“No matter what she offered,” I said, “I can’t believe Athena would give up her powers. She has to be lying, setting a trap instead.”

I leaned closer to him, dropping my voice. “Can you trace through walls and into the study?” I’d only ever seen him trace outside, never through anything.

“I’ve been practicing. Last night I was able to get inside the office next to the study.”

“What about the wards?”

“Depends on where I go in, I think.” He studied Presby. “I’m not sure, though.”

“They’re distracted,” I said. “This might the only opportunity to see if the Hands are still inside the jar. . . . ”

Then fear went through me. What if he tried tracing into Presby and couldn’t, what if he slammed into the wall, or worse, got stuck in it? It’d kill him. Somehow I knew he was thinking the same. And then he was gone, a rush of air slapping me in the face.

Shit. I swung my gaze to Presby, heart leaping into my throat.

FIFTEEN

HIS BODY WENT LIGHT AS he vanished. Just energy directed with thoughts that were still his. His father had told him there were very few beings who could trace like he did. So quickly, so easily. Disappearing and reappearing at will. But he hadn’t mastered it yet. He might slam himself right into the stone walls of Presby. . . .

He’d do it for her, for Ari. To show her he was sorry, that he still cared.

In his mind’s eye he saw the gray shadow of the school and pictured the small glass window on the third floor. If he hit, at least he’d crash through glass and not end up in a crumpled heap on the street below. He ended up in the study, his body solidifying in a blur of speed.

There were guards inside the room. Shit.

His entrance was so swift, at first they didn’t notice him. But then two hulking demigods stepped toward him, and he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Wait.”

He felt the power of persuasion course through him, the dark, poisonous gifts that made others obey him. He hated the feeling; it was so strong, too strong. Too malevolent.

One of the guards opened his mouth.

Sebastian cut him off. “Don’t speak. Stay where you are until I say otherwise.”

His entire body was amped up, vibrating. Shit. Okay. He was in. He’d done it. Now he needed to get Ari. He closed his eyes and willed himself away. And just like that, he was sitting next to her again. He grabbed her in his arms, concentrating on wrapping her with his power as they traced back into the study.

Once they were there and solid, he released Ari. She stumbled out of his hold. “Jesus!” Her body tensed as she saw the guards, her hand moving to grip her firearm.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing her hand. “We should go.”

Ari waved at the guards. They didn’t even blink. “What did you do to them?”

“Just told them to wait.”

They crossed the Persian rug to the ancient vase sitting in the corner. Anesidora’s Jar was as tall as he was. It was made of clay, with sloping handles on either side. Symbols and writing had been stamped into the sides, and decorations had once been painted around its body, but many of those were only in traces now, just flecks of black and red color. The jar had a slim neck and a fat body that slimmed down again near the base.

A large, jagged crack ran from the neck to just above the base. It was a thick crack you could put your hand into, a deep space, black and eerie, and it always gave him the chills.

Ari wasted no time. She slipped her fingers into the crack. Light spilled around her fingers as she pried it open and stepped inside.

He drew in a deep breath and followed.

Darkness surrounded them. The jar was a vast dimension with no noticeable boundaries. Ahead, a faint light illuminated the long marble counter. It was quiet. “There’s no music,” he whispered. The Keeper always played opera on an old phonograph.

As they approached the counter, Sebastian heard the scratch and skip of a record player. Ari looked over her shoulder at him, concern written on her face, and then she jumped the counter and hurried down the long rows of study tables to the phonograph. She picked up the needle and set it aside.

“He’s got to be here somewhere,” she said.

The library spread out in never-ending rows, its shelves containing books, manuscripts, scrolls, statues, and treasures the outside world had never before seen. It was vast, and daunting, all surrounded by black empty space.

“I’ll start at this end,” he said. “Call if you find anything.”

She nodded and took off, disappearing down a row. He started off, his steps echoing on the marble floor, the place taking on an eerie quality without the music.

As he looked for the Keeper, he thought of his grandmother, trying to fully process that she was gone. A handful of hours ago she’d been alive. She’d called him into her office and made some lofty speech about his future and family traditions. She’d had the nerve to demand he start attending mass with her at the cathedral. All Arnauds had attended St. Louis’s since coming to the city in the 1770s. They always sat in the front pew, right in front of the flat stone that lay over the grave of Andres Almonester y Roxas. His grandmother hadn’t let up, blackmailing him until he agreed. She’d loved the fact that he came to her home to feed. She loved the control it gave her over him. In her weird way, she loved him. For his power, for the pride it gave her that her grandson was the most powerful heir in the Novem.

