering his hands. “Good enough for me.”

Titus grinds his jaw, glancing over his shoulder at me. Gabriel watches, shoulders tense.

“Your call,” Titus says, his expression carefully neutral despite the concern that forms a tiny crease between his brows.

I meet Jol’s gaze. She must be Albert’s age—too young to be a soldier. Yet she’s risking her life to save ours. “If you cross us,” I tell her, my voice lethally quiet, “you will regret it.”

Jol doesn’t flinch. She just nods, motioning for us to follow as she leads us back through the servant’s passage from which we entered the vault. We follow her through long, dark hallways, past doors carved from stone, until I’m met with the familiar, comforting smell of hay.

Jol signals for us to be quiet, crouching before she slips out of the narrow wooden door, looking left, right, before motioning for us to follow. We crawl into the brick-paved stable on hands and knees and dive behind the carriage where Jol hides, the flickering gas lamps casting shadows over her youthful face, drawn with fear.