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We continued until we reached the source of the smell: an old pump house at the end of the path, which was covered in thick ivy. A waterwheel was powering the pumps, drawing water from the cistern and forcing it through pipes toward the fountains and saltwater pools.

A set of doors was open on one side of the building. Inside, gardening tools hung from the walls beside replacement pipes, valve wheels, and the other machinery required to keep the water moving.

It was strange to stand there and know that everything lovely about Les Jardins—the floating candles, the fountains, the pools reflecting the lanterns—began here, in the dark, where no guest would ever think to look.

Behind the building, we discovered a set of damp steps descending beside the cistern. From where we stood, I could see only the first few before they disappeared beneath the building.

Cora stopped at the top of the stairs.

“Something is down there. I can feel it.” She rubbed one hand over her arm. “Dark magick is making my hair stand on end.”

I listened for a heartbeat or the scrape of someone moving below us, but heard nothing except the water rushing beneath the pump house and the steady turn of the iron gears.

Whatever was waiting down there was being very quiet.

Cora placed one foot on the first step, and I caught her arm. “I’ll go first.” Her mouth tightened into a hard line, but she stepped aside. The stone stairs were slick with water leaking from the cistern wall. “Hold on to my shoulder,” I told her.

The mechanical knocking of the pipes grew louder as we descended, accompanied by the groan of water pipes overhead. Once we reached the bottom, Cora removed a match from her tinderbox and lit one of her black candles. The small flame revealed a narrow stone passage running alongside the cistern. A row of smaller iron doors lined one wall, each secured with a padlock and marked with a number.

The first door bore the number sixty-eight.

“This is it,” she whispered.

We followed the row.

Seventy-one.

Seventy-two.

Cora’s fingers dug into my sleeve. The last door was marked seventy-three.

“This is it,” she said.

Cora set her candle on the ground, fit the key into the padlock, and turned it. The mechanism gave with a click, and the shackle opened, but when we tried the door, it wouldn’t budge.

“It’s warded,” she said. “Just like the mausoleum.”

She withdrew the same ritual blade from her satchel, pricked her thumb, and pressed it to the center of the door. Slowly, her blood began to move, and I knew what it was going to be before it finished. The crescent moon. The serpent coiled around it, squeezing.

Whoever ran The Minuit Company had given The Devouring a safe haven. Severin was a good man. A thorough man. How had he neglected to demand the owner’s name?

“Yves.” Cora’s voice was very quiet. “I need a medallion.”

I reached into my coat and handed her one. Then I pulled my sword free, standing at the ready.

“Death is an illusion,” she said. “Just like peace.”

The sound of metallic gears came, and with a groan, the door swung open.

Chapter 40

Souterraine

CORA

The door swung inward, and I shielded my eyes against the sudden brightness. Once I was adjusted to the red light pouring out of the room, I realized I was staring at the most intricate spell work I’d ever seen.

Red light emanated from geometric lines that had been carved up the walls, across the ceiling, and along the floor. Each angle was set with a crystal mortared into the stone. And at the center was a blade.