Still, as much as he hated her constant maneuvering for power, as much as he’d tried to remove himself from her control, he always thought she’d be there, the bane of his existence. And now she wasn’t.

And he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He was sad for her death, yes. Of course. Sad for his family.

“Sebastian!”

He raced to the aisle of study tables, looking down each row until he found her far down at the end of a row, on her knees.

He dropped down beside her. “Damn it.” The Keeper had been destroyed. The tiny bronze plates that made up his “skin” were dented, the structural metal underneath them crushed at the chest, revealing bits and pieces of gears and mechanisms and wires. His legs were twisted beneath him, and his eyes, made of white stone inset with brown disks, were wide open and no longer sentient.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Ari said. “Why would anyone do this?”

But he knew why. They both knew why. The Keeper was an automaton. He wasn’t designed to lie. Whoever had done this was covering the fact that they’d been here, had possibly stolen the Hands, or inquired about them.

“They didn’t need to destroy him so completely,” Ari whispered.

It seemed to Sebastian that whoever had done this had been pissed about not finding the Hands. He imagined that someone had pushed the Keeper to tell all he knew—who had been in the library, who had searched for the Hands—and the Keeper had paid for those answers.

“He didn’t know, Sebastian. I asked him myself. He was confused that he couldn’t find the Hands. His job was to keep everything in order, to be able to find whatever you needed. But he didn’t know who moved or took the Hands. Do you think he can be fixed?”

Sebastian looked at the automaton. The damage was extensive. “I don’t know.” He took Ari’s arm. “The Hands aren’t here. We should go.”

She got to her feet and gave one last regretful look at the Keeper. “We don’t know that for sure. We need to find out if he finished his inventory.” Then she hurried down the aisle to the marble counter, looking for any ledgers or books.

“He could have kept it all in his memory.”

“But shouldn’t there be a record? Unless someone took it.” She threw open doors and rifled through the drawers beneath the countertop.

Light flashed in the darkness. The jagged crack where they’d entered looked so small and far away. And it began to elongate. Someone was coming.

Sebastian grabbed Ari and they raced to hide. As a dark figure swept into the light, they moved slowly into the darkness and toward the crack. Once they were back in the study, Sebastian whisked them away.

Thankfully, they appeared in the alley between the cathedral and Presby.

He glanced up at Presby, the view going fuzzy for a second as dizziness and nausea claimed him. Too much tracing could make him sick. “I have to go back.”

“What?”

“Those guards. I can’t leave them like that.”

She clutched his arm. “You have no idea who else is in the study now, Sebastian. It’s too dangerous.”

She was right. But he had to go back. Whoever was in the library already knew he’d been there, because there weren’t exactly a lot of people out there who could do what he’d done to those guards. They’d have figured it out. Regardless, had to go back, free the guards.

He leaned down, kissed her hard, and then disappeared.

SIXTEEN

SEBASTIAN REJOINED ME SECONDS LATER. He was breathing hard, his expression dazed as though he was struggling to stay conscious. “Are you okay?”

“Okay.” He glanced up and down the alley. “We have to get to my grandmother’s house and look around before anyone else does.”

He took my hand and we raced down St. Ann. He hadn’t traced us there, which I guessed meant the tracing had taken a huge toll on his power.

We hurried through the gate to Arnaud House and down the alley to the courtyard. Two bodies, servants, lay contorted on the patio, blood pooled around them. His hand gripped mine tighter as we hurried into the house.

We were too late.

Inside, the scent of blood was so strong I could taste its tang in the back of my throat. It mingled with the faint smells of roses and furniture polish. My stomach shrank into a sour knot.

The house had been ripped apart. The broken bodies of servants, vampires, and human companions fell where they’d been slain. Not drained of blood, but struck down by brute force. Necks had been broken and spines snapped in half. In a blur of speed, one or two Bloodborn vamps or shifters could have taken out the staff in minutes. A sheen of sweat covered my skin. So much violence. Merciless violence. Whoever had done this deserved a slow, very painful kind of justice.